Chapter 6

chapter

six

Rhiannon crouched beside Michael, brushing a hand gently over his forehead. The boy was still sleeping soundly, oblivious to the chaos around him. Raszta lay protectively beside him. The dog's dark, mop-like fur blended into the shadows, save for his bubblegum pink tongue, which lolled happily out of his mouth. He loved the attention from the boy. She smiled at them. At least one person in this room felt safe.

She wished she could say the same for herself.

The tension in the gift shop was thick, suffocating even. Every creak from the ceiling and every shift of the debris piled against the entrance sent a jolt of fear through the group. It was only a matter of time before panic set in—especially with Dean stirring up trouble at every turn.

Rhiannon glanced toward the corner where Piercewas supposed to be sleeping but found it empty.

Where did he go?

She scanned the room, relief washing through her when she saw him leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, scanning the space with the calculating precision of a soldier. His eyes were shadowed, the lines of his face drawn tight. She wished she could read him better and understand what was going on in his head. But Pierce St. James was a mystery wrapped in silence and guarded by walls she wasn't sure anyone could break through.

Sighing, she turned her attention back to Michael. The boy shifted in his sleep, clutching Raszta tighter to him. He whimpered softly, and the sound tugged at her heart. His parents were out there somewhere, maybe trapped under the same debris that blocked their escape. What if he was an orphan now? What if...?

No. She had to think positively.

She stood, brushing the dust off her jeans. Fatigue crept into her bones, the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders. She needed to keep moving, to stay busy. If she stopped, she was afraid the fear and exhaustion would overwhelm her.

Across the room, Pierce met her gaze. His eyes flicked toward the back of the shop, where Dean had been pacing restlessly for the past hour. Rhiannon followed his line of sight, and a prickle of unease crawled up her spine. Dean hadn't said much since their earlier confrontation, but his brooding silence was just as unsettling.

She crossed over to stand beside Pierce. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

The look he gave her was measured, his hazel eyes glinting with a mix of wariness and something she couldn't quite decipher.

"I don't sleep much," he signed.

She watched him, trying to read the guarded look on his face. "What's wrong?"

His gaze went back to Dean, tracking every restless movement. "He's a problem."

She followed his gaze. Dean's wide shoulders were hunched over, and he was clenching his fists as he paced back and forth. Sure, he was rough around the edges, and she had to admit, his unchecked anger was worrisome. She had always been good at reading people, at sensing when something was off. And Dean was definitely off, but calling him a ‘problem' felt wrong.

She turned back to Pierce. "He's just scared like the rest of us."

"No, it's more than that. He's going through withdrawal."

Shock coursed through her. She cast another look at Dean, and suddenly, his erratic behavior made sense. The restlessness, the anger, the confrontations—it was all consistent with withdrawal symptoms.

"Are you sure?" she asked, her heart sinking.

Pierce only lifted an eyebrow. He didn't need to say anything more; his silence was answer enough.

She rubbed her arms against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Isn't that painful?"

"Very."

Why did it sound like he was speaking from experience? "Then we need to help him."

Pierce glanced at her. "And how do you propose we do that? We're trapped in a building with limited resources."

"I don't know. But we can't just ignore it, can we? Let him suffer?"

He was silent for a long moment, his gaze shifting back to Dean, who had finally stopped pacing and had sunk to the floor against the wall. The man's face was pale and slick with sweat, and he was shivering despite the warmth of the room.

"No," Pierce finally signed. "You're right. We can't. The worse his symptoms get, the more desperate he'll become, and desperate people are dangerous."

As if sensing their attention, Dean's head jerked up, and he scrambled back to his feet. His eyes darted between Pierce and Rhiannon, his entire body tensing like a cornered animal. The hostile glare gave way to confusion, then suspicion.

"What were you two doing?" he demanded. "Plotting something behind our backs?"

Rhiannon wanted to help him. She really did. But that didn't mean she had to like him. "No. Just discussing how we can help you."

For a moment, Dean looked surprised. His eyes flickered to Pierce, and Rhiannon saw the smallest hint of uncertainty. "I don't need help from you or the mute."

Pierce stepped forward. He was so much taller than the other man. There was no aggression in his stance, but Dean braced like he expected an attack.

"Tell me," Pierce signed. " What's your drug of choice, and how long since your last fix?"

When she translated, Dean recoiled as if slapped. He stumbled back, shaking his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."

Pierce simply waited, staring at him with those unwavering hazel eyes. "That's okay. I already have a pretty good idea. Heroin. And since withdrawal can set in within six to twelve hours of the last dose, I'd say it's been about… eight hours. How am I doing so far?"

Dean's face turned a sickly shade of pale, his lips parting as if he wanted to argue, but no sound came out. He seemed to shrink under Pierce's steady gaze, looking like a frightened child rather than the confrontational man he had been just moments ago.

"Don't lie," Pierce signed with slow deliberation. "We can't help unless we know."

Dean didn't give her the opportunity to translate and spun on his heels, stalking off toward a dark corner of the shop with defiance in every step.

"He doesn't want our help," Pierce said. "And until he does, until he accepts he needs it, nothing we do will make a difference. Your brother taught me that."

She whirled on him. "Rylan wouldn't give up on him. Neither should we."

Pierce raised his hands like he was going to say something more, but he didn't get the chance.

Dot appeared, her eyes bright in her dirty face. "That man you found… Gareth? He's awake."

Rhiannon's heart leaped at the news. This was good, wasn't it? But one look at Pierce made her stomach twist with uncertainty. His gaze clouded over, his face hardening into a stony mask. She could almost see the walls rising around him, higher and thicker than before.

"Is he asking for anything?" Pierce's hands moved quickly, his attention entirely on Dot now.

Dot looked to her for translation, then shook her head. "He asked for water, but that's it. He's just… sitting there. Watching us."

Pierce stood still for a moment, his shoulders locked tight. Then he strode down one of the aisles that was still standing and snapped up a pack of pens. "Paper?" he signed.

Instead of translating the request, Rhiannon blocked his path. "What are you doing?"

"I need to talk to him."

"Okay, then I can translate for you?—"

" Alone. "

She scowled at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "Why?"

The look in his eyes was cold, practically glacial. His hands moved with a sharp deliberateness that showed his annoyance. "Because the questions I need to ask him are classified."

She looked at Dot, who was watching them with thinly concealed interest, then decided to switch to sign language. "What do you mean, classified?"

"Exactly what you think I mean. C. L. A. S. S. I. F. I. E. D." He actually finger-spelled it out instead of using the sign. "It's the kind of information that could put lives at risk if it were to get into the wrong hands."

"So you're going to write it down?" She snatched the package of pens from him and asked out loud, "How is that any less risky? Paper can be stolen, read, copied. You're being ridiculous."

His lips flattened into a grim line. "I don't want you involved."

His abrupt dismissal stung, but Rhiannon swallowed the hurt. She knew he didn't mean it cruelly— Pierce was nothing if not practical. But she couldn't help but feel shut out, dismissed. "Well, like it or not, I'm already involved."

His hands stilled, and he looked at her for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "Rhia, this is the kind of stuff you don't want to know about."

Her temper flared, and she switched back to ASL. "You don't get to decide that for me, Pierce St. James."

"Yes, I do. I am responsible for your safety."

"Says who? You're not my keeper."

"I think your brother would disagree."

"Rylan's not here."

Dot watched their silent argument with wide eyes, her head swiveling back and forth as though she were observing a tennis match.

He didn't respond immediately, his gaze steady and calm as he considered her. His hands moved then, the signs slow and deliberate. "I don't want you to get hurt."

That took her by surprise. ASL was a language of facial expressions as much as hand motions, and one thing she'd noticed about Pierce was that his expressions were always half-hearted and flat. He did the bare minimum to get his point across. But now, there was a glimmer of something more in his eyes, a flicker of emotion that burst through his stoic exterior. His hands formed the words with a gentleness she hadn't seen before.

It was disconcerting, oddly endearing, and it made her heart flutter in a way that she didn't quite understand. She reached out tentatively and rested her hand on his forearm. "I know," she said out loud. "I don't want you to get hurt either."

He looked down at her hand as if it were an alien thing touching him. It was a few moments before he lifted his eyes back to hers, the warmth in them sending a thrill through her that she didn't dare examine too closely."

"Dot," Rhiannon called, breaking the moment of connection. "Do you have any paper?"

Dot, blinking in surprise, nodded quickly and hurried off.

Pierce's gaze stayed on Rhiannon as he slowly pulled his arm away from hers. His face was unreadable as he signed, "I'm talking to Gareth alone."

With a small sigh of resignation, she nodded. One of the few things her brother had told her about Pierce St. James was that arguing with him was pointless when he'd already made up his mind about something. She stepped aside without another word and watched as he accepted a notepad from Dot.

She wanted to follow him. She wanted to know why Gareth's existence triggered such a visceral reaction in him. She wanted to know his secrets.

He told Raszta to stay with a hand signal, then he walked away, striding towards Gareth with that soldier-like posture of his—back straight, shoulders square. Every part of him screamed control and calm. Yet, as he disappeared, she couldn't help but worry for him. He was acting like he was about to face a firing squad instead of a wounded man.

"Come on, kiddo," Dottie said and placed a comforting hand on her back, guiding her toward the makeshift campsite they'd set up in the middle of the store. "Let the man do his thing. All that pent-up intensity in him? It needs an outlet, and if Gareth is it... well, trust me, better him than the rest of us."

Rhiannon scoffed at the idea. "Pierce wouldn't hurt us."

The older woman only grunted in reply.

"He wouldn't."

"Honey, I know his type. Hell, I married his type—twice. They were the best and worst men I ever knew. They'd protect you to their dying breath and then shatter your heart without even realizing it."

"Pierce isn't like that."

"Oh, yes, he is." Dottie paused, her gaze far away. There was a world of wisdom in her eyes, a layer of hard-earned toughness. "He's seen things. He's had to do things that people like you and I can't even imagine in our worst nightmares. And that… that leaves scars. And not just the ones you can see."

"He's not a threat," Rhiannon said, her lips pursing in frustration.

Dottie gave her a patient smile. "I never said he was, but that doesn't mean he isn't dangerous. Especially to you. I see how you look at him."

"I don't?—"

Dottie shushed her with a quick wave of her hand. "Take my advice, stay far away from him. Men like him? They don't intend to, but they often leave a trail of collateral damage behind them. It's not out of malice or ill intent. It's just how they are. How they're built—designed to face the storm, but sometimes they become one."

Rhiannon flushed at her words and averted her gaze. She didn't want to admit it, even to herself, but Dottie might be right. There was something about Pierce St. James that drew her in—his stoicism, his self-assuredness, the way he used his hands with such accuracy while communicating... And there was the undeniable attraction she felt for him. She shook away the thought as soon as it surfaced.

Dottie chuckled and patted her on the arm. "No need to get embarrassed, dear. It's not a crime to admire a handsome man. But do remember that some men are stunning to behold but challenging to hold on to."