17. Chapter 17

As I walk into the kitchen, I can hear the heavy footfalls of Theo's boots behind me.

Stepping far enough into the room to be out of earshot of Siren, I turn to face the not-so-good doctor.

I cut him off before he can even open his mouth by saying, "So what's the real story?"

Theo has been an intense dude for as long as I've known him, but the man standing before me now is night and day different from the one just talking to Siren in the living room.

That man actually appeared gentle despite his rough exterior.

This man looks ready to commit a murder.

Well, he'll have to get in line.

Huffing out a hard breath through his nose, not unlike that of a bull, before it charges into the china shop, he says, "Someone beat the shit outta that girl; that's the real story.

She's been carved up like a piece of meat on top of that.

Not to mention …"

He trails off, a slight tick appearing in his flexing jaw.

"Not to mention what?"

I demand.

My nerves are on edge, and my patience is at zero.

I've never had any issues with the doctor, but I'll gladly beat the information out of him if he thinks to try and keep it to himself.

Eyes bouncing back and forth between mine, I can tell that he's gauging my mood.

Probably trying to decide if he thinks that whatever he's going to say next is gonna push me over the edge or not.

He has no idea that I've already swan-dived off that cliff and landed on the rocks below.

Finally sighing in resignation, he says, "Based on her body language and her refusal for any further examination, I'd lay money down that she's been sexually assaulted.

Probably more than once."

While somewhere deep down, I think I already knew that knowledge, it doesn't stop the rush of pure rage and adrenaline that shoots through my bloodstream at his words.

Turning around to pace, I'm just about to upend my small kitchen table when I feel a firm hand on my shoulder.

I whip around to face Theo, nostrils flaring and spoiling for a fight, but he doesn't back down.

He doesn't even remove his hand.

Instead, he brings the other up to grip the opposite shoulder, holding me still.

"You have to calm down, mon gars.

She needs you to stay level.

If you don't, she won't. Right?"

His eyes hold mine, and he nods slowly in silent encouragement.

As I force the heat of anger down to a low simmer, I return the nod with one of my own.

"Good.

Now, you know who did this to her?"

Another nod.

Glancing towards the doorway, I say, "Someone from her past.

Someone she thought was dead, but, unfortunately, he wasn't.

He came and took her right from her own bed a few weeks ago.

We've been searching for her ever since.

I found her by happenstance at Kingsley's auction."

I don't need to elaborate further.

He runs in the same circles I do, so he already knows all about the auction.

A string of French curse words burst from his lips, and he finally removes his hands from my shoulders, stepping away to do a little pacing of his own.

As he runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, he says, "Tell me he's actually dead now.

Because if you didn't kill him, I just might.

I got a thing about men who put their hands on a woman."

I clench my fists at my side, trying to keep myself from flying off the handle again.

His anger is only fueling my own.

I take a deep breath to calm myself and say, "I honestly don't know.

When I got her out of there, she had already done most of the work for me.

Slit the fucks throat with a razor."

As I glance towards the doorway again, my anger drains away, something softer taking its place.

I can't pinpoint what the feeling is, but I don't think I've ever felt anything like it before.

If I have, I don't remember it.

"She's stronger than she looks," I add.

His pacing slows considerably before he finally stops to face me again.

"Good girl.

I hope it took.

But if it didn't, you need to know.

I'm sure you'll find out somehow.

You look particularly motivated,"

he says, a small smirk forming at the corner of his lips.

"Oh, shut up.

You don't know me,"

I say, quietly moving over to the doorway to peek at Siren asleep on the couch again.

What I said is true.

He thought he knew me, and maybe to a certain extent, I'd let him closer than most, but he still didn't know even a fraction of my story.

Of the hate that fueled me.

Of the rage that was nearly always there, just below the surface.

Of the desperate need for retribution, to avenge my mother so that I could finally let go of the past.

Theo had only peeled back a few layers of the onion, and those layers were thick.

Come to think of it, they also stunk and would make most people wanna cry, so I guess the analogy is apt.

Coming to stand just behind me, he makes a noncommittal noise deep in his throat.

"Mmhmm, right.

Don't be honte, mon gars .

Plenty of people are motivated by much less.

She's got a little lagniappe .

Like a gator, she don't need you to feed her when she got teeth of her own,"

he says, accent becoming more pronounced as more words from his native dialect slip in.

I don't speak French, much less Creole French, but I've spent enough time in Louisiana to recognize many of the common words used by the culture.

I don't respond; I just continue to watch Siren closely, but his words play in my head like a broken record.

Lagniappe.

Something extra.

Hand gripping my shoulder again, he gives it a firm squeeze before adding, "Give me a call if she needs anything else.

I'll send you the bill."

With a wink, he heads for the door, stopping to put a pill bottle on the coffee table.

Just as he places his hand on the knob, he turns and says, "And Deacon? You tell me how you get on with that research.

It would be my pleasure to help you take care of that problem if it's lingerin'."

With that, he opens the door and leaves, quietly closing it behind him.

I stand in the doorway separating the living room and formal dining area for another minute, just thinking.

I know what he was alluding to, and the offer to kill Gaspari, should he still be alive, is sweet.

But if he did manage to survive the blood loss, I'll make him pray for the death that he's so fortunately evaded twice.

He'll curse the day he ever met her and every day since.

The last thing he'll see will be my eyes, staring down at him as the light in his own goes out.

I was selfish by nature; you had to be when you grew up the way I did.

And, like so many other things, I don't want to share this.

For what feels like the thousandth time since Theo left, I find myself sneaking glances at Siren from my vantage point in the chair next to the sofa.

Despite all the work I have to do, my brain has decided that I need to take vigil beside her until she wakes up, in case of what, I don't know.

But for some inexplicable reason, I can't stomach the thought of her waking up alone.

I know she needs rest, but I also don't necessarily like how much she's slept since I got her out of that house.

It's almost as if her body is making up for lost time, which wouldn't surprise me at all.

I don't think I'd wanna risk closing my eyes if I had been trapped in a house with that sick fuck.

Hands clenching on the chair's armrests, I force myself to look outside at the sun that's beginning to dip beneath the tree line.

It'll be dark soon, and the crickets will begin their nightly symphony.

The sounds of insects and other creatures are about the only soundtrack that plays this far away from civilization.

Usually, the gentle chirps of the crickets or the hooting of owls in the surrounding woods are a comfort to me, a soothing lullaby that I've always considered the perfect music to fall asleep to.

I mean, who needs white noise machines when you've got mother nature? Now, however, I can't help but wonder if the sounds will scare Siren or if the isolation of my home and otherwise silence will be too deafening.

I don't know how long she'll be here, but I want her to feel comfortable while she is.

Speaking of comfort, I glance over toward Siren's sleeping form again and, more specifically, her blood-stained and torn clothing.

When my gaze tracks up to her face, it's to find her eyes open and watching me.

"Holy fuck, woman, how long have you been staring at me?"

I ask, barely repressing the urge to jump out of my skin.

Gingerly sitting up, she says, "Probably not as long as you've been staring at me, you creeper."

My eyes narrow, but internally, I'm bolstered by the bite in her tone.

That sass of hers is still in there despite the many thick layers of trauma it's been buried under.

She's definitely not 100% but I'll take what I can get for now.

Opening my mouth to reply, I quickly close it again, opting to stand instead.

"I'll be right back,"

I say.

Striding through the kitchen, I enter the laundry room just on the other side, rummaging through the overflowing basket of clean clothes on top of the dryer.

I finally manage to locate a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring.

Realizing that my own clothes are still covered in dried blood that must've been transferred from her to me, I tear off my shirt and slacks before throwing on an undershirt and a pair of loose fitting basketball shorts.

Quickly coming back into the living room, I find Siren exactly where I left her, only now she's looking down at a framed photo in her hands.

I know what picture it is based on the frame, and considering no one ever comes here but Merrick, it never occurred to me that anyone else would see it or any of the pictures around the house, for that matter.

"Is this your mother?"

she asks in a low tone, and I watch as she runs an index finger over the face in the picture .

The stab of grief is unexpected, not in it's presence but its intensity.

I think about my mother all the time, but enough time has passed now that more volatile emotions, like hatred, have dulled the overwhelming sense of pain.

I came to the realization a long time ago that those were the emotions that kept you going.

Sure, they ate at you, and my soul probably looked like Swiss cheese at this point, but they still gave me a reason to wake up every day.

Emotions like grief were probably more healthy to experience, but they also took their toll.

A price that I very rarely allowed myself to pay anymore.

To experience it now and over such a simple question is disconcerting.

I don't like surprises.

They usually come with unwanted side effects.

Like more feelings .

Instead of answering, I hold out the clothes for her.

"Here.

I don't have any women's clothes, so these'll have to do.

There's a bathroom through there,"

I say, gesturing towards the hallway off the living room.

"You can shower and change if you want.

Supper will be ready in a bit."

She stares at the clothes in my outstretched hand, then at my face, then back at the clothes.

Carefully sitting the picture back on the table next to the couch, she takes the clothes but makes no move to get up.

Instead, she sits them in her lap, absently rubbing the fabric of my t-shirt between her thumb and forefinger.

Does she realize she's doing that? Based on her gaze on my face again, I think it might be subconscious.

"What?"

I ask defensively.

Her stare is unnerving, and I barely resist the urge to squirm.

I'm a grown fucking man, for God's sake.

And I've definitely dealt with much scarier people than Siren Sinclair.

I shouldn't be uneasy under her scrutiny, but her eyes are so intimidating.

They see too much.

Why have I never noticed that before?

Arching a brow, she asks, "You cook?"

The note of incredulity in her tone is clear, and maybe it's that, or maybe it's because she keeps having the ability to throw me off kilter, but either way, her words are grating.

"No, I opened a can of Spaghetti-O's for you.

You know, since my poor male brain can't figure out how to turn the stove on."

I snap.

Immediately regretting my actions, I wince slightly.

She's been through a lot.

I shouldn't have done that.

She's still in a fragile state, and the last thing she needs is me biting her head off.

I should apol–

"Well, good for you, mastering the can opener.

You're a leg up on the rest of your species,"

she snaps back, effectively cutting off all thoughts of gentleness.

"You…I…wha…,"

I stutter out, flabbergasted at the audacity of this woman.

"Still haven't quite gotten a grasp on the English language though, I see.

Don't worry, champ, I'm sure you'll get there."

Heat floods my face, and I can practically feel my blood pressure spike.

Taking a step forward, I open my mouth to give her a piece of my mind.

She jumps up from the sofa, bowing up to meet me instead of cowering like any woman in her right mind would after everything she's been through.

I guess the questionable words there are in her right mind .

"What??"

she demands.

We stand there, glaring daggers at each other until, with a growl low in my throat, I turn on my heel and leave the room.

Back in the kitchen, I practically wear a hole in the linoleum as I pace back and forth, running a hand through my hair in frustration.

It's not her fault.

She doesn't know what she's saying.

She's just feeling vulnerable and lashing out.

Shaking my head at my asinine thoughts, I stop pacing.

No, she's not.

I saw her at her most vulnerable.

That woman was nothing like this one.

This one is more akin to the old Siren, and even as the thought has me breathing an internal sigh of relief at the idea that the feisty wench I met all those months ago is still in there somewhere, the fire her words stoked still rages.

Fuck this.

If she wants to have it out, we can have it out.

Turning around again, I stomp back into the living room.

"You know what…"

my angry words trail off when I enter to find the room empty.

Quick as a flash, that anger morphs into panic.

Turning blindly towards the hallway, I rush around the corner to find the bathroom door at the end slightly ajar.

The sound of running water from inside has me slowing my steps and entertaining the thought that maybe I overreacted a little.

I highly doubt that any would-be kidnapper or murderer would wanna use my bathroom to freshen up before committing his crime.

As I stand in the darkened hallway, I listen to the water bounce off the tiles and, Lord only knows what areas of skin, before it finally turns off.

A second later, a towel-clad Siren steps into view of the floor-length mirror within.

She's facing away from me but she's not looking at her own reflection either.

She appears to be deliberately avoiding eye contact with the mirror.

I'm not, though.

Shrinking further into the shadows, I press my back to the wall and watch as she removes the towel to dry her arms systematically, then her chest, stomach, and … am I panting? Why am I panting? I know this is an incredible invasion of privacy, but even my hand scrubbing down my face breaks my attention for too long for my liking.

I know I should stop watching; I can't seem to make my feet move.

She's just as stunning as I remember.

Thoughts of that body have kept me up at night, more times than I'd like to admit.

Nearly groaning when she bends at the waist to towel her hair dry, I slap my hand over my mouth before the sound can escape.

What's wrong with me? I must be the sickest kind of bastard to spy on a naked woman after she's barely survived Hell for the last several weeks.

I'm just about to turn away and attempt to quietly make it back to the kitchen before I get caught, but when she turns around to reach for the clothes sitting on the countertop, the move puts her back to the mirror and, as the light from the bright fluorescent bulbs illuminate the colorful tattoos that litter her shoulders and upper back, I stop in my tracks to stare at a cacophony of angry red slashes, all in different stages of healing.

These must be the marks I saw briefly in Kingsley's office. Some appear to be older and have already scabbed over, while others still look so fresh that I know they must be killing her. Unfortunately, I don't get to look for long before she's slipping my t-shirt over her head, effectively hiding the marks from view. As I shake with rage, my first instinct is to barge inside and demand she show me the full extent of her injuries. Another more rational voice overrides that instinct, replacing it with the urge to protect. To take care of her. To coax the information out of her instead of simply taking it. She's had so much taken from her already. I can't be just another man who takes from her without giving anything in return. And aside from money, I don't have anything in me to give. In time, I'll get her to tell me everything that bastard did to her, and if she doesn't wanna tell me, I'll see for myself. She doesn't know it, but there are cameras hidden all over this house. It may be borderline immoral to spy on her, but I can still sleep at night knowing I've done something sneaky, as long as I've gotten the information I need. Not knowing would surely kill me.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, this would mark the beginning of an unhealthy obsession that I never saw coming.