Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

Ash shoved down the fear as he got her settled on the sofa. He crouched in front of her, his hands on her knees as he tried to stay calm despite the dread that twisted in his gut.

She hadn't told him a thing yet, but he knew this must be tied in with the three million dollars.

Despite his horrible childhood and despite all the times his temper had landed him in the gossip pages, Ash had never wanted to actively seek someone out and hurt them.

He wanted to now.

He didn't have a clue as to what he would see when he scanned that code, but it didn't matter. He would find the person who sent it. Find them. Hurt them. Make them pay for hurting Bree. For scaring her.

For bringing so much darkness into the life of a woman whose smile was brighter than the sun and whose laughter sounded like rainbows.

That wasn't who she was now, though. Just seeing that code had sucked the life from her face and the light from her eyes. Had taken a strong woman and broken her down into a frail child, now rocking herself on the sofa.

Ash had never felt more helpless in his life as he knelt in front of her. "I have to scan it," he said. "I have to. But I'm going to go over there to do it." He pointed to the balcony. "You stay here, okay?"

He started to rise, but she grabbed his hand, her grip much tighter than he would have expected. "I don't want you to see it," she whispered.

"I don't want to, either. Not after seeing what it's done to you." He cupped her cheek with his free hand. "But this is what the three million's about, isn't it? And I think I have to do this."

"It's for me." She reached for the stationery.

He shook his head. "It was addressed to me." Even if that hadn't been the case, he would have insisted on seeing it.

A small part of him said he was invading her privacy. A bigger part of him said to fuck that—he needed information if he was going to protect her. And he was damn well going to do that. He'd see her safe, no matter what horrors he might have to stomach along the way.

"You know what's going on here," he said. "Will you tell me?"

For a moment, she said nothing. Then she whispered—her voice so low he almost couldn't hear it—"Bring me my purse."

He had it in seconds, and she pulled out her phone, then took off the case to reveal a hidden gift card. She held it up, showing him a QR code. "It was in the basket at my book signing."

"Where does the link go?"

"To hell." Her voice was so full of fear he was having a hard time controlling his temper. He wanted to lash out at who ever had done that to her. Barring that, he wanted to hurl something heavy and breakable.

Wanted to, but wouldn't. No matter what, he wouldn't do a thing that might scare her. "Bree, baby, I have to know if I'm going to help you."

"I haven't asked for your help," she snapped. "Not like that. I just asked for?—"

"The money. I know." He kept his voice soft. "But this is addressed to me."

Her tear-filled eyes met his. "Who's doing this? They're all dead. Everyone who?—"

She cut herself off with a shudder, but he understood. His mind had already gone that direction. "This is about what happened to you and Anne. The kidnapping."

He kept his voice calm, but it was hard. He hadn't known his sisters or Bree back then. But he knew them now. The woman in front of him who had already stolen his heart. The little girl who laughed when he tossed her into the pool and sent him a letter at least once each month with a picture she'd drawn especially for him.

"Is it photos? Did that creep Rory take pictures of you?"

Her laugh sounded a little manic. "Something like that."

"I don't want to, but we both know I have to open this link. Maybe it's not about you at all. God knows there's enough shit out there that someone might think that blackmailing me is a good call."

He started to rise. "I'll do it alone. Then I'll tell you what I find."

" No."

The word was so sharp it made him jump.

"Here. With me. Please. I know it wasn't addressed to me, but I have to see. Not because they're making me. But I just need to." The words were barely audible.

He didn't want to agree. He wanted to protect her. But he could already tell that wouldn't be possible. Not fully.

So he simply nodded and said, "Of course," then moved to sit beside her on the sofa. Whatever that QR code would reveal, he knew it was personal. And horrible. He forced his growing fury down—it wouldn't help right now.

"Ready?"

She nodded, and he scanned the code, then held his phone so they could both see the screen.

It was black. Silent.

Then he heard a slight buzz, the kind of ambient noise when a microphone goes live but no one is talking.

Then the voice. A filtered voice that Ash was certain couldn't be manipulated back to normal for a voice print. He couldn't even tell if it was male or female. Just vile.

"Mr. Stone. How chivalrous of you to insist upon helping Bree play our little game. And as for you, naughty girl, we are so disappointed that you haven't watched The Greatest Hits yet. Not even a single ping and bounce out of curiosity. And we went to so much trouble. You hurt our feelings."

Ash glanced at Bree. Greatest Hits ? But she was staring at the phone, and the only sign that the words troubled her was the fact that she reached out and twined the fingers of his free hand with hers.

"A pity," the voice continued. "Those moments are so delicious. Perhaps it slipped your mind. But never fear. We knew you wouldn't want Mr. Stone to miss out on seeing them, too. But before we begin—and, yes, you must watch to the end for our full message—we must express some concern, too. Is spending time with that man really in your best interest? Not just the time, but when you consider his particular character?"

The black disappeared, and bile rose in Ash's throat when it was replaced by the photo of a woman's body being pulled from the ocean, and above the photo a news-style headline blared out the question: Murder or Suicide?

His stomach curdled and he wanted to lash out. To reach through the damn phone and kill whoever was on the other side of that image and voice. Instead, he simply held onto Bree as grief and regret welled up inside him and the voice droned on.

"Poor, sweet Delia Gray. A young woman trying to put herself through school. What a stroke of luck for a girl like her to stumble into a relationship with your Mr. Stone. Too bad she got knocked up. And too bad your benefactor didn't want to pay for the abortion."

Ash's gut twisted, and he kept his eyes forward, not wanting to see the disgust that surely painted Bree's face.

"Perhaps he's learned his lesson and that's why he's helping you? Are you the payment for his sins? We are impressed with your resourcefulness. We assume that you have charmed him into paying the bounty required to keep your naughty little secrets safe. But we are concerned. You've gotten in bed with the devil, dear Bree. And perhaps the ransom will harm you more than the past you so desperately want to hide."

He tightened his grip on her hand, gratified when she didn't pull away. He still didn't fully understand, but he was getting the drift. And just the mention of Delia meant that whatever demons this voice had unleashed on Bree, he was fighting them, too. Not just for her, but because his own demons hid behind that code, and he'd do whatever it took to slaughter the lot of them.

He started to tap the screen and pause the message, aching to explain to Bree about Delia. But she pushed his hand back with a simple, "no," as the voice continued on.

"So be wary, lovely Bree, before you let the devil share your bed. A devil in his own right as we have already shown. But also its spawn. You need look only to his mother. Psychotic. Brilliant. Dangerous. But who can blame her? A child of abuse—yes, Mr. Stone, your grandfather was such a charmer—and a victim of Damien Stark, who once claimed to love her, then broke her. Ah, gentle Bree. They are the man and woman with whom your protector shares blood. Do you truly wish to trust your fate to one who is—pardon our French— so very fucked up?"

Fury cut through Ash, and right then, he was on the verge of becoming the man the recording described. A violent, crazed monster who would destroy this room in a fit of fury, all the more insane because every single word he would be lashing out against was absolutely true.

If he'd ever been unsure that he was strong, that moment proved him to be a fucking Hercules. Because he managed to stay seated. To not explode. To try to be the man that Bree needed.

He turned to look at her, to see if she could discern his struggle. But he saw nothing on her face. No emotion at all.

Nothing except the blank expression of a woman trying to hide inside herself.

"But enough chatter," the voice continued in a perky, almost clown-like voice. "If you have chosen a devil as your champion, then so be it. But every champion must fight for the honor of his lady fair. And it's just deserts that your noble Ash learn what you truly are. Pitiful. Lost. Used. And—dare we say it—broken."

The black screen turned into a swirl of color, then the colors melted into letters that spelled out GREATEST HITS.

"What the hell?" he muttered as Bree choked out a single word: "No."

He eased closer, releasing her hand so he could put an arm around her, but she scooted away. "Don't." Her voice was high-pitched and as taut as a wire. "Don't touch me."

Something hard and horrible twisted in his gut as he studied her face, but it wasn't pain or fear he saw. Not anymore. Now it was strength and fury.

He nodded, glad for the fury. In his experience that was one of the best fuels for a fight. And right then, he knew she was fighting hard to stay calm.

As he watched, the words faded. The screen was black again. No image. No sound.

Then he heard breathing. Shallow. Then a whimper. Only the slightest of sounds, but it tore at his heart. Bree . Even from that tiny, pained sound, he knew that it was her.

The next voice wasn't. It was hard and harsh and distorted. "Strip."

At the other end of the couch, Bree shuddered.

Then the screen popped to life. She was there, sprawled naked on the floor, presumably asleep or passed out. A man approached, or at least Ash assumed it was a man. He couldn't tell since the figure was covered in a black robe and ski mask.

The hand was gloved, but it came off before touching Bree.

Vile. Intimate.

Taking her all the way, her body responding. The rest of her hiding inside herself, locked in a drugged sleep.

Ash forced himself not to react. Not to lash out in fury or try to pull her close to him. He needed it—to touch her and know that she was safe.

But right then, he knew, his touch was the last thing she needed.

"I'll leave," he whispered. "I don't care if it was addressed to me. I'm invading your privacy, and?—"

Her hand reached out, finding his fingertips, then she scooted minutely closer so that she could take his hand. She didn't look at him, but the single word she spoke went straight to his heart. " Stay. "

He nodded, and as the rest of the horror played out, she kept her hand tight around his.

Five incidents. All similar. Some with one robed tormentor. Some with two. Some touching her with fingers. Some penetrating with toys. And all with Bree in a drugged haze that was only broken by cries when her captors took her to orgasm, or whimpers when the drugs began to wear off and some semblance of reality teased at her before the cloaked figures hurried to force her to drink more of whatever they were dosing her with.

Then Bree was alone in the room, curled up on the floor and crying, appearing only half-conscious when one of the figures entered. "Looks like someone's coming to thank you for a lovely date night," the voice said to her. "Apparently your body paid your ransom. They let you go, didn't they? And you abandoned that poor little girl who they kept behind."

Then the screen popped to black. "Rivals anything out of Hollywood, don't you think?" the voice said. "Drama. Secrets. Heartbreak and pain. So riveting. So revealing. And now we must thank you for your patronage… and for the three million. We do hope you still have the original code and that you calendared our appointment. We'd hate for you to miss the transfer time. But if you do, the world will certainly be entertained. All this and more, Bree. All out in the world if the money is even a one second late. Goodbye."

It was over .

Bree yanked her hand back, then drew up her knees and hugged her legs.

He stood, then tossed his phone onto the coffee table as if the phone, not the link, was the vile and tainted thing.

He wanted to reach out to Bree. To hold her close and absorb her pain. To take it into himself and leave her only peace.

But he couldn't. He couldn't even reach out a hand for her. Not when she'd just pulled away. Because there was no way—no way at all—he was violating her personal space.

For that matter, there was no way in hell he was continuing this game they were playing. He'd give her the three million—hell, he'd give her more if that's what it took to keep her safe from those tormentors—but that bullshit agreement he'd forced on her?

No fucking way.

"Bree," he began, intending to tell her exactly that. But she held up a hand and shook her head as she stood, tears streaming silently down her face as she lifted her chin and met his eyes.

She opened her mouth as if to speak, then just shook her head again before turning and hurrying into the smaller of the suite's two bedrooms, then shutting the door behind her.

Shit.

He took a step that direction, then stopped, knowing full well that she needed space, and going into that room now would be about helping himself, not her.

But, dammit, he really wanted to go to her.

Then again, it was probably better that he didn't follow her. The last thing she needed was to see him lose his shit. And right then, he was on the verge of losing it all over the damn place.

With a start, he realized his arm was already back, ready to hurl a small vase he hadn't even realized he'd picked up. Dammit.

As much as he wanted the satisfaction of throwing that thing and watching it shatter, he put it down gently, then snatched one of the decorative pillows off the sofa and hurled it toward the balcony door. It hit the glass with a soft thud, then fell to the floor.

Not satisfying. Not satisfying at all.

But at least it calmed him enough that he knew he could contain his shit when he checked on her. Assuming she'd let him in the room.

He tapped lightly on the door, then leaned close, listening for permission. Nothing.

He considered walking away, but he needed to see her. Needed to look at her to reassure himself that she was okay. And, yeah, he needed her to truly understand that his help didn't stop at the three million. He would give her whatever she needed.

Once more, he tapped the door, and this time when she didn't answer, he turned the knob. Unlocked . He told himself that was as much an invitation as anything, and slowly pushed the door open.

She was curled up on the bed, her head on one of the many pillows and her legs up near her chest. He moved to her, taking the afghan from the foot of the bed and covering her before settling himself on the edge of the mattress.

"Should I leave?"

She shook her head, and the relief that flowed through him was more powerful than any emotion he could ever remember feeling.

"I didn't want you to see that," she whispered.

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the action camouflaging his desperate need to touch her. "I didn't want either one of us to see it." He drew a breath. "I never knew it was like that," he said, his voice still as soft as cats' paws. "The kidnapping. From what little Damien has told me, I thought you were kept captive. Not hurt."

"They didn't hurt me."

"The hell they didn't," he snapped, the words bringing a hint of a smile to her lips.

"I mean not physically," she said. "But they definitely fucked me up."

"Why—"

"Damien doesn't know," she said, anticipating his question. "Nobody does." She closed her eyes, then drew in a noisy breath as if gathering courage. "I didn't even know."

It took him a second to realize he was standing, thrust to his feet by the horror her words implied.

"None of it?"

"I've had nightmares ever since." One bare shoulder moved, the tiniest of shrugs. "Now I know why. Guess my tormentor saved me a little bit on my therapy bill, huh?"

"Don't joke."

"Better than crying. Believe me, I've cried enough to know it doesn't do shit."

"Bree." He sat again on the edge of the bed. Gently, he stroked her hair, relief coursing through him when she didn't cringe away.

He wanted to find the words that would make it all better. He wanted to promise her that he would find out who'd sent that video and kill them with his bare hands. He wanted kiss her and make it all better, just like the prince in a fairy tale.

But this wasn't a story, and he was no prince.

So, he did nothing but sit beside her, stroking her hair as she dozed, and hoping that the small gesture soothed her, even if only a tiny bit.

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Her eyes flew open as the alarm on his damn phone chimed.

She blinked at him, then her expression cleared. "Your meeting?"

"I'm going to cancel it. I should have already."

She reached for his hand, then squeezed it. "No."

"Bree…"

"I'm just going to sleep," she said. "That's why we came here, right? Because you had an important meeting in Vegas?"

"Not as important as you."

He saw the smile tug at the corner of her mouth, then fade. "That's sweet. But I don't want those bastards who are haunting me to fuck you up, too. I don't think I can deal if you don't go because you think you have to babysit me."

Shit.

He considered lying to her. Telling her he'd go, then closing the bedroom door and staying in the living room, close enough that he could peek in on her.

Except, knowing Bree, she'd probably get out of bed and go into the living room just to make sure he was truly gone.

And the truth was, this meeting was crucial if he was going to take the INX project to the next phase. "All right," he said. "I'll go."

And once that monkey was off his back, he could focus all his attention on protecting Bree—and tracking down whoever was behind that goddamn video.