Secrets and Sins: Malachim (A Secrets and Sins Novel) (Entangled Ignite) (18 page)

Whispering instructions, he cupped her hips and guided her up and then down. Down his rigid flesh. Down until her spasming sex softened around him, accepting him.

Eyes to eyes, harsh breath for harsh breath, heartbeat to heartbeat, they faced one another, his length throbbing high and deep within her. Her nails bit into his shoulders, and her chest rose and fell on labored lungfuls of air.

Damn, he didn’t want to move. But damn, he
needed
to move.

With a groan, he lifted her. The cool air in the room kissed the head of his cock, but only for a moment. He rolled his hips, surging upward, even as he sank her down over his erection, burying himself in the sweetest, hottest embrace.

Over and over. Up and down. Forward and retreat. She rode him, and he plundered her. Taking. Giving. Loving. Fucking. He craved it all. But with her, only with her.

Release sizzled in the base of his cock, raced up his flesh.

“Not yet,” he grunted. “Not yet.” Reaching between their straining bodies, he swept the pad of his thumb over her clitoris. Once. Twice. Three times. Danielle whimpered, cried out. Shattered. And snatched him over the edge with her.

Long moments—an eternity—passed before he crawled out of the abyss and rejoined her.

Sorrow stabbed his still pounding heart.
Too soon
. It was over too damn soon.
I need more time. Just a little more
.

He abandoned her hips and cradled her face between his palms. Her lashes fluttered but didn’t close, allowing him to observe and cherish the passion clouding the brown depths. No shadows, no pain, no worry. Just pleasure, satiated passion, and…and…

“Lie to me,” he whispered, begged.

Tears glittered in her eyes before she closed them.

“I love you.”

…

Danielle moved through the living room on quiet feet, keeping to the pockets of gray and black as if she were a burglar, and the pearlescent moonbeams streaming through the windows waited to expose her shifty activities.

Not far off, actually.

She was sneaking out of Malachim’s house in the still morning hours like a thief—an ungrateful, cowardly thief. An image flickered across the screen in her mind. Malachim, sprawled on tangled sheets, eyes closed in sleep, his breathing heavy and deep from their lovemaking and the pain medication. Regret and grief weighed down her limbs, and dragging on her abandoned underclothes, sweater, and jeans seemed like a herculean feat.

Keep moving
. As long as she kept moving, she couldn’t second guess. Couldn’t reconsider her actions and give in to the selfish voice that whispered she stop, stay, and surrender. Surrender to Malachim’s wish for her to remain with him. Let him stand beside her—in front of her—and fight.

Damn it
. She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. They had been the sweetest words anyone had ever spoken to her. Made even sweeter because he’d meant them. He wanted to be her champion when she…she refused to champion herself.

She dropped her arms and slowly sank down to the top of the coffee table.
Jesus
.

A year ago, running had been about survival. About finding and grabbing onto pieces of a life because she hadn’t been ready to face her ex-husband again. Hell, she hadn’t believed she would ever be ready. She’d been satisfied with living under an assumed name just as long as she remained free of him. Yet the truth was as long as she continued to hide, run, not form a life with laughter, relationships, and…and love, she would never be free of him. Even from Alabama, he wielded power over her actions and thoughts, because everything she did and said were related to him, to eluding him.

And the thought of running once more and never seeing Malachim again…never inhaling his unique scent from his damp chest after they’d made love…never being on the receiving end of the sensual smile that lit up his violet eyes… She couldn’t do it.

She’d allowed Alex to take so much away from her. And then she’d voluntarily sacrificed more just to stay alive and on the run.

Maybe the time had come to stop running. To reclaim her life. To stand up to Alex and say, “No more.” To truly be free...

Oh, God. She was staying.

She pressed a fist to her tight stomach. Oh, Jesus, she was scared. She would be a liar if she denied it. But the alternative—an empty existence always looking over her shoulder—scared her more.

She was taking back her power.

“So you’ve made your decision.” She jerked her head up at the sound of the sleep-roughened voice that came from the living room entrance. Malachim leaned against the wall, his arms crossed over his bare chest. Jeans he most likely had grabbed from his floor rode low on his hips, revealing skin she’d kissed and stroked just hours earlier.

God, he was beautiful.

“Yes.” She rose from the table.

Three long strides brought him to her. He crushed her to his chest, his strong arms encircling her in a bruising embrace she didn’t mind. She wanted him to hold her tighter. Closer. Never let her go as he’d promised. A sigh shuddered from between her lips at the utter sense of finding a harbor, a sanctuary of flesh, bone, and blood. Flesh that could be bruised and blood that could be spilled. But if he was determined to stand by her, to fight for her, she could do no less.

“I’m staying,” she said.

Malachim pressed a soft kiss to her temple. And didn’t say a word. But the stalwart presence of his body wrapped around her stated more than a sermon could.

The jangle of his cell phone penetrated the silence. He lifted his head and glanced over at the small glass table next to the couch where he’d set his phone. Reluctantly, he released her and went to grab it.

“Hello?” he answered, voice sharp. Not that she could blame him. Calls in the middle of the night or early morning almost never heralded good news. “Hold on.” He moved the cell away from his ear. “Do you know a Walter Lawrence?”

“Walt?” she asked, already walking over to him. “Yes. He’s a friend of mine from the diner. When I was at the hospital, I called him from your phone. He must have kept your number in his log.”

His frown deepened, but he passed the phone to her.

“Walt?”

“Danielle?” Walt’s voice, raspier and thicker than usual, echoed across the line.

“Yes. Walt.” Fear spiked in her chest, closing around her throat. “What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“I was jumped tonight when I left the diner. Two guys beat me up pretty bad.” A cry broke free from her lips as she groped across the covers for Malachim’s hand. He found her first and grasped her fingers tight. “I’m at the hospital.” He named the same one Malachim had been discharged from.

“Oh God, Walt,” she breathed. Closed her eyes. “I’m on my way. I’m—” Her voice cracked as she bowed her head. “I’m on my way.”

She dropped the cell to the couch, and the sob she’d been holding back ripped free. Malachim was there beside her an instant later, holding her, rocking her. She haltingly repeated her conversation with Walt.

“Alex. It had to be Alex. It can’t be a coincidence that another friend is attacked by two men. What if they were the same men who hurt you?”

“We can’t do anything about that yet, sweetheart,” Malachim murmured. “But as soon as we get to the hospital and check on your friend, we’ll call Detective Rider and have him come over. Okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. Will you…?” she hesitated. This asking for help thing would take some getting used to. “Will you come with me?”

He brushed a kiss over her lips. “I said ‘we,’ didn’t I?” He smiled, sweeping the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone. “Let me get dressed and we can go.”

Within ten minutes, Malachim was dressed, she’d tugged on her sneakers and coat and they hustled down the steps into the winter night. The nippy December air swirled around her, its icy fingers creeping beneath her collar. She shivered, grasped the lapels tighter at her neck, and followed Malachim up the walkway.

“Don’t worry. We should make good time—”

A large, looming figure appeared out of the darkness, blocking the sidewalk.

Malachim drew up short, shoving her behind him.

Terror, sharp and bright, wrapped her in its freezing embrace, numbing her limbs, her thoughts, her breath. Everything but her racing heart.

“Baby.” Malachim’s murmur was pitched low enough for her ears only. Cold metal bit into her unresponsive hand. “Take this key and run for the house. Get inside and lock the door behind you. Don’t open it.”

She tried to curl her fingers around the key, but she couldn’t get her hand to obey. Malachim solved the problem by reaching behind him with his other hand and forcing her fingers closed around the metal.

“Go. Now.”

Those were his last words as he charged forward in a move she’d seen performed by football players on television. His shoulders powered into the other man’s midsection, knocking them back several steps. Malachim untangled himself and took immediate advantage of his opponent’s momentarily winded state. With an enraged growl, he jabbed his fist into the larger man’s throat and followed it with a punch to the abdomen.

The assailant expelled a loud
whoof
, bending over at the waist, clutching his middle.

“Damn it, Danielle!” Malachim whipped his head around, pinning her with fervent glare. “I said go!”

His snapped order melted her paralysis.

She backpedaled, nearly tripping over her own feet, intent on getting inside to call 911. Cursing, she steadied herself, pivoted—

A palm clamped over her mouth. Cruel fingers pressed into her cheek.

“Well, this is a pleasant turn of events,” a smooth, familiar voice crooned. “And here I thought it would be at least a couple of days before we enjoyed our reunion.” The cold burn of a muzzle kissed her temple. “But now we get to spend even more time together.”

Alex.
Jesus Christ
. Alex.

“Danielle!” Malachim roared, hurtling forward.

But his inattention cost him. Behind him, the thug raised a huge hand high above Malachim’s head. And slammed it down with a nauseating thud.

Malachim dropped to the ground.

Still as death.

Chapter Twenty-six

“Are you going to take care of that?” Gabe nodded toward the sullenly bleeding gash on Malachim’s forehead over his right eye as Gabe, Rafe, and Chay piled into his foyer.

Malachim pressed the cloth he’d grabbed from the bathroom over the cut that had reopened when the fucker who’d helped snatch Danielle sucker punched him.

“Later,” he snapped. Later, after they found her. After she was back in his home, safe. He’d only been out a matter of minutes, but it’d been long enough for Alex Rainier and his “help” to disappear with Danielle. His stomach clenched, twisted. And he had to fight back the howl that clawed at his throat, demanding to be released. “Rafe, I need you to pull up the footage from the security camera and see if you can find anything.”

“On it.” Rafe raced down the hall toward Malachim’s home office with Gabe, Chay, and him fast in his wake. Panic pounded in his blood, rushed in his ears. Terror writhed inside him; he could barely think past its black, suffocating grasp. It packed his lungs, clogged his throat. The sheer power of the emotion overpowered the pain in his abused body. Adrenaline handled the rest. At some point, he’d probably crash and be unable to move for a week, but that time wasn’t now. Not with Danielle still out there and at the mercy of her psychopathic ex-husband.

Rafe entered the office, rounded the wide desk, and dropped into the office chair. Within seconds he had the computer booted up, and his fingers flew across the keyboard.

“That camera mounted above your door should’ve captured whatever happened in front of your house.”

Hope surged hard and bright inside him.

“Here it is.” Another click of a finger to the keyboard and a startling clear image popped onto the computer monitor. Even though the footage was color, the late hour and dim lighting along the street cloaked the picture in variations of grays, blacks, and browns. Malachim and Danielle came into view, hurrying across the sidewalk. His heart lurched, twisted.

He barely contained the fury, terror, and pain coalescing in a dense, swirling orb, growing bigger and bigger until he almost burst as the fight and kidnapping played out in front of them on the computer monitor. Gabe whistled as the bruiser he’d fought knocked him to the ground, and Alex struck a straining and twisting Danielle in the temple with the butt of a gun. Malachim’s body bucked as if he’d been struck. Again.

Seconds later, Danielle, limp and out cold, disappeared from the frame in Alex’s arms, and a dark sedan rolled past.

“Damn,” Gabe murmured. “You were kicking ass for a minute there.”

Malachim grunted as Rafe furiously tapped at the computer keys.

“Hold on a sec. Let me see if I can pull up a shot of the car’s license plate.” And an instant later, the screen contained a tight shot of the Massachusetts plate. “Gotcha, you bastard,” Raphael muttered. “Let me run outside and grab my laptop out of my car. We’ll have the information shortly.”

Gabe and Chay didn’t utter a word as Malachim paced the floor of the office, waiting for Rafe to return. As soon as he stalked through the door, black computer case in hand, all three of them gathered around Rafe as he lowered to the chair and booted up the laptop.

Rafe worked quickly, silently, fingers dancing across the keyboard, pulling up screens and entering codes that might as well as have been a dead language. Nerves and tension jumped underneath Malachim’s skin. He wanted to question Rafe, drill him on exactly what he was doing, what his plans were, and how much longer his search would take. But he remained quiet, knowing Rafe was doing all he could to find a lead.

“Got it,” Rafe growled. He glanced up, and the grim satisfaction in his voice was reflected in his dark blue gaze. “That license plate was registered to a car rental place. The only local branch is located at Logan. I hacked their system, and it shows they rented that particular vehicle to a Matthew Rilliard, who paid with a credit card.”

“You are one scary motherfucker,” Gabe muttered, shaking his head.

“Matthew Rilliard?” Chay frowned. “Who the hell is that?”

“Dunno,” Rafe said. “Could be an alias or someone who’ll find out he’s a victim of identity theft when his next statement cycles. Anyway, I cracked the credit card company’s system and tracked the purchase made in the last week with this card number. Gas stations, fast food places, and motels. The card was used to check into a hotel downtown two nights ago.”

Malachim was already circling the desk and heading toward the office door. “You have the address?”

“Got it,” Rafe said from behind him. “Let’s go.”

Rushing down the hall toward the front door, Malachim whipped his cell phone from his pocket. He tapped in a number he’d committed to memory the day before. The line rang three times before a slightly gravel-roughened voice answered.

“Detective Rider, this is Malachim Jerrod. We met at the hospital several days ago after Patrick Duncan was shot.” He paused. “I need your help.”

…

Darkness.

It seemed as if she’d been in the stygian void for days instead of hours. It swallowed her in its black depths, and not for the first or tenth time, Danielle forced back the cloying pressure of claustrophobia, fought drowning under its heavy, crushing weight.

When she’d first come to, head pounding, and realized she’d been locked in a dark bathroom, a keening wail had originated from that tortured place where nightmares slept during daylight. She’d slid along the wall searching for the light. The precious, sanity-restoring light. But frantic flickering of the switch hadn’t brought illumination, and Danielle had sunk to the floor, the blackness pressing in on her from all sides, slithering over her skin, slinking around her neck. Slowly smothering her.

Suddenly, she’d been eleven years old, trapped in a dark, stifling room. Under her palms, the tile had become supple, doughy flesh. The fragrant deodorizer soured into the cloying, meaty scent of waste and death. For a second, out of the dark beamed two blank, lifeless eyes like pale blue marbles.

Her mother. Waxy and still. Her mouth, slack and open. Her once beautiful features frozen in the tortured death throes of a drug overdose. Her sightless gaze boring through her in a plea for help that was forever beyond her.

Alex had done this to her before. Locked her in a black closet, stolen the light bulb so the memories and the fear could crush her, break her.

Then, she’d screamed until hoarse animal whimpers had scraped her throat raw. This time, though, she trapped the cries behind her teeth and swallowed them rather than give Alex the satisfaction of hearing her terror.

Damn him. Damn his punishments. And damn his rules.

She was stronger than that…stronger than him.

He’d forged this new woman—Danielle Warren—in the inferno of his rages and fists. But she’d strengthened that woman. Maybe out of desperation, at first. But then out of a will to survive, to taste freedom. To live…and love…again without fear.

She refused to revert back to scared, defenseless Elena Rainier; she’d come too far, had risked too much. Others had sacrificed too much.

This was her life. A soft, scuffling noise, like a chair scraping a floor, alerted her to movement on the other side of the door. She inched up the wall, slowly rising to her feet. The ache in the side of her head throbbed, but she ground her teeth against the pain and shoved it to the back of her mind. Alex was a predator; he’d note, catalogue, and exploit every weakness, every advantage that gifted him with the upper hand. A pistol to the head had assured him of one leg-up. But he would need more than that chicken-shit move if he believed she would just fall to her knees and beg for his mercy and forgiveness.

Four years of marriage had taught her a brutal and permanent lesson: Alex had none.

The door swung open and light streamed into the bathroom. She blinked, rapidly trying to adjust to the sudden brightness. In gradual degrees, the large dark form in the entrance sharpened, becoming her ex-husband.

“Good. I see you’re awake.” The amicable tone was a familiar weapon in his arsenal often employed to disarm her, ease her into complacency before he struck. “How’s your head?” he asked.

“Fine.” Hurting like hell, but she’d pass out at his feet before admitting it.

He cocked his head to the side. “Hmm. You never were a very good liar, Elena.”

“Danielle,” she corrected, pushing away from the wall.

“Please.” He scoffed. “I refuse to call you by that ridiculous name. Now come out so we can talk. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other.” His voice lowered. “And I’ve missed you.”

A shiver rocked through her body. That tone—she recognized it. Dreaded it. The dulcet, husky note promised pain, humiliation…and pleasure—his.

Alex shifted away from the door, and she stole forward, studying his face and body language. When in the vicinity of a rattling snake, a person had to be cautious, wary, and ready to move at the slightest provocation.

She emerged into a pretty, well-appointed bedroom. Her gaze skimmed the elegant furnishings, yet all of her focus was on her ex-husband who leaned against a cherry wood dresser, ankles and arms crossed, a pleasant smile curving his mouth.

Jail hadn’t diminished his grace and handsomeness. Maybe added a bit of an edge to the eagle-eyed sharpness in his narrowed eyes and more definition to the high cheekbones. Last time she’d seen him, he’d reminded her of a sheathed blade—the danger concealed until provoked. But now, the knife was out, honed, not bothering with a façade of momentary safety. Jail had stripped away the veneer of cultured refinement. She faced the cold, lethal beauty beneath.

He shook his head, indulgent disappointment softening his expression. “I’m afraid you don’t look well. This past year must have been so hard on you. Why don’t you change into something respectable instead of those”—he flicked a glance down her body, his light sneer telegraphing his disdain of her sweater and jeans—“rags? And then join me for breakfast in the dining area.”

An argument perched on the tip of her tongue, but at the last moment, she stifled it.
Pick your battles. Time is to your advantage
. She heeded the advice. The longer she could stall, the odds of Malachim realizing something had gone wrong increased.
Please let him find that sneaker
. Kicking off the shoe had been a split-second decision, and she prayed to God it panned out. But in the meantime, she couldn’t depend on him for her survival. Her life was her responsibility. She had to be dragon-slaying knight as well as damsel in distress.

Alex stared at her, and she fought not to fidget under his unwavering scrutiny. But whatever he glimpsed in her demeanor must have momentarily satisfied him, because he straightened and strolled for the bedroom door.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Elena,” he drawled, pulling the door open. “We have much to discuss.” And he left. The click of the lock engaging reverberated through her. She exhaled, her heart playing a drum solo against her sternum.

Only when she detected the heavy fall of his feet growing fainter did she glance at the bed and the clothes arranged on the white covers.

Horrified recognition slammed into her, and she stumbled several steps before catching her balance.

“Oh, God.” Her clothes. The simple but expensive winter white pants and jewel green silk shirt had been one of Alex’s favorite ensembles for her to wear when they entertained. He’d even laid out the jade necklace, earrings, and bracelets as well as the cream stilettos. Had he saved her things all this time? Had he been so certain he’d find her again, force her back to Birmingham and his home where he believed she belonged?

Nausea roiled in her stomach.
Calm. Don’t lose it. You can’t afford to lose it now
.

With halting steps, she neared the bed. Even though her skin crawled as she drew the silk and wool over her body, she didn’t falter.
They’re just a costume for the biggest, most important charade of your life
. After donning the jewelry and shoes, she quickly searched the room for anything she could use as a weapon. Palms damp, fingers shaking, she opened dresser drawers and closet doors. Too much time and Alex would return. She glanced at the bedside table and couldn’t contain the small whimper of relief and joy. A silver letter opener engraved with the hotel’s logo sat on top of its stationary. The opener was small, the tip dull. But damn, it would have to do. With enough force, it could pierce skin, inflict injury. Breath heaving in and out of her chest, she tucked the makeshift weapon in the deep pocket of her pants, arranging the slender pleat so it concealed the shape.

Moments later, she exited the bedroom into a small sitting area. Her heels were silent as she walked over the carpeted floors, and she forced herself to slow, take cautious and thorough measure of her surroundings. Obviously, a hotel suite. Maybe a lease-by-the-week type of residence traveling businessmen rented, but an upscale one as a gas fireplace glowed on one wall of the sitting area that opened into an equally tiny dining area. Slivers of light sneaked through sturdy blinds, enough for her to deduce it was early morning.

The tiny hairs on the nape of her neck jolted to attention. A shiver skittered down her spine. Slowly, she turned.

“Perfect,” Alex crooned from his seat at the dining room table. He stood, his intent gaze inspecting her from head to toe. His mouth firmed on the return trip as his scrutiny settled on her hair. Damn. Her stomach dipped, rolled. She’d forgotten how much he hated her hair out and loose; he preferred it tamed, restrained.

“I didn’t have anything with me to tie my hair back,” she said, before his displeasure escalated.

The lines between his eyes eased, his smile returning. “I forgot to leave that, didn’t I? Here.” He reached into his pocket, withdrew a clasp. Another relic from her past life.

She crossed the distance separating them and plucked the trinket from his palm, careful not to touch his skin.

“Thank you,” she murmured. With sure, deft hands she gathered her curls and secured them at the nape of her neck.

“Beautiful, Elena,” he whispered. “Sit here.” He removed a chair from under the table and waited for her to sink into the seat.