Decker Page 3

  “Would you prefer to talk about the weather?” I lean forward and check the night sky. “It’s clear out. Not a cloud in sight. I thought they predicted rain.”

  Again, it doesn’t seem to be the best conversation starter if her silence is anything to go by. Unfortunately, comfort isn’t something I excel at. My verbal expertise is in the range of politically incorrect jokes and inappropriate comments. This close and personal shit usually gives me hives.

  “I promise you everything will be all right.” My placation is useless at best.

  “Don’t insult me, Decker. I’m not a child.”

  “Okay… Then let’s discuss it. Who do you think is responsible for pulling the trigger?”

  She turns to me, her brows tight in confusion. Those blue eyes scrutinize. Questioning. Searching.

  “What?” I ask. “You don’t want to talk at all?”

  “No. It’s not that.” She shakes her head. “It’s just that nobody has wanted my opinion before. I’ve never been asked to contribute my thoughts.”

  “Well, here’s your chance. What do you think happened?”

  She narrows her gaze, and for a brief second I think I’ve crossed a line. I’ve pushed. I’ve pried into the inner workings of the most notorious family in the state. Then, as quickly as her scrutiny arrived, it retreats.

  She wraps her arms around her waist and returns to her silence.

  “Keira?”

  She sucks in a long breath. “I don’t know.” The response is tortured, the words pulled from a place etched in pain and suffering.

  “I don’t think anyone will for a while,” I offer. “Whoever is playing games knows how to cover their tracks. Just like with your uncle.”

  Her arms fall, her hands moving back to her thighs, the nails digging deep.

  “I bet you’re worried about him.”

  “Of course.” She scowls at me. “He’s my uncle.”

  Her statement is a question on my intelligence. The Torians value family above all else. But the comment is also a deliberate deflection. She’s keeping herself locked tight, the vibrancy in her eyes betraying strong emotions.

  She’s known as the weak one. The vulnerable, emotional Torian. Although, clearly, her strength under pressure proves she’s much more of a woman than the average man could handle.

  Despite her fortitude, I’ve wanted to save her since the first night we met—from her brother and this life—but I’m yet to determine if she wants to be saved. I’m also clueless when it comes to her moral compass.

  “Sorry. Stupid question.” I drive for long minutes, sticking to the speed limit, determined not to give any cop the excuse to get up close and personal. A speeding ticket is the least of my worries at the moment, but it’s also a hassle I don’t need. “Do you have anywhere safe we can go?”

  “Home,” she whispers.

  “That’s not happening.” With her uncle down, this additional attack seems like an attempted family assassination, and I don’t want her dying on my watch. “What’s option B?”

  She sighs, giving in to my protection without a fight. “Cole has a place.” She opens the glove compartment, brushes aside a gun and numerous documents, before pulling out a blank security keycard. “I don’t even know if this is the right pass to get through the gates. Mine is in my car at the restaurant.”

  “Well, we’re not going to your house, or back to the restaurant, so it looks like we’re giving the card a try.”

  “I assumed as much,” she drawls.

  I grin, enjoying her hostility a little too much. “Where are we headed?”

  “Westport.”

  Westport? A ninety-minute drive.

  “Second-guessing letting me go home yet?” she taunts.

  Hell no. I don’t want her going anywhere familiar. “Westport is a great idea. Once we arrive, we can call your brother and get an update.”

  “We can’t call him sooner?” Her question is almost a plea.

  “He’d have a swarm of police up his ass by now.”

  “What about Layla? Can I use your phone to call her? I left mine with my purse, and as you can probably guess, they’re back at the restaurant, too.” She blinks those long lashes at me.

  “Sure.” I lean to the side, pull my cell from the back pocket of my suit pants, and hand it over.

  She’s dialing in seconds, the ring tone a faint hint of sound.

  It doesn’t take long to figure out her sister is unavailable. There’s no answer. Not on the first, second, or third time she calls.

  “She’s probably still running,” I offer, hoping to calm the growing tremble in her hands. “I’m sure she’ll get in contact when she can.”

  She gives back the cell and stares at the gun in her lap. “I don’t even know where she was when the bullets hit. What if she was right near the glass? What if—”

  “I’m sure you would’ve heard by now if something went wrong. Bad news always travels faster than good.”

  “That’s comforting,” she mutters. “Thanks.”

  “Just trying to be honest.” I flash her a half-hearted smile. The expression isn’t reciprocated. Her face is solemn. Pained. She fills me with guilt because I have no fucking clue how to help her. “Seriously, if something happened, I’d have Hunter and Sarah blowing up my phone by now. The silence is a sign the worst is over.”

  “Maybe.”

  I don’t push the conversation further. I’m familiar with the adrenaline high. She probably thinks her mind is clear and sharp, when inside that head of hers would be a fucked up mess.

  If gossip can be believed, her brother keeps her sheltered from family business dealings. She’s supposed to be kept in the dark from the brutality and criminal activity. If those rumors are true, tonight would act as a bitch-slap of reality.

  I leave her in silence to deal with her thoughts, keeping my mouth shut as we travel out of Portland. I should’ve been subtle in my concern over taking her home. It’s obvious her life is under threat. But on the other hand, I doubt she would appreciate me coddling her.

  The closer we get to Westport, the more I notice the stiffening of her posture. Her unease is growing instead of dissipating. I glance at her every few seconds. With each visual pass, I latch on to the fingers trembling more and more against the gun seated in her lap.

  “Keira,” I say softly, “I know you don’t want me asking, but are you still doing okay?”

  She doesn’t respond. Her focus is glued to the darkness outside the window. She’s not ignoring me. There’s something more to her lack of communication. She’s lost, her beautiful skin devoid of color.

  “Keira?” I touch her wrist, my fingertips connecting with cold skin which sends my pulse skyrocketing. “Christ.”

  She’s in shock.

  I swerve off the road, her gasp hitting my ears. I kill the engine and rush from the car to round the hood and pull open her door.

  “What’s going on?” She turns to me, her lips parted.

  Shit. Her eyes are wide, but the pupils are no longer dilated. She’s present under her concerned stare. “You’re pale. And cold. I thought you were tapping out on me.”

  She rubs her arms. “The air-conditioning is freezing in here. Cole always has it too low.”

  “I was calling your name…”

  “I didn’t hear you. I must have been lost in thought.”

  Fuck. I retreat and run a hand through my hair, trying to calm my breathing. I’m being a pussy. A tight, wet snatch with all this coddling bullshit.

  “Decker?” Her voice is timid as she unclasps her belt.

  “Don’t.” I shove my open palm in her direction. “Just sit the fuck down. I need to get us out of here.”

  She jerks back as if I swung more than my frustration at her. And yes, the pain in those baby blues makes me feel like a ripe asshole deserving of an unlubricated fuck.

  “I’m sorry,” I lower my voice, “I didn’t mean to snap.”

  She refastens her belt and sco
wls straight ahead. “It’s fine.”

  Fine—the most cringe-worthy syllable known to man. With one word, my crappy night becomes a whole lot crappier. “Okay… Well… There’s not much further to go until Westport. Can you focus for me so you can start giving directions?”

  She raises her chin, her lips tight. “I’m focused.”

  “Good.” I gently close her door and round the hood, cursing my stupidity with each step.

  Minutes ago, I thought one of us was losing our mind.

  Turns out, it’s not her.

  3

  Keira

  The security card worked on the gate and again on the panel to unlock the front door, allowing us access to the house I once knew as a family vacation home.

  It was never a holiday for my parents, though.

  As I reached my teens, I realized our trips here were out of necessity, not relaxation. We only visited this house because our lives were threatened. Not due to my dad’s desire to bond.

  “Once you’re settled, I’m going to take a walk outside to check the yard.” Decker hovers over my shoulder as I disarm the alarm in the foyer with my fingerprint.

  “Okay.” I flick on the lights and lead the way down the hall, the familiar space filled with tarnished memories that threaten to overwhelm me.

  Despite the reasons for our visits, my mom used to love it here. She would bake all day and watch movies with us all night. We’d chat and read for hours. And now she’s gone, taken by a bullet through the chest, her life stripped by the insanity that still surrounds us.

  I shake away the grief and focus on the change in decor as I walk down the hall, determined to pull myself together despite the nightmares nipping at my heels. The paintings are different, the floorboards replaced with elegant tile, and the color scheme lighter than the peach walls I remember.

  As I lead the way into the open kitchen and living area, I’m not surprised the main room has also been updated. It’s fresh and new. It’s better this way. But even with the vast changes, my limbs prickle as if ghosts stroke my skin. It’s unsettling. Almost panic-inducing with the way my stomach hollows.

  “Are you sure nobody else knows about this place?” Decker swipes his finger over the kitchen counter, the trail leaving no mark due to the lack of dust. “I could eat my dinner off the marble.”

  “Cole would use an agency to arrange cleaning and gardening staff. Nobody should know who’s doing the hiring and firing.”

  “Good.” He nods. “Are you all right if I go outside to check the perimeter?”

  “Yes. Please go.” My response is quick. Enthusiastic. I’m desperate for space to pull myself together.

  He raises a brow, seeming to take offense.

  “I’m sorry.” I shake my head. “I just need time alone.”

  His lips kick in a sad smile, the gentle affection reaching his dark eyes. “I get it. You’ve been through hell tonight.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “There you go again with that word.” He chuckles. “I don’t think it means what you think it means.”

  He winks and walks for the front door, disappearing from view while I wonder if he deliberately dropped a line from a cult classic romance.

  He’s such an anomaly to me. A contradiction.

  There’s darkness and light. Aggression and charm. I’ve always struggled to determine the real from the fake, but tonight it’s worse with my head a tangled mess of madness.

  I’ve never been close to death. Not like this. I haven’t had the misfortune of seeing my past transgressions flash before my eyes. And that wasn’t the worst of it. The thought of my niece, Stella, being at the party hours before still leaves me in a cold sweat. That little girl means the world to me. There’s nothing more important than her safety.

  Not one damn thing.

  Yet I’m responsible for putting her in harm’s way.

  I created the danger.

  Nausea inches up my throat, my self-revulsion warring with remorse.

  I stagger forward and press my hands to the polished marble counter, sucking in breath after breath. I need to find calm. This isn’t the time for strategy to take a back seat. But I’m struggling to regain control.

  Screams echo in my ears. The sight of petrified faces haunt me. I can still feel the shattered glass pinching into my palms and the weight of Decker’s body on mine.

  He’d been selfless in his efforts to protect me. Entirely without fear. Wholeheartedly negligent toward his own life.

  Maybe joking about him having a death wish isn’t such a joke after all.

  I release the air in my lungs then fill them to capacity, repeating the ritual over and over.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus.

  I drag my gaze around the room, trying to distract myself, but the only replacement to the recollection of gunfire are the childhood memories making my throat tighten.

  Sparks of nostalgia flicker to life like a movie, the images from my younger years becoming clear and crisp. I used to sit here for breakfast. For lunch, too. My mom would braid my hair, and I’d complain about how long it would take. I can vaguely remember the subtle tug, tug, tug as she tried to tame my unruly lengths.

  An uncomfortable ache nips at my ribs.

  She died too young. Too beautiful.

  One day she was reading bedtime stories and apologizing for the way my dad avoided his daughters. The next we were dressed in black and crushed under suffocating grief.

  That same grief assails me now, stealing the oxygen from the air.

  She wasn’t made for this world. Our world. The one with deception, betrayal, and murder.

  She’d never been flawed like my father. Her love had outshone his neglect. She was the mesmerizing smile through a crowd of scowls. The virtue surrounded by sin.

  For that reason, I’m certain she would hate who I’ve become.

  I’m guilty of horrible things. The skeletons in my closet are so tightly compacted I swear one more deceitful action will bring them toppling out.

  “Stop it,” I demand aloud.

  The panic is increasing, my pounding heart struggling with the building mania.

  I shove from the counter and kick off my heels to pad toward the tinted windows. The black of night stretches before me, lonely and cold.

  I greet my reflection with a wince—the disheveled hair, the haunted eyes. I can barely stand to look at myself, not because my lavish makeup is betraying me, but because I’m disgusted by my actions.

  My nose burns, the overwhelming tingle announcing a potent fragility that sickens me. It’s pathetic. I’m pathetic.

  I pivot on my toes, poised to run from my reflection, only to pause at the glimpse of an abnormality on my cheek. I tilt my chin and narrow my gaze on the darkened mirror. Spots cover the right side of my face, all shapes and sizes freckled along my jaw and down my neck.

  I swipe them, the rough, dry patches scraping my fingertips.

  My heart stops.

  My throat clogs.

  “Oh, God.” It’s blood.

  I touch everywhere—my face, my shoulders, my neck. There’s no tender areas. Not a single cut, or bruise, or scrape.

  The spots aren’t from me.

  A stranger’s blood marks my skin like a brand.

  I wipe them with an open palm, the gentle swipe having no effect. I quicken the pace and severity, scrubbing over and over, my arm trembling with each movement.

  I glance further down, glimpsing tiny stains on the strap of my dress and along the bodice. More splotches taunt me. The liquid is engrained.

  “It’s everywhere.” My voice cracks as I use my nails, clawing at my cheek, my jaw, my neck.

  My pulse grows frantic. I can’t get enough air.

  I can’t breathe.

  The room darkens, my vision blurring over everything else except those spots that become crystal clear. I tug at the bodice and struggle to reach behind me to release the zipper.

  “Keira?”

 
A door slams. Faint footsteps reach my ears as I scrub, scrub, scrub.

  “Keira.” A tight grip grabs my wrist.

  “Get it off,” I scream. “I need to get it off.”

  I use my free hand to scratch my neck, only to have Decker swirl me around to face him.

  “Let me help you.” His eyes are wide, his concern only increasing my panic.

  I’m shaking. My arms tremble in his hold.

  Tonight was my doing. I’ve caused this. I’m responsible.

  “It’s all my fault.” The admission bubbles up my throat without permission.

  “No, baby. It’s not.” He leans closer, getting in my face. “That’s the adrenaline talking.”

  I try to tug my wrists away, but he holds tight. He won’t let me go, and there’s comfort in that. There’s reassurance he won’t allow my demons to take over. Only there’s fear, too. More hysteria with the restriction.

  “Keira, this isn’t your fault.”

  His seriousness is foreign. He’s always the life of the party, no matter how much my brother despises his antics. But this… This strong, caring man breaks me, cracking my foundations.

  Muscled arms engulf me, leading me away from the window and down another familiar hall. “Is the bathroom this way?”

  I don’t answer, just keep dragging my numb feet in the right direction as the dried blood sinks under my skin, making me itch.

  He stops before the alcove with the basin, vanity, and mirror. The door to the toilet is behind us, another to the main bathroom by our side. He yanks open drawers and cupboards until he finds a cloth, then runs the material under water and squeezes out the excess.

  It won’t help.

  It’s not enough.

  The stains are marrow deep, now marking my soul.

  I step away, opening the door at our side to escape toward the shower. I flick on the light and lunge for the taps.

  I don’t wait for the water to warm. I climb inside, needing to cleanse my soul, the cold spray hitting hard. I scrub and scrub, not stopping until the rough patches turn smooth, then disappear completely.

  It’s still not enough.

  I tear at my dress, yanking, tugging, until the heavy, sodden weight falls to my ankles.