His to Take (Wicked Lovers 9)

inches from the tragedy.

For long minutes, he simply let her shock have its way. As she grieved, he lent her his strength and support. She sniffled, dreading what she’d find next, but a quick glance around proved that the sunlight was waning and their time was running low. She didn’t think she’d find the mental muster to come back here tomorrow, so she had to tough it out for the rest of this wrenching house tour. Bailey had no idea if she’d remember anything of value, but she had to try.

“I’m fine.” She pulled back.

He tightened his arms and braced a finger under her chin, lifting it. After a long scan of her face and a deep glance into her eyes, he blew out a breath. Obviously, he didn’t like this, but he knew what had to be done. “Come with me.”

Together, they made their way down the hall before pausing at the next door on the right—the room she had shared with her sister, Annika. The walls were no longer a sunny yellow. The grime on the windows and the setting sun made the darkening room look gloomy, shadow-filled. The child-size kitchen set and tea party equipment had all been taken away. The pale carpet still bore the scars of bloodstains splattered on the far side of the room. The closet door stood ajar, a terrible reminder.

As with the scene in Mikhail’s room, Bailey remembered that horrific evening. Her older sister had tried to hide from her murderer in the closet, but he’d found her. So had Bailey, later, all huddled and crumpled in a corner of the dark little space. Some bastard had hunted her down and snuffed out her life. Annika’s last moments must have been terrifying.

Bailey wondered why she had been spared when none of the others had.

“I have to get out of this room.” She turned and bolted back into the hall.

Joaquin followed. “Was that your room?”

She nodded. “My sister and I, yes. I had the top bunk.”

In fact, she’d remembered awakening that morning early and seeking out her mother, begging for pancakes.

Her mother.

Bailey’s heart stopped as she headed toward the final room off the hallway. Her parents had shared that bedroom. She remembered sometimes hearing them arguing. Sometimes she’d heard moans and grunts, which she suspected now had been their lovemaking.

The cozy queen bed had been stripped bare, the mattress now a dingy white. The nightstands were devoid of the clock and jewelry that had always graced her mom’s side of the bed. The bench near the window still had the needlepointed seat of flowers, but looked like a neglected antique.

Bailey inched closer but couldn’t make herself enter the room—couldn’t stop remembering her mother lying in a pool of blood, as if she’d come to check on the gunshots and Annika’s screaming, then been gunned down herself.

More of that evening drifted back to her. Bailey recalled coming in from the cold and wandering down the hall, finding the carnage in each bedroom more horrifying than the last. Then she’d seen her mother, bloody and lifeless, on the floor. She remembered trying to shake her mother awake, somehow so terrified by the woman’s open, sightless eyes. She’d screamed, thrown herself against her mother and hugged her tight, pleading for Mama to hug her, assure her that the world hadn’t ended.

Into the dead silence, she’d fled the house in horror, wondering if the bad man would come for her next. When she’d darted back down the hall, she’d slipped in the blood and peeled off her socks before pushing out the back door, into the snow. The rest of the events fit her dream, all the way until the concerned couple in the blue sedan had discovered her. Then . . . nothing again before her life with Bob and Jane Benson.

“Baby girl?”

“My mom was killed right here.” She pointed to a spot barely a foot away. “I found her body. I remember finding them all dead.”

Joaquin pulled her close, and she could feel his ache of sympathy for her. “I’m here. Cry or get angry or . . . whatever you need.”

What she really needed was to leave.

“There’s nothing else to see in this house. I have to go.”

“I’m with you. I’ve got you.”

He led her to the yard, out to the blessedly fresh air. Standing in the yard, he cupped her face in his hands as the sun dipped lower toward the horizon. The golden rays made the olive planes of his face glow like rich bronze. The concern in his hazel eyes nearly brought her to her knees.

“I won’t push you anymore if you can’t do it,” he murmured. “Tell me what you want.”

“I’ll be fine.” She had to be. “Let’s finish this.”

He nodded. “Did your dad utilize the barn for any reason?”

“Like research?” She shook her head. “My mother cleaned it out so we could play there, but we kind of thought it was creepy. It was falling down even then, so we didn’t use it much.”

“So he didn’t research in there?”

“Never. I can count on one hand the number of times I remember anyone even going in there.”

He nodded grimly. “I need to look inside, just make sure there isn’t some obvious place Viktor could have hidden his research. Granted, someone else should have found it by now if it were that simple, but I’ll try anyway. Do you want to stay here or come with me?”

Bailey didn’t want to be alone, but Joaquin needed to take advantage of the waning daylight. The remnants of her brother’s fort, wedged between the two trees, tugged at her. She should check there while she still had sunlight. No idea when her father would have had time to stash something in this area that day. The timeline jumbled in her head a bit. She didn’t remember her father being outside until McKeevy had shown up and dragged him out.

“Go ahead. I’m sure both the feds and LOSS have turned every inch of this whole farm upside down, but I’ll try checking over here.” She thumbed in the direction of the makeshift playhouse.

Joaquin looked reluctant to leave her, but he finally nodded. “Yell if you need anything.”

She appreciated him more than she could express. “Thanks.”

As he strode away to the barn behind the house, Bailey turned and blew out a deep breath before inching her way to the trees. Most of the metal pieces that her brother had tried to lean together or tape into something resembling fort walls were gone. Some had scattered across the yard. Some were nowhere to be seen.

She knelt between the trees, recalling that fateful day. Her father had sent her outside with the instructions to hide quietly, sing her song in her head, and stay out here. She remembered asking if they were playing a game. His smile had been strained as he’d nodded and answered that it was a very serious game. Could she be a big girl and play along?

She’d nodded happily, wishing her mom would have made more pancakes, not stew, for dinner. Then . . .

Bailey lowered herself to the ground and braced her back against the larger of the two trees, gathering her knees to her chest, as she’d done that afternoon. She closed her eyes and tried to remember anything else her father might have said to her. Anywhere he might have gone or hidden his research. Would it have been boxes of paper? Something smaller, electronic maybe? She really had no idea. She also had no memory of anything except her father kissing her, telling her that he loved her, then heading grimly into the house.

What she remembered next made her gasp. She choked, unable to breathe. Her thoughts raced. Her heart roared.

Bailey drew in a huge, jagged breath and screamed.

Chapter Fourteen

JOAQUIN heard the bloodcurdling cry from the side of the little farm. He pulled his SIG from the small of his back, clicked off the safety, then bolted to Bailey’s side, panic charging through his veins.

He found her alone, curled up against a tree, trying to make herself as small as possible. She’d closed her eyes and opened her mouth wide. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes and her body shook as if jolted by an electric shock.

Falling to his knees, he scooped her up into his arms and pulled her against him. “What is it? Tel

l me.”

She shoved at him and scrambled to her feet. “Get me out of here.” Across the yard she spotted his SUV and ran for it. “I need to go!”

He chased her down and lifted her against his chest. “Talk to me. Did someone show up just now? Startle you? Threaten you?”

“No.”

So she battled her memory, not a flesh-and-blood foe—at least for the moment.

“Good. We have to lock up the house, then we’ll go. Take a deep breath.” As he opened the passenger door, he sank into the seat and cradled her against him. “I won’t leave your side until you’re relaxed. Just breathe.”

Her tears fell harder. Concern stabbed him, slicing him down deep. How much more could she take in a short period of time? He’d ripped apart her entire world. Yes, to save her. Mostly to avenge Nate, to rail against the injustice of some asshat shooting the only friend he’d let himself have.

Now guilt ripped him a new one.

“I can’t.” She struggled to inhale, but kept tripping over her tears.

Her sobbing had destabilized her respiratory system. She looked too pale, her eyes too blue in her haunted face. He fucking had to help her.

Joaquin gripped her shoulders. “Baby girl, look at me. Right into my eyes. You have to take a deep breath. Yes . . .” He praised when she finally managed. “Now, let it out and tell me what scared you.”

She hid her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She cried quietly now, but she still cried all the same. He fucking wished he could take this pain from her. If he’d never crashed into her life and had somehow managed to catch McKeevy and LOSS without destroying her world . . . But then he would never have met Bailey. She wouldn’t have had the chance to completely change him the way she had.

Damn it, he was in love with her. Fine fucking time to realize it.

“Bailey?” he prodded softly.

She curled up into a tighter ball and shook her head. “Lock up the house. I’ll get myself together.”

He hated leaving her for even an instant, but he didn’t see a choice.

“I’ll be back in less than two minutes. Do you want me to give you my gun?”

Her eyes flew open, filled with terror. “No! Take it. I can’t . . . Go.”

With a grim nod, Joaquin tucked his gun away, then barreled to the house, where he ensured the back door was secure before he let himself out the front, locking it behind him and depositing the key inside the lockbox again. A glance back to the car proved that she hadn’t moved, hadn’t really found her way out of shock yet.

Charging back toward her, Joaquin couldn’t deny he was happy to leave the house, too. It had an ominous vibe; the tragedy of three senseless deaths still scarred the surfaces and disturbed the air. He had to get Bailey away from this place.

By the time he made his way to her once more, she looked even more pale and troubled. He’d seen enough. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” she insisted. “I remembered something . . .”

Her body started shaking again. Sandwiched between the seat and the roof of the vehicle, Joaquin had no way to get to her so he flipped the lever that reclined the seat until she lay back nearly supine, then he leaned over her and cupped her cheek. “We don’t have to talk about this here.”

She nodded vigorously and miserably. “I know what happened to my family.”

“You don’t have to relive McKeevy coming into the house and shooting your loved ones. I understand.”

“But he didn’t.” She took in a shuddering breath. “M-my father did.”

“Viktor Aslanov killed your family? You’re saying he shot them?”

“Yes. I remember everything now. He told me to hide outside quietly, sing my song in my head, and not come back inside. After that, he hugged me, told me he loved me, then went back inside. I heard gunshots, screaming, then more gunshots. Terrible silence followed. I was frozen. I didn’t know what to do. I sat, rocking back and forth. Then McKeevy arrived, wearing some sort of blue military uniform. He busted into the house and yanked my father out, and shoved Viktor into his car. I never saw him again.”

Another rough breath later, Joaquin couldn’t stand that lost look in her eyes. “Ah, baby girl, I don’t know what to say. You lived through hell.”

“I lost everyone.” She sounded bleak, so alone. New tears fell.

Joaquin knew what it felt like to lose. He remembered the awful night his mother had sat him down and told him that his father had been killed. The shock of it had been like a steel bar to the solar plexus. Numbness, denial, rage . . . He remembered every emotion, every step. He’d been nearly thirteen, old enough to understand the concept of death and the reasons behind his father’s ultimate sacrifice. Bailey had been barely five and completely ill-equipped to comprehend death at all, much less that violent tragedy.

When he’d first laid eyes on her, he’d imagined she was a fragile little thing. Now he knew just how damn strong she truly was. He’d crumbled after his father’s death, then cut himself off. Somehow, she’d managed to pick up, make a life, grow up a relatively happy kid. Even after losing the people she’d believed had given birth to her she had continued to persevere.

“Not everyone,” he swore. “I’m here now. I’m not leaving.”

She looked at him with wary eyes, like she didn’t quite believe him. And why should she? After everything his sister had said and all he’d admitted, trusting his words would be tough. But he intended to prove himself.

What was he thinking here—something beyond comforting her in this moment? Did he want a girlfriend? A wife? Did he really want to be tied down to one woman?

No, but with Bailey, he didn’t look at it as being tied down as much as connected to someone who made a difference in his life. She brought light. She made him feel again. He didn’t think he could do without her.

“The thing is . . . Viktor Aslanov taught me that nursery rhyme we were puzzling through earlier. Only me. He told me to hide inside while he”—she took a moment to gather herself again, and he cupped her shoulder to lend support—“went inside and shot the rest of his family. Maybe he knew LOSS was sending someone for him.”

Joaquin nodded. “He must have known he couldn’t hide indefinitely with a wife and three children. He probably realized they would employ some terrible tactics to get the information they sought, so rather than making his family suffer or letting them use his loved ones’ suffering to coerce him, he killed them as humanely as he knew how.”

“It seems so surreal. Viktor Aslanov wasn’t a violent man. He laughed. He loved. He . . .” Bailey dissolved into tears.

Joaquin felt helpless to ease her burden, and that frustrated him even more. “He was backed into a corner and he did what he thought he had to do, most likely. He probably died with a lot of regrets, but selling information to LOSS that he couldn’t or wouldn’t deliver had to be the biggest. His last day with all of you must have been so bittersweet.”

“He sang that song to me over and over. He made me sing it with him. He told me never to forget it.”

“It must mean something.”

Bailey nodded, her eyes glassy. She looked so lost. He’d seen similar expressions on people who’d witnessed too much violence or the horrors of war. No wonder she’d had nightmares for so many years.

“I think it must. Sing whatever you can remember to me again.”

She groped around for the ball and handed it to him. He bounced the spongy orb against the dashboard. As he caught it, he listened. Bailey closed her eyes, turned inward, and focused. Joaquin didn’t interrupt her.

“Hickory in the park. The mouse hides in the dark. At the painted fence, jump three steps left. Follow the path to the sign near the dock.” She shrugged. “That’s it. I was confused before, but . . . that’s it.”

“It’s a verbal map.” He ducked from the SUV and looked around the farm. “I don’t see a park, a painted fence, or a dock. If ‘hickory’ means a hi

ckory tree, I’m not seeing one in this yard.”

She scanned her surroundings. “I don’t know where we were when he started teaching me the song. I’m exhausted. Maybe if I get some rest and think about it a bit more . . .”

Joaquin just hoped they had the time before McKeevy caught up to them or Bailey broke down. He knew she’d do her best, but the emotional stress she bore was more than almost anyone could take.