Sarah looked down at her legs, her arms.
“Scratches, I don’t even feel them.” Then she gasped.
Brock was kneeling in front of her, jerking her to him, his lips covering hers desperately.
* * * * *
His control shattered. Brock knew he was losing his grip on his sanity. Damn her, she was so cool, so controlled, but he could see the fear in her eyes, the shock and terror and it was too familiar, reminded him too well of the horror he sometimes saw in his own eyes when he dared to look in a mirror. He had to wipe it away. He had to take the pain away. Erase the fear.
He kissed her in desperation. His tongue licked at her lips, his hands tore at her dress until he had her naked, his hands stroking her until he heard her moans of pleasure. He looked in her eyes, saw them darkening with passion, felt the heat of her body, the pleasure replacing the fear.
“Bath,” he whispered.
He drew her to her feet, then helped her into the large garden tub, sinking in with her, drawing her over him until his cock slid easily into the tight heat of her vagina.
“Ride me,” he growled.
He watched her face as she moved over him, her eyes lowered drowsily, her face flushed, sweat and blood rinsing away as he drew her into the water, his body laying back against the tub, his head twisting in pleasure as he let her set the pace, let her find their pleasure.
Then he felt the small tremors in her cunt. Felt her flexing around him, milking him, burning him alive. He groaned, harsh and deep as he began to cum, spurting his semen deep inside the wet velvet recess of her cunt.
She collapsed against his chest, breathing heavily. Fighting for his own breath, he grabbed a cloth and soap and began to wash her. He checked each scratch, kissed as many as he could find, and when she was laying relaxed and drowsy against him, her head cushioned on his chest, he let his own tears fall. For the first time in twelve years, he felt the salty moisture easing over his cheeks. But rather than tears of pain, they were of thankfulness. She was alive. And that was all that mattered to him. All that would ever matter.
CHAPTER THIRTY- THREE
Sarah sat beside Brock in the kitchen the next day, the others gathered around the table, surrounded by Rick and his deal of guards. All eyes were centered on the paper lying in the middle of it.
Time to go. Yet I shall return. Precious children, the future is mine.
Lock your doors, cover your windows well. The past has returned, and now tis time to die.
You shed the blood. You took the life. But your sins were never hidden.
Cade and Marly. Ahh, the perfect pair. Brock and Sarah, safe within the lair.
Sam I ask, is precious Heather near?
Until you seek again, to mend a fractured soul. I shall rest in ease, for none shall be whole. As long as one aches, twists in nightmares and screams in pain. Then I shall have my pleasure, until the last, the final shall be slain.
“Heather stuck his own knife in his gut the night he attacked her,” Rick told them all. “We found blood with traces of DNA that doesn’t match hers. A good puddle of it, so I suspect she got him good.”
“But he’ll be back.” Sam stared at the paper, his eyes haunted, his voice hoarse. “If I seek again.”
His fist clenched on the table. They all looked at him, all knew he was blaming himself, not just for Heather’s attack, but Sarah’s and Marly’s as well.
“Sam, he’ll come back anyway,” Tara told him, her voice soft, but filled with anger. “We know this. This isn’t about you. It’s about all of you. We have to figure out who he is. None of you are safe until we do.”
Sam rose to his feet. He shook his head, turning and walking quickly from the room.
Tara looked at Cade. No one knew what to say now, how to go on. The danger wasn’t over, and they all wondered if it ever would be.
“He had to have a son. One no one knew about.” Rick stepped forward, talking about the bastard who had nearly killed the men years ago. “I’m sending out a team to Utah in the morning. We’ll get a complete background on him, see what we can find out.”
Cade rose to his feet, sighing deeply.
“Find him quickly. What about Heather?” His voice was hard, cold.
“She’s healing. She’ll be out of the hospital next week. Doc says a month for recovery,” he told him. “Why?”