With lightning reflexes, he pivoted. His hand clamped down around her wrist. Tightening. Her fist opened. The syringe plopped onto the leafy floor, empty except for one last drop on the tip of the needle.
Instincts quieted.
His brain refused to register what he was seeing. He knew, but didn't want to accept.
Then his mind revved full speed ahead in logging facts from the past two days. Sara had been gripped by sweats and shakes. She'd been beyond exhausted and so tied to keeping that damn backpack with her at all times. He'd seen enough drug users in his old neighborhood, not just Dawn, to recognize the signs of someone hiding a habit.
Rage heated his gut, working its way up to sear his brain. At least half of that anger directed itself right back at him. He'd known something was wrong. His instincts had screamed that loudest of all.
He needed to quit thinking with his libido and fully engage his IQ again.
Sara scooped up the leather case and tucked the syringe back inside, her hands trembling, her face flushing. "Oh, uh, I should explain about that."
"I know what I'm looking at. There." He pointed to the pouch, then up to her face. "Here. The profuse sweating. The shakes. You just couldn't wait any longer for a hit."
Chapter 8
A hit?" Sara repeated the words, certain she couldn't have heard Lucas correctly.
She'd been concerned with him finding out about her diabetes, but she'd never imagined he would think... what?
Eye level and on one knee, Lucas pressed a hand to the ground, his jaw flexing. His other hand landed on her shoulder.
In comfort? Or to ensure she didn't run?
"It makes such sense now, I can't believe I didn't think of it on my own. I wondered what could keep you in Chavez's compound for five freaking years and now I know." He really couldn't believe she was hiding a drug habit from him.
She wanted to be wrong, prayed she was wrong, and gave him one last chance to prove it.
"You think you know, do you?"
His grip on her shoulder tightened, almost painfully. "He hooked you on drugs, didn't he? Maybe when you were recovering from the surgery?"
Tears burned behind her eyes. Perhaps she could pass them off as more sweat trickling down her face because she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
Since finding him alive, she'd allowed herself to nurture hope and tiny dreams. She couldn't even find words to express her regret, grief.
Anger.
Thank heavens Lucia was occupied finishing her banana and scratching patterns on the ground with a stick, because Sara didn't want her child to witness the confrontation no doubt about to explode.
Lucas's face pulled tight, some of her pain staining his eyes. "I'm so damn sorry. But we can get you help as soon as we're back in the States. You don't have to live this way any longer."
Even seeing her regret echoed in him didn't help ease the disillusionment. "You think I'm a drug addict?"
He brushed his thumb along her collarbone with comfort given far too late. "I'm trying to be sensitive, and believe me, it doesn't come easy."
She jerked the zipper closed and tossed the case aside. "You think you're invincible. Well you're not. Your decisions and instincts aren't always the best because you never factor your feelings into the equation."
His own calm slipped. "What the hell does this have to do with anything?"
"You believe you're thinking rationally, but there's something going on in your head that's making you draw false conclusions."
"Then tell me the truth."
Something broke inside her. Blame it on tension five years building—losing Lucas, losing her brother, fearing she would lose her child, losing her freedom. So many horrible losses.
"Would you even believe me?"