Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

With a small shrug, she released his hand, then twisted her fingers together in her lap. As she spoke, she looked down at her hands. "That's all I remember. The next memory I have, it was six months later. I was in a hospital. A mental ward. Like something out of one of those horror movies where the people in asylums get free and rampage the town. It was dark and smelled like mildew and the food was never solid, and my first thought was that I was dead. I didn't remember Diana--or find out what happened to her--until much later."

"Darla . . ." He trailed off. He didn't know what else to say.

"There was a doctor. Enrique Garcia. He was kind to me. He worked with me. Told me that I'd been found in a gutter with a knife wound." She lifted her shirt to reveal a jagged abdominal scar.

"Did he know who you were?"

Darla shook her head. "No. Later I found out we were halfway across the country. So he hadn't heard any reports about my disappearance." She licked her lips. "And he told me that I was pregnant. About six months."

His gut twisted. Their marriage had always felt tentative, but the trip to Mexico was supposed to end at a resort. It was almost supposed to be a second honeymoon. He'd felt like a heel for dragging her to Mexico City first, and he'd surprised her on their second night in town with a candlelit dinner in their room, and they'd made love while the baby slept peacefully in her bassinet.

But he had to ask--of course, he had to ask.

"Did they--when they took you--did they rape you?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't think so. I don't want to think so."

He swallowed, then nodded slowly. He understood her hesitation. She'd had enough horror, why add that violation to the pile? "Eventually you remembered some things. Was that only recently? Before you came to Texas and found me?"

For a moment, he thought she wouldn't answer. Then she lifted her head and faced him. "No." The word was flat. Even. "I worked with Enrique for months after I found myself in that hospital. He took me away to his private facility. And we had long sessions. I--well, it was hard. But he was kind and eventually I started to remember."

"The attack?"

She shook her head. "No. Well, not enough. Just what I described to you. And the fear. I remembered the fear." Once again, she looked down at her hands. "And I remembered them killing Diana. They killed her in front of me. Then they--they tossed her out of a van."

Her voice broke and her body was stiff with an effort at control. Moments passed as she simply breathed. Then she faced him, her chin high. "That's when I remembered you, too."

He frowned, confused. "When was this?"

"About a year and a half after I came back to myself."

"That means . . . wait. You remembered me over seven years ago?"

Her throat moved as she swallowed. "I didn't tell anyone, not even Enrique. Not for a long time. I was so angry. I blamed you for everything. I remembered losing Diana and I wanted to die. I thought of you, and I wanted you to be the one who died."

He flinched, the emotion in her words more familiar than he cared to admit. But he forced himself to stay level. He needed information to move forward, because none of them could move back. "And all the years between now and then? Where have you been?"

"With Enrique," she whispered. "I lived with him. It was a marriage in everything but the law, because in my heart, I knew I was still married to you. He was a father to Ricardo even though you--well, it doesn't matter. Ricardo believes that Enrique was his dad. And--and despite everything, I was happy."

"And you didn't tell anyone? Not even your mother?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"At first I was too angry. Too lost. I was practically non-functional for years. I wanted to hurt you. And then, when I told Enrique about you and about Diana, he helped me realize that you weren't any more at fault than I was. And by then . . . well, by then I was happy." She pressed her lips together as she looked at him. "I'm sorry, Noah. I'm so sorry."

Her apology washed over him, and he tried to decide if he was angry or fine or just plain numb. How could he judge her choices after the hell she went through? And at the same time, how could he forgive her for keeping him in hell for all these long years?

He avoided the question altogether by asking, "What happened to Enrique?"

"He died six months ago," she said, and for the first time, tears spilled from her eyes. "His family took everything, and because we weren't legally married, neither Ricardo nor I got anything. His will--he was young. He never got around to putting us in his will."

"And so you came to me . . ."

"Maybe I don't have any right. It's been so long. But you're still my husband, Noah." Slowly, she reached for his hand. "I'm the mother of your son. And, and I--I'm not angry any longer."

Noah closed his eyes, fighting back a shudder. Fighting back the memories of a day long ago, when she'd told him she was pregnant.