"Wow."
She nodded, then swiped away a tear. "And then Eli came to the bed I was in and told me not to worry. Everything would be just fine, because he would adopt me, and I'd have a mother and a father again, all living in the same house."
"Just like that?" he asked.
"I guess so."
"Then that means we'll be brother and sister."
She frowned. "We already are."
"Nope. You're my stepsister. Because Eli and Lisa adopted me after they got married, so I'm their kid."
"I know that," Jane said. She remembered when the drugged-up lady who was Dallas's birth mother had been found dead, and Eli had said that it was sad, but good, because it would make the adoption process go easier.
"And Lisa already had you before she married Eli," Dallas continued. "So we're steps. Eli's your stepfather and I'm your stepbrother."
Jane rolled her eyes. "I know that, dummy. So what?"
"So, if Eli adopts you, then we'll have the same two parents for real. Eli will be your real dad, I'll be your real brother, and you'll be my real sister. Wild, huh?"
Her eyes went wide as she thought about it. "Yeah." She wrinkled her nose. "Is that good?"
He frowned, considering. "I don't know. I guess."
After a second, he shook it off. "You want me to stay with you tonight?"
She nodded. "It's not scary anymore--I mean, I'm home and it's all over. But I think it will be scary in my dreams, and I don't w
ant to have nightmares."
"Okay then." He sat up straight, looking every bit the determined bodyguard. "In that case, I have to stay. And you don't have to worry because I'll protect you. I'll always protect you."
He dropped his robe on the floor and crawled up to the head of the bed in his version of pajamas--flannel sleep pants and a Tower of London T-shirt from his last trip overseas with his parents. Soon to be her parents, too.
He slid under the covers and she scooted over to share her pillow. They both laid on their backs, and he held tight to her uninjured hand.
"Do you think they can really do that? Make my daddy not be my daddy, I mean?"
"I guess so."
"I didn't know you could lose people like that. I mean, just all of a sudden, and then they're no longer who you thought they were."
"Don't worry," Dallas said. "You'll never lose me."
And then he pushed himself up, leaned over, and very sweetly--very awkwardly--kissed her cheek.
My sexy little Vanquish Volante convertible can go from zero to sixty-two miles per hour in just over four seconds. But despite the fact that I want to put distance between me and the Meadow Lane house that I love--not to mention the man--I'm not taking advantage of all that power and speed.
Instead, I'm parked on the shoulder, the engine still running and the radio blasting as I claw my way back from my memories. Sweet, wonderful memories, yes. But I don't need to linger in the past. That boy no longer exists, and the sooner I cement myself in reality, the better.
But it's not even my feelings for Dallas that are the worst of it. No, the worst is that I gave in. That I lost control. Because after the kind of trauma I lived through, control is pretty much the holy grail. That's why I hate crowds. Why I drive too fast. Why I got married. And, yeah, why I got divorced.
I know all of that because I have paid a shit ton of money over the years for a stream of therapists to tell me so. I crave control. I'm scared of the dark. I don't trust easily. I have survivor's guilt.
I am, in other words, a therapist's wet dream. A walking, talking textbook illustrating the emotional damage that follows a kidnapping. So much so, that the storm in my head can provide enough challenge to support a shrink's entire career.
And even if I'm not quite curable, at least the symptoms can be masked, and the chorus line of doctors can feel like they've accomplished something. Because whenever I get twitchy, I have a lovely little rainbow of pills that can take the edge off.