Chapter Six
AMY’S PACE SLOWED to a crawl as she walked to the apartment she shared with the boys. It had taken seven endless hours to fly back to Shadow Mountain on the Jayhawk. Seven hours of replaying the events at Clay’s house over and over in her mind.
She’d hit him. Not once, not twice, but four times.
In her last exchange with him, she’d hit him. And then he’d died.
As she’d done for the entirety of the long trip home, she waited for the shame to rise, for the grief to swallow her. But neither emotion stirred. His betrayal, what he’d done to her sons, had burned away whatever feelings she’d had for him.
All she had left were questions. When had he turned into a monster? How could she not have noticed? For God’s sake, her eleven-year-old son had recognized the monster in Clay. Mac, who’d met him—what? Once? Twice? He’d recognized the rot as well.
Yet she hadn’t seen it until it was too late.
Trying to relax, she kept walking. It was 10:00 a.m. Benji and Brendan would be up, full of breakfast, awaiting her arrival.
Her head started to throb. A chaotic jumble of panic, anger, and helplessness pressed against her chest.
What are you going to tell them?
Benji would hammer her with his rapid-fire questions and a full-blown account of everything that had happened that morning.
Her steps slowed even further.
Marion would question her with grave eyes and carefully nuanced conversation in an interrogation every bit as effective as the techniques used in the FBI.
Her breathing started to hitch.
And Brendan . . . Her feet fell still. Her oldest wouldn’t ask anything. No, he’d simply watch her instead with those ancient, dark eyes. Which, of the three reactions, was by far the worst.
How could she tell them that she’d failed in her quest? That Clay had died and taken to the grave with him the key to neutralizing the isotope?
She couldn’t. At least not yet.
She needed a few moments of quiet. A silent haven to process what had happened, to come to terms with Clay’s betrayal and death, and to accept her total failure at saving her sons. She needed a safe harbor.
Her feet started moving again but not toward her apartment. When Mac’s door appeared in her line of sight, she wasn’t surprised. Her subconscious had known what she needed long before her rational mind.
He already knew what had happened, so he wouldn’t ask questions. And after that oh-so-awkward attempt at comforting her in the car, he’d avoid that land mine too. Although . . . there had been something sweet about his bumbling attempt to soothe her.
The man constantly surprised her.
When she reached Mac’s door, she squared her shoulders and gave it a good rap. It opened immediately. His short hair was wet and tufted, and there were damp patches on his olive T-shirt, as though he’d just stepped out of the shower and dressed without drying off.
“Am I interrupting?”
He scanned her face and shrugged. “I’m headed out to grab some grub.”
Something must have registered on her face because he suddenly frowned. “Or—” He stepped back, pulling the door open in a silent invitation to enter. “I can fry up some bacon and a couple of eggs.”
He turned and headed for the counter in the far corner of the room, with its hot plate and coffeepot.
“Where did you get bacon and eggs?” She followed him into the room and shut the door behind her.
Instantly the chaos inside her stilled. Her breathing eased. The tension floated away.
“The cafeteria.” He bent to open the minifridge tucked beneath the counter and removed a carton of eggs and a bundle wrapped in white butcher paper. “If you want something, just ask them.”
Amy cocked her head thoughtfully. She suspected that was his motto. If you want something, demand it.
As he unearthed a frying pan, she made her way to the couch and settled against the corner cushion. The minute she sat down, the pressure in her chest faded. Her muscles went soft and pliable. With a silent sigh, she drew her knees to her chest and relaxed against the cushion, absently watching Mac line the pan with strips of bacon.
Her stomach rumbled as the rich scent of frying bacon saturated the air. She inhaled deeply. “According to every nutritionist out there, bacon is terribly unhealthy.”
Such a pity.
He shrugged, expertly turning over the strips. “We all got to check out sometime.”
Which reminded her of Clay, who’d avoided bacon, red meat, and anything linked to health risks and early death. Clay, who’d maintained the healthiest diet and lifestyle of anyone she knew. Clay, who’d checked out at forty-two thanks to a bullet to his brain.
A breath escaped her. A quick huff as disbelief hit again.
“Ah hell.” Mac turned to face her, self-derision on his face. “I’m an ass. Forget I opened my damn mouth.”
There he went, being all sweet again.
Amy smiled up at him. “I’m okay. Really. But you better be careful. I might forget you don’t have a heart.”
He scanned her face intently and then turned back to the hot plate with a rigid cast to his shoulders.
“Believe it or not, I get what you’re going through,” he said quietly as he ripped off a couple of paper towels and covered a plate with them. “I lost a brother too.”
The news caught Amy by surprise. Lifting her head, she stared at him. “You did? How?”
“He was hit by a car.” His shoulders tensed. He stood there for a long time, staring down at the hot plate, before shaking himself. “Happened a long time ago.”
He scooped the bacon onto the plate, drained some of the grease from the pan into an empty coffee mug, and moved on to the carton of eggs.
“How many eggs can you handle?” he asked as he started cracking eggs and dropping them into the skillet.
“Three,” she said, watching him.
He regretted bringing up his brother; she could sense it. But he’d aroused her curiosity. She knew next to nothing about the man, which shouldn’t matter, yet it did.
“How old were you when he died?”
The tightness in his shoulders migrated through the rest of his body. The silence stretched on so long she didn’t think he was going to answer. When he finally did, it was in a flat, measured voice devoid of emotion.
“Ten. Davey was six.”
So young . . . so young to experience such a profound loss. Amy’s heart ached for him. “That must have been rough.”
His shoulders rolled, not quite a shrug but close enough. “I survived.”
Survived? Maybe. But he obviously hadn’t flourished.
“How did your parents handle your brother’s death? If something like that were to happen to Benji or Brendan—God.” Her arms tightened around her knees.
“It won’t, because, unlike my mother, you never put your own pleasure above your children’s welfare.” A grim, lethal fury vibrated through each word.
She froze at the raw ferocity in his voice. Obviously she’d opened an ugly can of worms and stumbled onto the root of his misogyny. Although . . . a true misogynist wouldn’t treat her the way he did. Would he?
Mac slid three surprisingly fluffy eggs onto a clean plate.
Backing away from the tension and bad memories inherent in their conversation, she turned to a new, more innocuous subject. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
He avoided her eyes as he transferred the remaining three eggs to a second plate. “I’ve been cooking since I was a kid. Bacon and eggs were a main staple.”
Amy mulled that over. What had he been like as a kid? Serious? Grim? When had the cynicism that rode him like a protective skin taken shape? Had Davey’s death hardened him into the skeptic he was today?
Information he’d not part with easily . . . if at all. Mac was about as closed off as a person could be. Maybe that was the attraction. He was such an enigma—a dynamic combination of tenderness and rage.
“Don’t forget the bacon,” Amy said.
“That’s my girl.” He shot her a forced grin and split the bacon between the two plates. After adding a fork, he handed one to Amy.
His girl.
She mulled over her surprisingly amenable reaction to that turn of phrase.
They ate in companionable silence and then washed the plates and skillet in perfect step. Once the dishes were air-drying on the towels she’d laid out, Amy retreated to the couch. She was full, plus exhaustion was settling in, but she wasn’t ready to go home. Wasn’t ready to look into Brendan’s eyes and admit she’d failed him. Twice. It had been her job to protect him from monsters—both real and imaginary—but the worst monster of all had had free access to her home, to her children.
How had she not realized what Clay had become?
“I was five when Mom married Dad. Clay was seven. He was small for his age; so was I. We both had red hair. We looked so much alike we could have been siblings. Mom said it was a sign, proof we were meant to be a family.”
Mac frowned, an uneasy expression crossing his face. As though he could sense the turbulence in her measured words and wasn’t sure how to calm the waters.
“He was a quiet kid. Eager. Always trying to please. But nothing he did was good enough for Dad. If Clay hit a double, he got, ‘Why wasn’t it a home run?’ If he got a B on a test, it was, ‘Why wasn’t it an A?’ Life for Clay was a constant stream of ‘You gotta try harder, son. You gotta give more.’ Eventually he simply stopped trying. He gave up sports. Only did what he had to in school.” She caught his flat expression and blew out an exasperated breath. “I know what you’re thinking, that I’m still making excuses for him . . . I’m not, honestly. I’m just—” She broke off.
Just what? Explaining? Justifying? Trying to pinpoint how her brother had turned into a monster without her noticing?
“Was he like that with you? Your dad?” Mac asked, leaning a hip against the counter and crossing his arms across his chest. He looked like a man who was super uncomfortable but determined not to show it.
“No. That was part of the problem, I think. I was good at sports. Good at school. Everything came easy to me. Dad would hold me up as this shining example of success while Clay always came up short.”
Maybe that’s why Clay had hated her. When had the frustration and hurt in Clay’s eyes turned to something darker? When had her brother shifted from a demoralized child to a cold-blooded monster? How could she have missed that ugly metamorphosis?
Scowling, Mac pushed himself away from the counter. “What Purcell did, what he became, was not your fault. He chose his path. He’s responsible for that choice, where it took him, and what it turned him into.”
She laughed, a tight ironic chuckle without humor. “You sound like Dad. He’s big on personal responsibility too.”
The two men had other things in common as well. Like intense loyalty to their small circle of family and friends. Like a core of impenetrable honor. Their inclination to do the right thing, no matter what it cost them. Their sheer stubbornness. No matter how often they got knocked down, they’d come back up swinging. They didn’t know how to give up.
They’d either get along great . . . or beat each other to a bloody pulp.
“Maybe your dad recognized the rot beneath Clay’s surface,” Mac said quietly. “Maybe he rode him so hard in the hopes of stomping it out.”
The insight caught Amy by surprise. Had Dad recognized what Clay had the potential to become?
“You think Dad knew what a disgusting piece of human excrement Clay would turn out to be?”
The venom in her question took them both by surprise.
Mac’s eyebrows lifted.
A flush heated her face. “That was unkind under the circumstances, wasn’t it?”
“Hell, no.” Mac stalked toward her. “What he did was unforgivable. You’d be freaking Mother Theresa if you weren’t furious.”
She looked down at the floor, fought the burn in her eyes. It was the oddest thing. His immediate support made her want to cry.
“How could I not have seen the monster he turned into? You saw it. Brendan saw it.” She wasn’t aware she’d asked the question aloud until Mac answered.
“Because you’re loyal. Family matters to you. You give those you love the benefit of the doubt. There’s nothing wrong with that.” His voice was rough, stumbling again.
Amy’s heart clenched, throbbed to the point of breaking. He was making excuses this time. Excuses for her. Excuses she didn’t deserve. “I was a fool. I should have seen it. I should have stopped him.”
“No.” He settled on the couch next to her and took her hand. “Loyalty is never foolish. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”
There was something in the roughness of his words that pulled at her. In the firm yet gentle grip of his hand. Slowly her gaze rose. Their eyes met. She saw strength in the darkness of his eyes. Protectiveness. Trustworthiness. And something more . . . elemental. Attraction. Maybe even desire.
It didn’t surprise her. She’d seen it in his eyes before, back in the tunnels and while lying on the patio beneath his hot, hard body.
Without thinking it through, she reached for his face. Cradled his hard cheeks with her palms. Pressed her lips to his. An explosive breath flooded her mouth as his opened under hers. She slipped her tongue inside his lips, delicately tasting him. Oh God, did he taste good—like bacon and coffee and raw, unabated masculinity. Like honesty and trustworthiness and unashamed hunger.
She relaxed, a hum of pleasure and relief rising. Warmth spread through her, dampening the anxiety and anger. She’d been afraid those horrible days of captivity had ruined her chances of enjoying sex again. Of seeking pleasure. Of accepting intimacy and offering it in return.
She’d worried that she’d never feel this kind of closeness with a man again.
Her mouth opened wider, her tongue tangling with his. Quicksilver chills raced up and down her arms, prickling her spine. Her arms fell to his waist, wrapped around him, and drew him closer.
Which wasn’t close enough, not for either of them.
With an urgent groan, he slid his hands around her hips and pulled her onto his lap.
Uneasiness stirred and stiffened her muscles. Memories pressed against the wall in her mind.
The warm, lazy desire chilled.
No . . . no, damn it . . . no.
Reaching for that earlier pleasure, she closed her eyes and pressed against his chest, flicked the inside of his cheek with her tongue, and took his groan into her mouth.
Those bastards weren’t going to take this from her too. She wouldn’t let them steal this pleasure or the anticipation.
He moaned, the sound a loud rumble in her ears. His hands tightened on her hips, dragging her closer. Subtly he lifted his hips and stroked her with his erection, letting her know exactly what he wanted.
The flash of a tattoo. The burning, invasive assault between her thighs. Lights spinning overhead. A harsh, mocking laugh as she gritted her teeth, locking the scream inside her throat.
The warmth vanished. The prickles faded. Her desire shifted to horror. The flashback still reeling through her mind, she shoved her palms hard against his chest.
He released her instantly, his hands falling from her hips.
Scrambling, she fled his lap.
“Amy.” His voice was thick . . . raspy. His eyes were heavy-lidded with hunger. He pressed his fists against the couch and pushed himself to his feet.
“I’m sorry.” She backed up, her muscles locked and trembling, the memories boiling over, smothering the passion. He took a cautious step toward her—like you would with a wounded wild animal. She took an even longer step back. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Hey, it’s okay. Deep breaths, deep breaths, sweetheart.”
She wondered what she looked like to have him so worried.
“I’m okay.” But the raw, rattling breath she drew belied the claim. “I better . . . I better go.” Another step back.
“Sure.” He remained absolutely still, his dark, concerned gaze locked on her face. “But just so you know, you’re safe here. Okay? Nothing will ever happen unless you want it to.”
The rough apology in his words broke her. She spun and fled. The image of his stark, frozen face followed her down the hall.