Surrender (6 page)

Chapter
Nine

D
are wan
ted to see if she could fight. He wanted to see her fight. But instead Grace fisted her hand against her thigh and stared up at him with those dark eyes that saw right through him. His groin stirred. Again.

Her dress had dried, but it still molded to her figure well. He wanted to stare even though he shouldn’t, and despite all the rules of civility, he did.

Because he’d never learned to be civilized. Didn’t see a reason to start now.

She blinked, and then she proceeded to look him up and down in the same manner he’d done to her.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or strip or both. He stuck his hand out and waited. Finally her cool palm slid against his warm one, and the electric jolt seemed to hit both of them at once like a lightning strike—and it threatened to do far more damage than what Mother Nature promised.

At least she felt it too. He wondered if she’d deny it. “I’m Dare.”

“Grace,” she said, and with a great effort he took his hand from hers, but not before her fingertips brushed the scars. “But you already knew that.”

“Yes.” He turned from her to pull himself together, wished Adele hadn’t visited him, wished he was still alone in the woods.

You and your nightmares. You and your ghosts.

Hell, they were loyal. They’d follow him anywhere.

She was willing to die before she’d go back. He’d known that from the second he took her, but he had to push her to confirm it.

He had to prove it to himself to decide how far he would go. That was one reason he didn’t want Avery close by. She didn’t deserve to see this shit. But she also didn’t need to be kept in the dark. Couldn’t be.

He handed Grace a bottle of water from the nearby counter, pressed it into her hand after he’d taken the top off. She moved her arms gingerly—he knew they’d ache.

Dare had been trained to notice even the smallest details, nuances. It made him a good lover and a better SEAL. It would serve him well as a merc.

He hadn’t thought of himself as a merc until Grace had called him one, but he couldn’t deny it. Instead, he catalogued what he saw.

She had a small, crescent-shaped scar on her inner wrist, as if she’d been cut. Glass or metal, and he’d bet it wasn’t self-inflicted.

Her fingernails weren’t long, but they were rounded at the tips, obviously well tended and strong. Her hands looked like an artist’s hands—capable, used to work.

The garden at her house would’ve taken quite a lot of upkeep, and it was obviously well loved.

What would it be like to love something so much, to put that much work into it daily, only to know it would die slowly, to watch it wither, all the while understanding it might not come back. And even if it did, it might never be the same—strong, healthy, vibrant—instead, a shadow of its former self.

But there was always the promise that it would.

She was as lush as the garden. She radiated light and hope. She was the total opposite of him, and she’d never forgive him for what he was about to do to her.

Or maybe she would and he shouldn’t care either way, but damn it all to hell, he did.

She watched him the entire time she drank, even as he avoided her gaze, hating the way her wrists showed the marks of his bindings.

He was tired of the guilt. One job, one final job, and then he was really and truly burying Section 8 forever. “Do you know names of people Powell killed?”

She blinked, played with the half-empty bottle for a moment before telling him, “My mother, for one. And you’ve already told me he killed your father.”

“Do you know who my father was?”

“Darius.”

He took a step back like she’d physically pushed him. “You knew him?”

“Yes—I knew him and Adele. I knew you were coming for me—I just didn’t know exactly when.”

“If you knew I was coming, why didn’t you run?”

“Where would I go? I’m tired of running. I was finally happy here.”

“You have no survival instinct,” he told her, and no, he wouldn’t feel guilty about this. He was so tired of that, and it was heavy and he’d burdened himself with it for so long, he was pretty sure he’d never see himself clear of it.

“What if you’re my survival instinct?” she asked.

“Don’t you do that—don’t you make me that.”

She smiled a little, as if she knew that thought was more frightening for him than facing down the barrel of a Sig. “Your father used to fish down by the docks.”

“Don’t,” he warned through clenched teeth.

“He’s a good cook too. Adele couldn’t cook at all. She always joked that she could burn—”

“Water,” he finished. Pictured Adele laughing as she said it. “She always said her talents lay in other areas.”

“She was so lethal,” Grace whispered now. “Lethal, and still so good. I wasn’t sure that combination was possible.”

She trailed off and Dare was done asking questions for the moment. Questions were never the right way to do something. There were too many variables in the answers.

But she wasn’t done sharing.

“If you look in the closet in the last bedroom, you’ll find some record books with my handwriting,” she told him. “I know there are four bedrooms here. A basement with enough food to last for several months—and the bathrooms are down the hall—third door on the right and forth on the left, respectively. The room Darius stayed in had a picture of a guitar over the bed and a red quilt.”

There was no way she could know that. “You really lived here?”

“For a while, yes.”

“As a hostage?”

“At first, Darius and Adele treated me like one,” she agreed. “And then things changed.”

Why wouldn’t his father have told him about this, about whether or not he could trust her? Darius had to have known this would come into play at some point. Had to have known how precarious his son’s future was.

Darius had always been a selfish bastard, but nothing proved it more than this. Dare went to the closet and pulled out a few books, brought them to the kitchen table and found she’d written some key terms on a piece of paper.

He was no expert, but this wasn’t a hoax—the writing matched. “You worked S8’s books.”

She nodded. “I traveled with them. They passed intel through me.”

“You knew what they did?”

“I knew they weren’t bankers.” A wry smile twisted her lips. “They got me away from Rip in the first place. I left when I was eighteen and I’ve never looked back.”

“Had you tried to escape before that?”

She shrugged. Looked away. Didn’t want to go there, and yeah, he got that.

When she spoke, it wasn’t a direct answer to his question. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity when your father came along.”

“How did you pull it off?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Got into a caterer’s trunk before they boarded the helicopter. Rip keeps the island on lockdown—very few people are permitted to stay longer than a night. For his parties, guests were flown in.”

“No private chefs?”

“One. He’s always on premises. If he needs help, he calls the same catering company that’s been vetted by security.”

“And they had no idea you were on board?”

Grace bit out the next words before she could stop herself. “Of course they knew. Darius sent them. It was all part of their plan. They wanted to use me at first, the way you want to.”

Recalling those early days, when she’d been nothing but a Section 8 pawn, the same way she’d been Rip’s pawn all those years, made Grace tense up. But it hadn’t taken Darius and Adele long before they’d stopped speaking to her like she was a prisoner.

She’d assumed what went a long way toward softening them was seeing the unhealed stripes from the whip on her back and arms. Adele had to help her medicate the newest ones after they’d gotten infected during her first weeks at the house.

Even after she trusted them and they trusted her—and she had no doubt they truly did—she never admitted to them that she had a gift of precognition. Broken or not, that might make anyone rethink their decision not to use her.

The psychic skills that lay dormant for years had never blossomed here, as she’d feared they might. She was more than grateful they remained silent, because that gift reminded her of her past, her mother . . . she refused to be a shell of her former self, another one of Rip’s victims.

So why had she let Dare take her so easily? She’d recognized him, yes, but his intent hadn’t been pure, like his father’s had. She’d felt his arms around her like strong bonds of protection. He was conflicted . . . but he was the better choice for what was coming.

“Are you sure . . . about Darius?”

“Are you?” he asked, his voice a fierce rasp. “Did you have something to do with his death?”

“No.” Darius had seemed indestructible. She couldn’t believe he was gone. And if he was, by Rip’s hand, that was her fault, another person to add to the list that made her cringe with guilt.

“So S8 rescues you and then you just happen to stay with them . . . and then Rip just happens to pick them off, one by one.”

“You can’t think I had anything to do with it.”

“I don’t know what to think!” he roared. “You’re his daughter. You could be working for him—now and then. It’s the perfect plan. Especially because Darius is the one who pointed me in your direction.”

“Maybe to save me, not use me. Maybe I’m in as much damned danger as you are, if not more.”

“Haven’t seen Rip try to kill you recently,” Dare told her. He spread his hands, palms up, and showed her the scars on both of them. They’d driven spikes through his hands. There were exit wounds on the backs of his hands when he turned them over. “It was just for show. Never would’ve hung—my skin and muscle would’ve ripped like paper trying to hold my weight.”

“He’s not me,” she whispered. “I’m not responsible for what he’s done. I can’t be.”

But in her heart, she knew she always would be, no matter how vigorous her protest, no matter how clear her conscience should be. Because it wasn’t, no matter how much she’d tried to repent for crimes she’d never committed, even though the only thing she was truly guilty of was not killing Rip when she’d had the chance.

“I’m sorry,” she
said now. “I can’t say anything else.”

“You can. You will. I’ve got nothing but time.”

This time, there might really be no way out.

* * *

They both
heard the noise at the same time—a truck, coming through the bayou at top speed, despite the rain. It was someone who knew the area well.

Dare took her by the biceps and brought her over to a heavy pipe that ran from floor to ceiling in the corner. He handcuffed her wrists around the pipe and then pushed a chair under her so she could sit.

Grace’s phone didn’t have GPS—he’d checked that already. “Who else knows about this place?” he demanded.

She didn’t answer, pressed her lips together until he said, “If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill them on sight.”

“No, please . . . it’s just my friend Marnie. She knows if she can’t find me at home that sometimes I come here and sit on the porch.”

He was out the door in seconds, flicking the lights off as he went, just in time for the truck to come barreling around the corner. He ducked along the side of the porch and crouched, weapon drawn.

The truck slowed, the passenger’s side window came down and he saw a woman with long hair peering out into the porch.

“Grace, are you there?” she called, and he held his damned breath, hoping Grace wouldn’t be stupid enough to answer. The last thing he needed was two female hostages; he wasn’t very effective at keeping even one controlled.

Granted, he’d gotten more out of her when he didn’t have her tied like a wild hog, but still . . .

“Grace!” the woman called loudly. Beeped a few times and was met with silence beyond the pattering rain. She shut the window and drove away slowly. He had no idea if she’d be back. No idea if he could trust Grace to lie to her on the phone so she wouldn’t return.

He’d have to convince Grace it would be in her friend’s best interest for her to lie.

Chapter Ten

E
arl
ier that eve
ning, Grace had been fighting for a woman’s life. Now she was supposed to be fighting for her own, and she realized she’d gotten the familiar feelings of warning all mixed up.

This was what was coming down the pike for her. She’d become so focused on another woman’s safety that she’d compromised her own.

Marnie. Her friend. Her safety net. Marnie, who understood when Grace took foolish risks, because she did the same thing. They were women who’d danced around violence their entire lives. They knew no other way, and they probably never would.

She and Marnie always expected the harshness of the violence because of their backgrounds and this job they did, but they were still somehow always surprised by it.

No matter how prepared they were, it was never enough.

Carmen waited for them in the small courtyard as they’d asked—staying inside her apartment wouldn’t allow her to run or scream if Marcus arrived. And she’d been spotted by him by the time Marnie and Grace arrived. Marcus was a repeat offender—a violent rapist and abuser—and he had Carmen pinned under him, a hand across her throat, the other between her legs.

He had nothing to lose. Carmen—and Grace and Marnie—had everything to.

Beside her, Marnie retched and Grace fought back a scream. Instead, she steadily aimed the gun at the side of Marcus’s head, where it wouldn’t affect Carmen at all.

“You get off her,” she told him, “or I’ll kill you.”

Maybe she should kill him anyway, do a little vigilante justice, because this man would keep finding Carmen until he killed her. He’d never be put away long enough for her to ever get safe, let alone feel that way.

Grace knew all too well how that felt. The need for vengeance ran deep and hot in her blood, a need retriggered when she went on these calls or met with a victim or woke from one of her nightmares.

She was as screwed up as these women, which was why they trusted her so much.

Marcus wasn’t moving. Instead, he shifted, which caused her to lose her position with the gun as he goddamned spat at her. She aimed quickly at his leg and let off a shot. The night was heavy, thick with violence, and the force of her shot barely shattered it, swam through the heavy murk of darkness and despair and hit where she’d aimed. When he stared between her and the tree next to him, he appeared stunned, and it gave Carmen time enough to bring her palm up into his nose and slam him backwards. His bone crunched, blood spattered and Carmen was free and running, Marnie going after her.

Which left Grace alone with Marcus, and he was up and coming for her fast. Didn’t seem to care that the gun was between them. And she would not die tonight.

“I’ll take care of you once and for all, bitch!” he yelled and continued onward like a freight train. She braced herself to shoot and then realized that Marnie had done it for her, taking Marcus down with a shot to his calf.

“Get to the van!” Marnie called, and Grace ran, Carmen now behind her. At some point, Carmen must’ve run back to the apartment to grab her daughter and a bag she’d packed.

Marnie got behind the wheel, and in seconds, they were flying down the road.

Grace hadn’t heard any sirens, which wasn’t unusual for this area. None of the neighbors liked or trusted the police enough to call them, even when they were in serious danger.

Grace had escaped from hell, and now she consistently put herself in the line of fire of her own free will in order to make sure no woman or child suffered for longer than they had to. Tonight, Carmen had gotten out of her apartment with her most precious possession, her five-year-old daughter, a small tote and a little money and into a van with a woman she’d never met who would drive her to salvation.

Carmen would eventually settle somewhere. Grace would never know where, because it was safer for all of them that way, but she liked to imagine that all those women and children had a great life, that the women remarried and the kids grew up happy and healthy and unaffected by anything they’d seen in their early years.

She knew, according to the statistics Marnie told her, that many of the women ended up with another abusive partner, because that was all they knew.

Now Grace held her breath as she heard Marnie calling to her, waited through the deafening silence until the old truck drove away and exhaled when no shots followed. Marnie was safe and Grace would do anything to keep her that way.

And then Dare was slamming back in the house, using a candle low on the table so the light wouldn’t be seen from the street, especially when he pulled down the blackout shade.

He obviously knew this place as well as she did.

“Where were you tonight?” he demanded now.

“Right where you found me.” She paused. “Thank you for not shooting my friend.”

With that, he unlocked the cuffs and held her phone out to her. “Marnie keeps calling and texting. She wants to know if you’re okay—if you’re safe. Who’s after you?”

“No one you’d know.”

“You’d be surprised who I know,” he told her, his voice edging toward dangerously low. It sent a wave of pure panic through her nervous system. She’d been through too much tonight all ready. Her body hadn’t come down from the earlier scuffle with a madman, and now she was confronted by her past, ready to rise up and drag her all the way back in with sharp claws and a biting sting that she’d never get used to.

“I used to do dangerous things. Take bad risks after Darius and Adele rescued me, because I could. They didn’t try to stop me, like they knew it had to work its
elf out of me, like a fever.” The weight of the admission still hung on her, though Dare didn’t seem to be judging her. But he’d been trained well—who knew what lay behind his poker face?

“I still do them,” he muttered. His hair dropped over his bare shoulders, chest glistened, jeans stuck to his hard lower body, molded there. He’d been barefoot when he’d run out with the gun.

“Me too,” she whispered, talking back the recent lie. He seemed to approve, clicked the safety, but he held on to the gun. He still had that predatory look in his eyes. He was Darius’s son, but he looked nothing like him.

She stared around the old cabin where she’d once been permitted to roam freely. Her wrists ached, but she ignored the pain in favor of continuing to study the man who could hold her fate in his hands. Wondered how much to reveal.

She and Darius had talked about Dare a bit, but Darius had always said he’d never told his son what he had to do, that the boy had to follow his own conscience in order to be any kind of good man.

She believed Dare was a good man . . . or else there was some kind of hoodoo magic he was dabbling in, because her body wanted to surrender to him, not fight him.

The jolt of pleasure at that thought threw her off more than any pain she’d ever had. It was an odd sensation of low-level electricity rumbling through her, making it hard to concentrate.

The only benefit was that Dare seemed to be having the same trouble. As he moved closer, she knew she should move away, but his gaze was intense, even under the soft light.

She’d been living hard, playing harder, skirting a dangerous line between brave and simply stupid; she’d done all of it because S8 gave her the opportunity to do so.

She’d never seen any other kind of life for herself. She lived from day to day; it had been the only way she’d survived for a long time. She hadn’t come across a reason to change any of it in all these years.

Except now she had the reason, the sign, in the form of a ruggedly handsome man who towered over her. She knew that he’d demand more from her—how she would handle the request was up to her.

Or was it? Dare’s gaze was too sharp, his thoughts too focused. She wouldn’t be surprised if he was able to read minds as well. He appeared that capable.

His fingers traced the bruises on her forearm, which were well above the marks left where he’d bound her earlier. There was no mistaking that someone had grabbed her hard—and he’d know it wasn’t him.

“Is someone abusing you? A boyfriend?” he asked, and she nearly laughed at the idea of her being attached to any one man long enough to call him boyfriend.

“No, not me.” Not ever.

“You need to start explaining the bruises and Marnie.”

“That isn’t why you brought me here,” she said. He acknowledged that with a nod. “Then let’s move past it.”

“I can’t stomach someone hurting a woman.”

“I deserved it,” she told him. “He was pissed that I took away his punching bag. I told him I hoped he’d rot in hell and then I kicked him in the balls. He grabbed me and I broke his nose.”

The corner of Dare’s mouth quirked up a little as if he approved, but his voice was dead serious when he said, “No woman ever deserves to be hit.”

“Obviously not everyone feels the same way.”

He stared at her for a long moment, and she neutralized her expression and stared back at him.

He was such a beautifully handsome man. Dark, mysterious. Haunted. A tug in her womb made her want to edge toward him.

He would kiss her if she got closer—she was sure of it. What would it solve? Nothing. But maybe kisses weren’t supposed to solve anything—maybe they were supposed to simply be.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her roughly, like it hurt him to say so.

“But you’re not letting me go.”

“I can’t, Grace. Not yet. I have a lot more things to figure out. For now, let’s just stick with Marnie—who is she, exactly?”

“My employer,” she admitted.

“Is she the last person you were in contact with?”

“We spoke this afternoon.”

“Where do you work?”

“Out of my house. Sometimes out of hers if necessary. Most of it’s done by phone, with a few face-to-face meetings.”

“What kind of work is it?”

She hesitated because she’d gotten in too deep. With him, with Marnie, with all of it. She’d been trying to dig herself out since she was eighteen.

“What kind of work?” he repeated, but he wasn’t angry.

“I help Marnie—and she helps women who’ve been abused.”

He nodded, like that confirmed what he’d thought, even as he swore under his breath. “So you’re in contact with a lot of anonymous people.”

“Marnie’s very careful about that where I’m concerned.”

“Because she knows who you are?”

“I never told her anything about that, but I’ve been working with her since Adele recommended me for the job,” Grace said coolly; she knew that would shut him up.

And it did, for a minute, until he said, “Call Marnie and tell her you’re okay. Not to worry.”

“Will I be?” she asked, but he didn’t answer. She called anyway, and he leaned over and put the phone on speaker so he could hear both ends of the conversation. “Marnie, it’s me.”

Marnie’s voice rang through the phone, the concern and relief evident in her tone. “Grace, where are you? I’ve been calling—stopped by the old place and yours. You can’t do that to me.”

“I’m sorry—I’m okay. I went for a walk behind the house and waited the rain out. I didn’t mean to worry you.” She could be a good liar when she needed to be, and she was letting Dare see that. Putting out a trust that maybe she shouldn’t. “Look, I’ll call you later and check in.”

“Okay—just wanted to let you know that Carmen’s safe and sound.”

“Great.” She hung up and handed Dare back the phone. He put it in his pocket and watched her again. “Carmen’s the woman I helped tonight. Her boyfriend’s the one who tried to stop me. Marnie and I work to get these women out of their situations and into safe houses, usually out of state. The police can issue restraining orders, but no one follows them. There’s no deterrent.” She’d become a warrior for her cause, fierce and determined—invincible where other women were concerned.

As Dare ran a hand through his hair, she went to grab the blanket that had fallen to the ground earlier and wrapped it around herself.

“The man who gave you those bruises—he won’t go down easily,” he said finally.

“Probably not,” she agreed.

“I’m sure Adele didn’t want you working this end of Marnie’s business.”

She closed her eyes briefly and thought about the first time she’d left the house to search for one of Marnie’s women.

She’d been alone in this house when she’d gotten the call.

“Kim, what’s wrong?”

“Please, you have to come help me,” Kim whispered, the frantic note in her voice impossible to ignore. “He’s here.”

Grace went cold. “Have you called Marnie?”

“She’s not answering. This is the emergency number she gave me.”

Marnie always answered—the woman was a goddess when it came to what she referred to as her calling. Saving women who’d been abused, raped or otherwise harmed was the only thing that had gotten her past the point of feeling like a victim. She’d helped Grace so much when Grace first arrived in New Orleans.

Adele had been the one who’d put the two of them in touch. She’d known, somehow, what Grace had gone through, although Grace had never told anyone about it. Because if she told, it meant it had really happened and she’d have to deal with it.

Adele left Marnie’s name and number for Grace one morning.

“What’s this for?” Grace asked.

“She runs a hotline out of her house—she needs some help. I think it’ll be good for you.” Adele sipped her coffee and turned away after saying it; it hadn’t been simply a suggestion.

“But I’m already helping you and Darius.”

“You still will. But you need to be busier. Good for the soul,” Adele said.

Marnie ran far more than a hotline from her bayou house, hidden away from the road and most civilization with thick brush and a clever drive that seemed to point away from it. It was the perfect hideaway for Marnie herself—and once Grace realized the only way to truly make things better for herself was to help others, she did more than simply devote her life to it. She threw herself headfirst into it, ate and slept the women and children she helped.

Sometimes, it was simply a matter of a phone call and a referral to a rape crisis counselor or a police officer or two she trusted. Other times, it was far more complicated and skirted the law.