Rest? The animal within her reared its ugly head. I don’t want to rest.
She tried to fight the creature but didn’t know how. Just like that—click, click, boom—she was out of the tattoo chair. She snarled at Declan, her gums tingling. The wolf roared in her skull, the sound horrific and foreign. She brought her hands to her temples and pressed the fatty part of her palms to her face. Everything felt and looked strange, coated in that horrific shade of red. She made out Declan’s face, saw that he’d shifted from soothing to dominant.
“Stop it,” he ordered, facing her without fear. “I know you can hear me, Rachel. You control the wolf. She doesn’t control you. Put her in her place.”
Put her in her place how?
She felt the winding under her skin, could sense the animal gaining control. Reaching out, she whispered hoarsely, “Help me.”
Although he took her hand, he didn’t grant her the assistance she needed. “Only you can do that. Force her back. You can do this.”
The rage increased. The animal’s fear and needs merged together. It wanted to claim its mate before it was too late, to rise to control and take over. It didn’t want to be denied by its human counterpart.
“Stop. Right now,” Declan snarled.
Calm settled over her, Declan’s order like a comforting balm. She faced the animal that threatened to control her, screaming at it to back the fuck off. It seemed to last forever—a standoff without an end in sight. Her body trembled, her heart thundering in her chest. Then she felt the shift, the slight hesitation of the wolf. She persisted, ordering it to retreat. Sweat beaded her brow, her legs quaking as they held her weight.
Go away, she ordered. Get the hell out of my mind.
The animal retreated, taking small steps back. With each one Rachel took control, forcing the beast into a cage built in her mind. As soon as it entered—leaving her awash in her own thoughts—her legs buckled. Declan rushed toward her but he wasn’t fast enough. She cried out when her knees hit the ground, hearing a small crack.
“Motherfucker,” he snarled, pulling her against him.
She wanted to wrap her arms around his neck but she couldn’t lift them. Instead she sagged, her limbs totally useless. He swept her into his arms, cocooning her in his scent. She felt the darkness rising up to consume her and tried to fight it. The last time she’d gone under she’d woken to a new reality. She couldn’t face that again.
Don’t close your eyes. Keep them open.
Even as she thought it she felt her lashes flutter over her cheeks.
“I’ve got you,” Declan whispered, keeping her close. “Don’t be afraid.”
Unfortunately terror was the last thing that she felt before she surrendered, the horrible feeling permeating her soul. As she was swept into the tide of dreams she entered nightmares, each one more horrific than the next.
Of her father’s death.
Of her mother’s destruction.
Of the life she’d been given as a consequence.
Unable to do anything else, she accepted the inevitable. As always her desperation made things easy. It was a blessing in disguise, the one thing that gave her some measure of relief. That was the lesson she’d learned, having had it hammered into her head since youth. When you couldn’t fight it was best to give up, make yourself small and hope for a sliver of compassion.
In a blink, madness consumed her.
Suffocating pain, bringing her under.
She welcomed the dark tides, letting them do as they wished. She thought she heard Declan speaking softly to her but she couldn’t be certain. A wolf howled. The sound echoed through her head, searing into her soul. Bit by bit she sank into oblivion, lost to all reason.
A mouth skimmed over her temple.
Arms pulled her close.
She tried to hold on to the feelings, wanting to lose herself in them.
Before she could gain a hold blackness swirled, making the world dark.
Then there was nothing.
Chapter Seven
Did he take them all? What would Rachel need?
Declan studied the contents of the drawer, trying to decide what to do.
She hadn’t woken since she’d passed out in his arms at the shop. He didn’t want to bother her, so he’d entered her home to retrieve her things. Her clothes weren’t difficult to sort. He’d left her work things in the drawers and collected her stain-free jeans and shirts. But when it was time to get her panties and bras he was at a loss.
Maybe I should buy her new things. His mood lifted. The idea appealed to him. If I took her shopping I could choose everything that touches her body.
Deciding that would be best, he snatched a handful of undergarments and stuffed them into the duffel he’d brought into the house. Done and ready to go, he lifted his head and gazed at his surroundings, scowling. Rachel kept things clean but the house was falling to pieces. The ceiling leaked in several places, the walls barely covered with peeling wallpaper. Her furniture was obviously secondhand, the dresser and nightstand barely holding together. As a werewolf he didn’t get cold but he did notice the temperature didn’t change when he entered the residence.
He studied Rachel’s bed, taking in the thick but threadbare quilts over the top.
His mate had suffered.
Thinking of her living like this made him see red. She deserved to live in a home that was always warm and safe, surrounded by the pretty things women liked. If he’d known how bad things were he’d have stepped in and claimed her sooner. One thing was certain. She’d never live like this again. He’d see to that. But even if he cared for her would she ever share her past with him? Would she open the door to her emotions and let him in?
Pushing the thoughts aside, he shook his head and strode from the room. She had a new home and he’d make sure she was provided for. He might not be a millionaire but he’d saved more than enough money to support her. She’d never suffer again. She sure as fuck wouldn’t have to worry about leaky ceilings, shoddy wallpaper and stinky fucking carpet.
When he made it to the living room, he paused.
A cushion on the couch remained torn, pieces of foam on the ground. Dark brown smears stained the carpets, the evidence of Rachel’s attack vividly clear. A growl traveled to his throat, his fingers going tight around the handles of the duffel.
Rachel could have died.
He could have lost her before he ever knew her.
Don’t go there. Walk out the door and never look back.
Determined to heed his own warning, he started for the door. He stopped short, freezing when he saw the woman standing in the hallway. She halted her progress, taking him in.
It didn’t take long for Declan to recognize who she was.
Her nose, hair color and eyes reminded him of Rachel but this woman was far older. Years of hard living had obviously taken their toll. She’d pulled her strawberry blonde hair into a low ponytail, the strands lackluster and stringy. Her eyes, unlike Rachel’s, were dull and lifeless. As if that wasn’t bad enough, her clothing looked dirty and slept in. The oversized shirt covering her body was wrinkled, her jeans worn at the knees and stained.
“Who the hell are you?” The woman’s words were slurred and uneven.
“I’m Declan. And you are?”
“Cindy Gentry. Rachel’s mother.” Staring him up and down, she asked, “What are you doing here? Where’s Rach?”
“She’s with friends.” Even across the distance he could smell the booze wafting from her. The female was drinking herself to an early grave. He hiked the duffel up, resting the back of his hand on his shoulder. “I came to get her a few things.”