Derek shows Liam a piece of paper. Liam gives the document a slow inspection, his expression unreadable. Abruptly, he stands up. “Let’s go upstairs and talk, Amy.”
My world spins and I’m on my feet in an instant, holding onto the table for stability. “He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s dead because of me in some way.”
Liam's expression is still as unreadable as a blank page, his reply non-existent and I can’t take his silence, demanding, “Just tell me. Is Luke dead?”
He gives a sharp nod. “He’s dead.”
“When and how?”
“Six months after your house fire he was killed in a car accident.”
“We both know it wasn’t an accident.” My voice trembles on the words, the audience of men I didn’t want in the first place is suffocating. I cut around the table and rush through the kitchen, darting to the foyer stairs and upward in a charge toward the bedroom. Darkness greets me at the top level and I pause, a chill slithering down my spine.
Clutching the railing, I glance down the dark, windowless tunnel of a hallway that makes it look like nighttime, leading to parts of the house that I haven’t explored but wish I had. The unknown is not my friend. It’s proven that to me over and over with the force of a sharp whip. I glance over my shoulder and will my normally overwhelming man to appear. My man. I think of Liam as my man. I shake off the complicated ball of emotions that holds me captive a moment and refocus my attention forward, searching for the light switch I don’t find. Giving up, I dart to my right and into the dark bedroom, relieved as the massive windows and late afternoon sun cast the room in a warm glow.
Heart racing, I lean against the wall, almost expecting some stranger to come flying through the doorway in my wake. I shove fingers through my hair. I’m being paranoid, I tell myself. The house is safe. It’s Luke who is not. Luke, who, like everyone who steps inside my path, is gone. He’s dead and it doesn’t matter I haven’t talked to him for years or that he pretty much wasn’t a nice person. He was young and never got the chance to become more and I can’t help but feel responsible. At the time, hiding from danger had seemed the smart thing to do. Now though, with the PI and Luke dead, and who knows who else, and while I have no idea how I would have fought this battle at the young age of eighteen with no resources, at least it would have been my life, not theirs, on the line.
My hand settles on my belly, on the life I am responsible for, and, as much as I am certain that charging back to Texas would trigger my memories, returning no longer seems like an option. I could end up dead and my unborn child with me. Liam could end up dead with me. Footsteps sound on the stairs, and I am shocked to be completely certain it’s Liam despite the jumpiness of my nerves. That is how completely I am linked to this man. In all his dominating good and bad, he matters to me. He is my heart.
“Liam,” I whisper as he enters the room, stepping toward him.
Almost instantly, his hands settle at my waist, the impact of his touch slamming into me far harder than the wall that ends up at my back. It is frightening how easily I could let him get off with nothing more than his silent apology in the kitchen, when his earlier behavior is too big to just let slide. “We have to talk, Liam.”
“I was a complete asshole,” he replies, cutting right to the point. “I know. But after everything you learned in that kitchen the past hour, you have to see that Texas is a death wish.”
I blanch. “Are you seriously justifying being an asshole?” So much for the silent kitchen apology after all.
“I’m not apologizing at all. I’m telling you how it is. You will not go get yourself and my baby killed.”
“Your baby? Our baby. Our baby, Liam. Just like “we” and “together” does not equal you treating me like property. You can call me yours when you learn the difference.”
He shackles my legs, trapping my lower body with his, then shoves my hands over my head, his eyes blazing. “You’re mine. No matter what name you use or where you run, you are mine.”
His words whip through me, far sharper than the unknowns of my life, and they affect me, he affects me on every possible level. “I thought you weren’t going there, Liam? I thought you said this wasn’t what I needed right now.”
“Even your neighbor is dead, baby. That opened my eyes. You’re mine and that to me means to protect” —he slides his hand around my backside and molds my hips to his— “and make you scream my name as often and in as many creative ways as I can.”
My thighs all but vibrate with his words. “Saying I’m yours doesn’t make it so.”
“No?” he challenges, his lips, his breath, teasing my cheek and mouth, his hand brushing over my chest, my nipple, and settling at the knot at my waist that he unties. “Are you sure about that?”
“Yes,” I manage, despite the way his fingers find the skin beneath my shirt, teasing the skin there, reminding me I am braless, exposed.
His eyes glint with a cool arrogance that both makes me want to kick him and lick him before he says, “I’m not convinced,” and proceeds to caress a path up my ribcage to my breasts.
I dig my fingers into his shoulders, barely fighting a moan of pure submission when his fingers find my nipples and tease, then tug, the touch as rough and erotic as his words when he’d declared me his.
He leans closer, the wicked male scent of him teasing my nostrils, his sensual mouth brushing my ear, teeth teasing the delicate lobe. “I told you once you weren’t alone and vowed to make sure you didn’t forget that. Now, I’ll rephrase. You aren’t alone and you’re mine. If you don’t know those things, I haven’t been clear enough but I will. Right here. Right now.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to think of a reply, but his lips, those damn, perfect lips of his, distract me, caressing my neck, sending waves of sensation through me and leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake. They find my mouth, brush it with a featherlight touch that has me balling my fingers in his shirt as he whispers, “Mine,” and then drags the t-shirt I’m wearing upward. I let him pull it over my head and toss it away before I can process what is even happening.
His hands go back to mine and he shackles my wrists, shoving them against the wall above me. “Leave them there until I tell you that you can move them.”
“Why would I do that?” I ask, all too aware that I am bare above the waist, my breasts thrust in the air, and it is both daunting and arousing to know that I am exposed in ways I think he understands more than I do.
His expression is dark, his tone absolute. “It’s your choice. It’s always your choice.”
“You said we were doing everything your way. That’s not a choice.”
“I said that I won’t let you get yourself killed. You’re right. That isn’t a choice.” He shocks me by abruptly turning me to face the wall, forcing me to hold my hands braced on the solid surface to support myself. Almost instantly he shoves my pants down, and I gasp with the shock of the cool air on my backside, then nearly sigh at the blessed relief it delivers to my heated skin. He slides my sweats down my hips and goes with them, squatting at my feet, and I don’t even try to stop him from removing my tennis shoes. And when the job is done, when I have I let him strip me bare, leaving him completely dressed, in control, he pushes to his feet again and he arches around me, flattening his hands over mine and moving them back where he’d wanted them before. Over my head and I have no option but to keep them there or crash into the wall. I want to crash into him. There is no denying it, and while there are many things I want to escape, he is not one of them.