Allison Brennan - Fatal Secrets

She was still asleep, but she’d kicked off the covers and lay sprawled on her stomach, taking up over half the bed. She had just as much energy while sleeping as she did awake, but once she’d settled in this position an hour ago, she hadn’t moved.

Light crept through the half-closed blinds and cast long, bright orange shadows across her near-naked body. Dean stirred below his waist as his gaze moved up Sonia’s lean body. He wasn’t going to wake her for sex, but he hoped she woke up on her own before they had to rush to leave.

Dean noticed a tattoo on Sonia’s upper arm. It wasn’t cute or feminine, but crude and rough. He leaned forward, his chest tightening when he realized the mark wasn’t a tattoo. Three stars had been burned into her skin. He gently touched them, wishing he could take away the pain she’d suffered. Then he saw a faded scar on her shoulder blade, partly concealed by her tank top. He pushed the material aside, revealing a dark puckered double circle.

Sonia stiffened, and he realized he’d woken her.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I know they’re ugly, but there’s not much I can do about it.”

“That’s not what I was thinking.”

He rolled her over to her back and brushed her hair away from her face. “Who did that to you?”

“Which marks? The circles when I was thirteen, or the stars when I was twenty-four?” She pushed him aside, sat on the edge of the bed, and pulled off her tank top. The circles appeared more like a rounded infinity symbol, four inches long and two inches wide. Long, faint scars crisscrossed her back. Dean could scarcely breathe, rage swelling in proportions he’d never felt before.

She stood, crossed to the bathroom, and shut the door.

Dean swore under his breath. He’d never considered that Sonia had been abused as a child beyond what her father had done …

“… or the stars when I was twenty-four?”

Charlie Cammarata branded her? And he hadn’t been thrown into jail? Dean hoped he’d never meet the bastard again, because he didn’t know if he could stop his fist from connecting with Cammarata’s jaw.

He should have realized she’d be sensitive about the scars, but at the same time she’d been so matter-of-fact about her past, he didn’t think. He wouldn’t hurt Sonia for anything. He hoped she knew that.

When the shower turned on, Dean rose and considered joining Sonia. He’d show her that the marks didn’t affect how he felt about her. But thinking about what she had suffered, that her former partner had been involved in her trauma, further enraged him. He didn’t want Sonia to think his anger was at all directed toward her, nor did he want her to think that he felt sorry for her. Sonia would not tolerate pity, and he didn’t want to give her any excuse to walk out.

Instead, Dean walked down the hall to the kitchen to make coffee. A fluffy white cat improbably named Mouse rubbed his lean body against Dean’s legs and meowed loudly. He reached down to scratch Agent Elliott’s cat, who instantly began to purr. The deep rumble was surprisingly soothing and Dean began to relax.

“Maybe I should get a cat,” he mumbled.

Sonia heard Dean walk away from the bathroom door. She almost wished she’d invited him in, but the embarrassment of her overreacting to Dean touching her scars had her hesitating. She owed him an explanation. First, she’d shower.

Sonia stepped into the icy water to wake up, then turned on the hot water. As the shower warmed, she washed. She shouldn’t have been so snippy with Dean about the brand. But even though she thought she’d put what happened behind her, it still hurt to talk about it.

She turned off the water, wrapped a towel around her body, and brushed her hair back into a wet ponytail. When she stepped from the bathroom, she smelled rich coffee in the air, and the white cat meowed a good morning at her. She absently scratched him behind the ears, then pulled fresh jeans and a black ICE T-shirt from her overnight bag. She didn’t have much variety in her work attire, but she was always comfortable.

She stepped from the bedroom into the main living area. Dean sat at the small table drinking black coffee and reading the newspaper. He wore nothing but boxers and looked like a Greek god, muscles clearly defined even at rest.

He glanced up when she walked in and smiled sheepishly. “I’m usually a better cook, but I haven’t had time to stock up.” He gestured to a box of cereal and milk on the table. He was eating an apple. “I have more of these, plus bananas, oranges, strawberries, melon.”

“Sounds like heaven to me.” She sat down after pouring herself a cup of coffee, added a generous amount of milk to the cup, and sipped. A man who cooks, even if it was just putting out cereal and fruit, was a keeper in her book. She had apples at home. They were squishy and in the bottom of the refrigerator drawer, which looked none too clean.

“I’m sorry,” they said simultaneously.

Dean said, “You don’t have to talk about it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s just … I put it behind me. I probably didn’t deal with it well, didn’t want to think about it after the internal affairs investigation and everything that happened ten years ago. I never talk about it. I told Riley after it happened, and he’s the only one who knows. Other than Kane, of course.”

“Kane,” Dean said flatly.

Did he sound jealous?

“Kane saved my life. He’s like a brother to me.”

She paused, wondering what to say and how to say it.

“Sonia.” Dean took her hand. She looked at him, saw the respect in his eyes. No pity, not anger. Just raw affection and honesty. Dean was rock solid. “You don’t owe me an explanation. But I want you to know that nothing you say to me will affect how I think of you.”

Her chin quivered, and she swallowed and forced herself to toughen up.

“I should start from the beginning, but it’s a long story.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Sonia would never forget the night the men came to the village.

“My father was a missionary who traveled from village to village throughout Central and South America teaching the people how to grow crops, how to preserve food. I didn’t see him much until my mother died and he returned to Argentina. I was four. He took me with him on his missions, and for nine years we lived in more villages than I can remember. We stayed four to six weeks before moving on. I didn’t remember anything from my early childhood, this was the only life I knew. And I liked helping people. I became good at figuring out different languages and dialects. I learned about farming and basic medicine.

“My father was cold. From my earliest memories, he never hugged me or talked to me.”

Dean said, “He didn’t talk to you?”

She explained. “He didn’t have a conversation with me. You know, How was your day? Did you meet anyone today? It was all work. Translate for me. Get out to the field and show them how to pull the vegetables without destroying them . I did everything he asked, hoping to find favor-hoping he’d love me. He left for weeks at a time. Left me wherever we were. He told me he had business back in Argentina and he would come back for me. Once he left me in a village for ten months. I thought he was dead. I worked three times as hard as anyone because they didn’t like me. I was too white, too urban, too … I don’t know.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten. That time. I began to wish he’d never come back, then I’d feel so guilty that I didn’t like my own father. I thought he was a good man-someone who helped others-but he hated me. I didn’t acknowledge it then, maybe I didn’t even understand. I thought he blamed me for my mother’s death. He leaves for a mission and six months later returns and she’s dead.”