Allison Brennan - The Prey

He would protect her life. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Because if it weren’t for her and his damn hormones and his stupid fight with Michael, his brother would still be alive. He’d accused Michael of letting his emotions cloud his judgment, but he had done exactly the same thing. Not only did he think he was the only one who could get Rowan to spill the truth, he had wanted not only her honesty, but her body.

Rowan watched John leave and stifled a cry. She brought her hands to her mouth in a vain attempt to trap the sound. She didn’t know how she was going to get through the day, but she needed to get a grip on herself.

How could she forgive herself? How could John forgive her?

She went up to her bedroom and splashed water on her face. She stared at the ghostlike reflection in the mirror. Was that her? Her pale blue eyes were grayer than usual, dull and lifeless. Her skin had a sallow appearance, her hair was stringy, her breath awful. She brushed her teeth twice, washed her face with soap, and brushed her hair before pulling it back.

She really didn’t want to run, but somehow it seemed important to hold up in front of John. If she broke down, he would have one more thing to worry about. She didn’t want him to be concerned about her. She was a big girl; she’d been living with pain and guilt most of her life. One more murder wasn’t going to break her. She’d simply add it to the chamber in her heart that held the memories of everyone she’d inadvertently had a hand in killing.

Michael was in good company.

She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a couple deep breaths. It was foolish to run, she knew; she hadn’t eaten since Friday night. But maybe it would help numb the pain.

John looked forward to the run. He needed it. Anything to compete with the pain in his heart. Three laps would be a start. Four might fight the pain. Five might drown it out.

But it would be foolish to get that exhausted. If they were being watched, it would be a good time for the killer to attack.

John peered out the kitchen window, but all he saw was the wall of the house next to Rowan’s and about eighty feet of the sandy, concrete-reinforced cliff between them.

He was on his third cup of coffee and he’d forced down a piece of toast. It tasted like paper and left a lump in his stomach but was doing its job of soaking up the caffeine. He was beginning to feel half-human.

Rowan came into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. She looked better than twenty minutes ago, but her face was still pale. Her little dark glasses covered her eyes. But she seemed ready. Rigid. Cold. Expressionless.

A worrisome thought flitted across his mind. Rowan was not as cold as he’d believed when he first met her. It was an act to cover up her feelings, just like the glasses she wore covered her eyes. Maybe all this was getting to her.

Dammit, he couldn’t care. He had a job to do: catch Michael’s killer and keep Rowan out of the crossfire. He didn’t have the energy to worry about her feelings.

“Let’s go,” he said.

On the wet sand, he pushed her pace. He maintained his protective spot two strides behind, but he breathed down her neck, urging her to move faster, harder. How could he purge the pain at this slow pace? He needed the cold air to replace the hot grief, the sting of salt in his lungs.

So he pressed her. When she wanted to stop after two laps, he wouldn’t let her. He wasn’t even winded. He knew she could handle three or more laps. They’d run many times, and Rowan was in fabulous shape. Did she think he couldn’t handle it? Did she think he was going to break down? Not him, not now.

They were almost back to the stairs of her house. Rowan was slowing. “Come on, run!” he shouted in her ear like a drill sergeant.

She stumbled and fell to her knees. He swerved and leaped over her, but made contact with her body and tumbled himself.

He quickly stood in a crouch and surveyed the scene, gun out. Trap, was his first thought. The murderer planted something on the beach to trip them up. Was he waiting to pounce?

He saw nothing but quiet homes set far from the beach. He heard nothing but the roar of the ocean, the breeze, the squawk of gulls searching for fish. No glint of a sniper rifle, no trace of a trap.

Then why did the hair stand up on the back of his neck?

“It’s clear, but we should get back,” John said.

Rowan was on all fours, panting heavily. He put his hand out for her, but she didn’t take it.

“What the fuck?” he said. “We need to get going. You’re a sitting duck out here.”

“Let. Him.” She sank down into the sand, her head buried in her arms.

“What are you talking about?” He reached down and used his strength to haul her to her feet. She’d lost her glasses in the fall, and her eyes swam with tears. She staggered, unable to get her footing, and fell against him, pushing him back at the same time.

“Let me go,” she whispered, trying to free her arm.

She had little strength. He easily held on to her. But he let her go. She fell back into the sand, her legs like noodles. “Just leave me. He’ll come. You can watch from my deck and when he comes, kill him. There’s a sniper rifle in my closet.”

What in the world was she talking about? Using herself as bait? If Rowan died, he’d lose someone else. He couldn’t, wouldn’t let her die.

He stared at her face, red from exertion and half covered with sand from her fall. She wasn’t looking at him, but at the ocean, tears spilling from her eyes. Her breath was still coming out ragged, her cheeks hollow.

He didn’t want to think about her pain. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d been doing when Michael died. How he’d manipulated his brother, sending him to his death.

How he had loved being wrapped in Rowan’s arms, holding her, being in her.

This was neither the time nor the place for a relationship, or even just sex. But Rowan had no one. He wouldn’t let her offer herself up to the murderer like a sacrificial lamb.

He scooped her into his arms and carried her to the house. When she didn’t so much as protest to being cradled like a baby, he knew she was not herself.

He hadn’t given any thought as to how she felt about Michael’s murder. It slowly dawned on him that she was as agonized as he. But Michael wasn’t her brother, her best friend. He’d only been her bodyguard.

Still, in her mind, she was responsible for whomever the bastard killed. John should have made that connection sooner, but he’d been so wrapped up in getting her to tell him the truth, and then in grieving over Michael.

Rowan was in pain, too.

He put her on the couch, but she wouldn’t look at him, just lay on her back staring at the ceiling. He watched her work to control her emotions, to bring down the shield she’d erected so well.

She was exhausted from his pushing her on the run, on top of little sleep. Had she eaten? He doubted it. He hadn’t been able to eat yesterday. He’d only had a couple of sips of soup, and only because he’d forced Tess to eat something.

He left her and went to the kitchen to pour himself more coffee. What was he going to do? He could barely keep himself together; how was he going to keep Rowan together?

Focus. Dammit, he could focus. All those months-years-tracking Pomera and his operatives. After Denny died, infiltrating the drug gang and slowly, painstakingly, taking the dealers down one by one. Focus. Perseverance. Patience.

He would do it. For Michael.

Which meant he needed Rowan and whatever information was trapped in her brain, information she didn’t know was important. And he wouldn’t be able to get anything out of her if she made herself sick from guilt.