Lori Foster - Men of Honour - Ready, Set, Jett / When You Dare / Trace of Fever / Savor the Danger / A Perfect Storm / What Chris Wants / Bare It All

She said nothing, just tasted her soup, groaned, and tasted it again.

“Molly … if you were hurt …” Idiot. She was so hurt that it pained him to think of it. Dare started over. “That is, if you were hurt in ways that aren’t easy for me to see, then a trip to the hospital would be a good idea.”

With each bite of soup, she looked more lethargic, as if the nourishment eased a terrible ache and allowed tiredness to take over again.

“Molly?”

“I can’t.” She took another swallow, but her eyes were getting heavy as color seeped back into her cheeks.

“Can’t what?”

Another swallow. The seconds ticked by. “I can’t … can’t talk about this now, can’t give you details, and I can’t go to the hospital.” She lifted her gaze to his. “Please, if we could talk about it in the morning, I’d be grateful.”

Damn it, he didn’t want to be responsible for her health. He stood to pace, trying to decide.

“Dare?”

He turned back to her, left eye twitching, jaw tight.

“I wasn’t raped. I swear.”

Something in him eased. He tried to read the truth in her eyes, but saw only bleak resistance there. He rubbed his bristly jaw. “You would tell me if you were sexually abused?”

“If I had been … I don’t know. I don’t know how I’d feel.” Despite her ordeal, her chin lifted. “But I wasn’t.”

Dare continued to study her. He could read most people, but this woman had so much emotion in her face, and so many secrets in her eyes, he just wasn’t sure.

“That … that isn’t what they wanted with me.”

Remembering how she’d been separated from the other women, kept unclean, neglected instead of primed … he believed her.

That’s what she wanted to talk about tomorrow, he realized. He nodded. “All right.”

She started to stand, albeit shakily, and Dare said, “Wait. Let me turn down the bed.”

He prepared it for her, much like he would for a child, then came back to her. “Do you need the bathroom first?”

Pale, trembling, she shook her head. “No.”

Knowing that decision was likely determined by her inability to make it there on her own, Dare took the choice away from her. “Of course you do.” After all, he’d been pushing fluids on her, and she’d obliged him.

Lifting her up, he carried her into the small tiled room. She weighed next to nothing and felt insubstantial, delicate, in his arms.

He set her down next to the john. “Okay?”

She grabbed the sink and held on. “Yes.”

Hardly, but he’d done as much as he could without causing her further embarrassment. “If you need me, I’ll be right outside the door. Just let me know when you’re finished.” He left her to it.

Leaning against the wall beside the door, thinking of what he’d learned, and what he hadn’t , Dare waited for her. Seconds later he heard her flush and then run water in the sink.

The door opened.

Eyes more closed than open, shuffling along like a zombie, Molly moved past him to the bed. Dare rushed to hold her arm, to steady her and steer her to the sheets.

“Sorry,” she mumbled as she literally tumbled to the mattress. “ So tired.”

Worry gnawed on him again. Should he damn her objections and take her to the hospital anyway? Already she looked to be asleep. He knew firsthand how exhaustion, especially when amplified by hunger and dehydration, could weary a body and soul.

Seeing her there, looking peaceful for a change, he made up his mind. A few more hours shouldn’t hurt. If she wasn’t steadier after sleeping, he’d insist she get checked out by a physician.

Before he thought better of it, Dare smoothed back her hair. It was so thick that it hadn’t dried much, but a wet head was the least of her worries.

He pulled the sheet and blanket up to her chin, and heard her sigh. “Rest up, Molly Alexander. In the morning we’ll sort things out.”

No answer.

For more than a minute, Dare stared down at her, wondering what he was going to do with her. She’d held it together with an admirable iron will and unwavering determination. Despite her horrific ordeal, she’d been reasonable, practical and intelligent.

But it was what she hadn’t been that told him even more.

She hadn’t been anxious to report to the police, hadn’t even looked at his gun or the big knife he carried, and she hadn’t wanted to call anyone.

That was a first for Dare. It was his experience that men and women alike, when recovered from a dangerous situation, had someone they wanted to speak to ASAP, someone they wanted to reassure, or have reassure them.

Not Molly.

What a mystery she was.

As efficiently as he could, Dare spread out her hair on the pillow so it’d dry quicker. Valuing order in all aspects of his life, he took time to tidy the room and get rid of the empty food containers.

He put the gun and knife under his pillow. They made a familiar lump that gave him a specific peace of mind needed in his line of work.

After stripping down to his boxers, he neatly folded his clothes and put them away in his duffel bag, kept on the other side of the bed. With one more glance out at the still-quiet parking lot, he drew the heavy shades, putting the room in darkness, and crawled under the blankets. The aged air conditioner hummed and whistled as it sent cool air to swirl around the room; he’d been too many hours without rest.

Within minutes, he fell into a light sleep.

Hours later, a short, guttural sound of panic drew him from a vague dream. He had his gun in his hand and was on his feet before the sound had faded.

HEART PUNCHING, stomach cramping, Molly jerked upright in the bed. Her hands balled into fists and her throat burned from the scream that almost escaped. Almost . Someone loomed next to her, someone big.

“Molly?”

She knew that voice . Still tinged with panic, she took quick inventory of her surroundings. The unfamiliar bed didn’t crawl with bugs, and the usual stench of unwashed bodies, fear and sickness didn’t pervade the air.

Reality crashed back in, and with it shame, mortification and sadness. She gasped, blindly reaching out. “Dare?” Her hand hit something, maybe a hard thigh.

“Yeah, just me.” He set something heavy on the nightstand, and then his big body dipped the mattress and his hand touched her shoulder. “Bad dream?”

More like bad memories, but she didn’t want to go into that right now. Her breath shuddered in. “Yes. I’m so sorry I woke you.”

“You’re okay now?”

“I …” What could she say? That she’d never be okay again? Unacceptable , because that would mean they’d won, whoever they were. “Yes. Now I am.” Fear continued to rip through her in agonizing waves. “I’m sorry.”

“Enough with the apologies, okay?”

His gruff voice somehow reassured her. She nodded in the darkness, struggling to get her bearings. “I thought …”

“That you were back there again?” Cautiously, a little awkwardly, he drew her against him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s going to take you a while to shake it off.”

Then he put another bottle of water in her hand.

A near-hysterical laugh bubbled up, and she barely repressed it. Shake it off? Is that what he would do?

Probably . He was so much stronger, so much more capable than she.

She dutifully drank some water, then handed the bottle back to him. He set it aside, but then pulled her close.

Her cheek met the bare skin of his upper chest and fit neatly against the notch of his shoulder. So much heat emanated from him. He smelled good, too, clean and pure. And he felt even better, like strength, safety.