A few moments later, he spun out of the lot with a squeal of the Jag’s tires.
Adrenaline beat in Skye’s blood. “I-I couldn’t tell that he had a camera. I thought it was a gun.”
The Jag’s motor revved. “And you still chased after me, knowing the jerk could have a weapon?” Trace spared her a glittering glare. “I told you to get in the car!”
“And I didn’t feel like waiting for you to fight my battles!” The words burst from her.
Silence.
“That’s what you’re doing.” The scent of leather filled the car’s interior. “Giving me guards. Trying to protect me, twenty-four, seven. You can’t do that. I’ve told you already, I won’t live in a prison. Not even for you.”
“I want you safe—”
“There’s no guarantee of safety. Not for any of us.” Ben Sharpe had discovered that truth. “The guy on the street was a reporter. He would have taken some pictures and been done. He’s not going to be the only one who comes wanting a story, and you can’t attack reporters every time they show up.”
He slowed at a red light.
“He could press charges against you,” she whispered.
“Let him try.”
The wildness was there again. In the slightly cruel curve of his lip. In his eyes as he glanced over at her.
Trace was balanced on a razor’s edge—he’d been that way for weeks, and Skye couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when he fell over the edge.
Her hand lifted and curved around his. His fingers were clenched tightly along the wheel. “You saved me, Trace.”
His eyelids flickered.
“You got me out of that basement. I’m alive. You’re alive.”
A car horn honked behind them.
Swearing, Trace accelerated.
She didn’t let him go.
“Everything is going to be okay,” she told him. She wanted to soothe him, to just hold him.
But Trace gave a hard shake of his head. “You don’t know…” His words faded into silence.
“What? What is it that I don’t know?”
“You have your nightmares. I have mine.”
“What happens in your nightmares?”
He was staring straight ahead, at the dark road. “I don’t get to you in time.”
Her heart seemed to stop.
“And without you, I go f**king insane.”
***
Every man had a strength.
And every man had a weakness.
When it came to Trace Weston, the man’s greatest weakness was Skye Sullivan.
From the shadows, he watched as the reporter stomped away. The guy was clutching his camera. Muttering about lawsuits.
Interesting.
He crept up behind the man. He’d overhead their conversation easily enough. Trace had been so focused on Clyde Jones that he’d never looked around for another threat.
His mistake.
No, his weakness. The woman seemed to consume Weston, and when a man fell that hard—
It was the perfect moment to strike.
He pulled out his weapon, and his fingers curled around the handle of his knife.
It would be so easy to take out Clyde Jones. A fast swipe of his knife. The guy was a leech. A vulture who made his living by feeding off the pain of others.
If he killed Jones, then he’d probably be doing the world a favor.
But he’s not my target.
Jones swore and headed toward the busy intersection. “Taxi!” Jones shouted.
He put up his knife. He’d learned to control his impulses long ago. Jones could keep breathing.
But Weston? Soon enough, he’d be dying.
Chapter Five
He grabbed her, his fingers closing tight around her arm. Trace yanked Skye against him, and her eyes flew open. She couldn’t see anything, it was too dark, but she knew his touch.
“Trace?” She whispered.
“Can’t let go…” His fingers bit into her as he muttered those words.
Skye tried to shift toward him. They were in bed. It was the middle of the night and—
“Didn’t want to…kill…”
His rasped words stole her breath.
“So…fucking sorry…have to do it…”
And his hands lifted—to her throat.
“Trace!” She screamed his name as real fear pulsed through her.
He stilled.
The only sound then was their breathing—both ragged. Panting.
“Skye?” Confusion thickened his voice.
His hands pulled away from her. He pulled away. Trace rolled to the side of the bed and flipped on the lamp. “Baby, what’s wrong?” Trace demanded as his gaze swept over her. “Did you have another nightmare?”
She hadn’t moved. She couldn’t. His hands had been going for her throat as if—as if he would kill her.
Trace would never do that.
She licked her lips. Every single bit of moisture in her mouth seemed to have vanished. “You were the one having the bad dream.”
Shadows were all around them. The lamp spilled a small pool of light onto the bed. Everything else—darkness.
“I was?” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t remember it. I’m…sorry if I woke you.”
Those words jerked Skye out of her stupor. She sat up, letting the sheet fall away. “I’ve woken you up nearly every night for the last month. Don’t talk to me about sorry.”
He stared at her.
“Something scared you. You said…you said you didn’t want to kill, but you had to do it.” Her stomach was in knots. “It’s because of me. You killed to save me, and now the memory is there, tearing you apart—”
His laughter stopped her. Cold. Bitter laughter. “That particular memory has nothing to do with you.” He leaned toward her, caging her with his body. “You think I regret what I did to Mitch Loxley?”
She tried to search his gaze. There wasn’t enough light.
“Not for an instant. I’m glad he’s dead. I just wish I’d made him suffer more before I sent him to hell.”
She believed him. “Then what gives you nightmares?” Her question was a hoarse whisper.
He didn’t speak.
“One secret.” Skye grabbed his shoulders, desperate. “That’s what we can start with. That’s what I want from you, Trace. That’s what I think I deserve.” No, Skye actually thought that she deserved all of his secrets. And she’d get them. Sooner or later.
His hand came up to her throat. His fingers lightly caressed the flesh. This touch was so different from the one that had come before. “You were choking me,” she said.