He knows that I'm the one who provided all the details for a raid that went horribly wrong. And I wonder for the billionth time why he doesn't hate me.
Then again, maybe he does.
Just the thought rips me open, making all the wounds that I pretend are healed raw again. I don't mean to, but I make a little whimpering sound, and Dallas steps forward, his hand out just a little, as if to comfort me. He stops, and I'm not sure if it's because any caress between us is dangerous, or if it's because he knows there's no comfort to be had.
"So now you know why I write." My voice is falsely cheerful. "I get to work out my demons and get paid for it."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Nice words," I counter. "Too bad they're not true."
"Jane." He walks the rest of the way to me, then kneels on the ground in front of where I'm sitting on the bed. This time he does touch me. He puts his hands on my knees, and I draw in a stuttering breath, only now realizing how much I've been wanting his touch. Needing that connection, if only for an instant.
We are face-to-face, and his eyes are full of regret. I can see he wants to say something--and I can also see that he hasn't figured out how.
"It's okay," I say. "I deal. You deal. And pretty soon we'll have some closure, right? I mean surely this Ortega guy will spill about who hired him. And then we'll know why all this happened in the first place."
I already know why, of course. Or at least I think I do. When you're the son or daughter of a high profile billionaire, you're a target. That's just the way it is. And since our kidnappers had made a ransom demand on day one, then kept upping the price, we were probably taken by some militant group looking to finance a coup.
Too bad Kickstarter didn't exist back then.
I actually smile at the thought, and start to tell Dallas, figuring he can use a grin as well. But something in his expression stops me. "What?"
"I really fucked you over." His voice is low and full of pain.
I shake my head, both in denial and in confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"All of it. It's haunting you."
I can't deny it. "It's haunting both of us."
His hands slide up my legs as he pushes himself up to his feet. Just a few inches, but it feels like a caress. And when he pulls his hands away and steps back from the bed, I mourn the loss of contact.
"They came to the school--they came for me. Don't you get it? It's my fault you were taken. My fault we were held captive, hungry and scared and cold."
"No--" I begin, but he won't let me finish.
"It's my fault that this is your life now, that you're stuck in the past, searching for answers in someone else's kidnapping. It's my fault, and I can't make it better. And now Bill is the one who's going to end it for you. Who has Ortega and who's going to find out who's behind this. Who's going to give you closure."
I shake my head. "That's not true."
"It is. God help me, it is."
"Dallas..." I stand and face him. I don't know what to say. I don't know how to argue. I don't know what to do, and I feel as helpless as I did those weeks when I was fifteen. As lost as I'd been back then when it was Dallas who had soothed me. And me who had soothed Dallas.
"Do you have any idea how much I want to touch you?" His voice is low, as if he's talking to himself more than me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, and wonder how much he's had, and how far he might go. "Can you even imagine the things I want to do with you?"
I make a whimpering noise and he moves closer to me, his green eyes like emerald fire. "Being together came close to destroying both of us once already," he says. "But I don't fucking care. You are the memory that gets me through my days, and the fantasy that saves me in the night."
My breath catches in my throat as he reaches for me, then very gently raises his hand to brush a strand of hair off my face. "I know it can never happen--for so many goddamn reasons. I know it's wrong. But I want to taste you again, once more, even if it really is the last time."
My heart is pounding, and I feel prickles of sweat at the back of my neck. My mouth is dry. I feel trapped.
I feel alive.
"Let m
e, Jane." His voice is rough, and he inches closer. And then--dear god, yes--he brushes the pad of his thumb along my jaw, sending a riot of sparks all through me. "Let me have just one little taste."