And was out in minutes.
He knew the moment she’d passed through the gates in the cab. He knew she’d worked after most of the team had gone to bed. The fact that she hadn’t sought him out was a small ache. It seemed he had so many small aches these last days he’d forgotten what it was like without them.
He stood over her now as she sprawled facedown on the bed in exhaustion. She didn’t wake. The cat did, enough to stare so those odd eyes gleamed at him in the dark. Roarke couldn’t have said why he was sure the stare was accusatory.
“I’d think you’d understand well enough the primal, the instinctive, and be a bit more on my side in this.”
But Galahad only continued to stare until Roarke cursed softly and turned away.
He was too restless to sleep, too unsettled to lie beside her knowing there was a great deal more than a fat lump of feline between them.
The knowledge so infuriated, so terrified, that he strode away from her, left her sleeping. He moved through the house where others slept, and accessed entry to the tightly secured room where he kept his unregistered.
He’d given Eve and Reva all of his time. His work was suffering because of it and he would begin to mend that in the morning. But tonight was for himself. Tonight, he was himself, and he would gather the data he wanted on the people, all of them, who’d had a part in Dallas.
In Eve.
“Roarke,” he said, his tone was cold as ice. “Open operations.”
She stirred in the dark, in the dead quiet just before dawn. The whimper sounded in her throat as she tried to turn herself out of the dream. And sweat pooled at the base of her spine as she fell into it.
The room, always the same. Freezing, dirty, and washed with the erratic red light from the sex club across the street. She was small, and very thin. And very hungry. Hungry enough to risk punishment for a bite of cheese. A little mouse, sneaking toward the trap when the brutal cat was away.
Her stomach clenched and knotted—part fear, part anticipation, as she cut the mold off the cheese with the knife. Maybe he wouldn’t notice this time. Maybe. She was so cold. She was so hungry. Maybe he wouldn’t notice.
She held onto that even when he came in. Richie Troy. Somewhere in her unconscious brain his name echoed, over and over. She knew him now, she knew his name. Nothing, no monster was ever as terrifying if you could name him.
She had a moment of hope. He would be drunk, drunk enough to leave her alone. Drunk enough not to care that she’d disobeyed and gotten food.
But he came toward her, and she saw in his eyes there hadn’t been enough drink that night. Not enough to save her.
What are you doing, little girl?
And his voice turned her bowels to ice.
The first blow stunned her, but she fell limply. A dog who’d been kicked often enough knew to stay down and submit.
But he had to punish her. He had to teach her a lesson. Despite her fear, despite her knowing, she couldn’t stop herself from pleading.
Please don’t please don’t please don’t.
Of course he would. He did. Bearing down on her, striking her. Hurting her, hurting her while she begged, while she wept, while she struggled.
Her arm broke with a sound as thin as her shocked scream.
The knife she’d dropped was in her hand again. She had to make him stop. Make him stop. The pain, the horrible pain in her arm, between her legs. He had to stop.
Blood gushed warm over her hand. Warm and wet, and she scented it like an animal in the wild. When his body jerked on hers, she plunged the knife into him again, again. Again and again as he tried to crawl away. Again and again and again as the blood splashed her arms, her face, her clothes, and the sounds she made were nothing human.
When she crawled away, shivering, panting, to huddle in the corner, he was sprawled on the floor, drowned in his own blood.
As always.
But this time she wasn’t alone with the man she’d killed. She wasn’t alone with the dead in the hideous room. There were others, countless others, men and women in dark suits, sitting in row after row of chairs. Like people at a play. Observers with empty faces.
They watched as she wept. Watched as she bled and her broken arm hung limply at her side.
They watched, and said nothing. Did nothing. Even when Richie Troy rose, as he sometimes did. When he rose, pouring blood from all the wounds she’d put into him and began to shuffle toward her, they did nothing.