“Who are you?”
“A bad man.”
“That you are.” Her whisper held anger, rage, defeat. All valid.
Rafe reached out to touch her, to make sure she wasn’t injured beyond what he did to her thigh, but she swatted his hands away from her. “Eva needs help—help her, we need to get out of here and she has a broken ankle.”
Eva’s hand flew up. “Wait, Vicky, who, exactly, is this man, other than the one that clamped those shackles around your ankles?”
Victoria heaved a sigh like she didn’t want to introduce them, but then her words came out, brittle and wooden. “Eva, Torrie, this is RafeSomner. The one that brought me down to imprison me with you two, yes, but only as a way to find you. He’s the same one that placed those lock picks into my hands. And he is going to help us get home, aren’t you, Rafe?” Her glare shifted to him.
A twisted, abridged version of the story. One that didn’t paint him as a kidnapper ready to bring death to their families.
The smallest glimmer of hope to hold onto.
He moved toward Eva and stopped in front of her. His hands lifted. “May I?”
Eva looked to him and nodded as she released Torrie and reached up for his neck. He picked her up with ease—she was light—too light—her body now frail, broken.
Something he’d been full well a part of, and now he was having to confront it head-on—carry the results of his vengeance in his arms.
Locking elbows with Torrie, Victoria started walking without another glance back at him.
Rafe followed, his jaw tight for having to clamp down on any words at the moment.
They disappeared into the forest.
~~~
The sky shifted from black to grey far off in the east, daybreak approaching just as they stepped out of the edge of the forest, the road in sight, when out of the darkness the cold metal of a blade slid across Rafe’s neck.
Rafe froze, looking down at Eva.
“Remove your hands from my wife.” If death had a voice, that was it, Scottish burr and all.
Whoever was holding that blade to his neck intended a quick kill if Rafe took the slightest breath out of turn.
Gently, not turning his head, he lowered his left arm under Eva’s legs, setting her down. He kept his arm across her back for support as she lifted her left ankle and balanced on her right leg.
“Lach—no—” The blade across Rafe’s neck scraped into his skin as the man’s arm jostled from Eva clutching it as she yelled. “No—he’s helping us. Helping us. Look at me, Lach. He’s helping.”
It took another long second of complete stillness with his eyes locked onto Eva in front of him before the blade slowly slid away from Rafe’s neck.
In the next instant the blur of the man rushed in front of him, swallowing Eva from sight, lifting her and clutching her body to his.
Lachlan, Lord Vinehill.
One of Falsted’s targets.
Lachlan’s head bowed over Eva’s, his shoulders shaking.
Silence hung in the air for an excruciatingly long time. Only heavy breaths from both Eva and Lachlan creeping into the stillness of the moment.
Finally, Lachlan’s head lifted slightly and Eva’s face tilted upward from the burrow in his chest. She didn’t say anything, just reached up and cupped the side of his face.
“Hell, I’d thought I’d lost ye, lass.” His face sank once more, burying into the side of her hair, his shoulders shaking.
The scene so painfully raw and intimate, Rafe felt his insides twist. His reaction would be much the same if he lost Victoria.