Safe at Last (Slow Burn #3) (26 page)

A fresh wave of grief rolled through him all over again at all she’d lost. What
he
had lost. Just a sixteen-year-old girl, brutally violated by men Zack had trusted. Had called friends. No, he didn’t have anything to do with their sick crime, but in a way he was guilty all the same because Gracie would have never been exposed to them if not for him.

Her head was pillowed on his shoulder and she slept deeply, and he hoped dreamlessly, devoid of the memories of her past. In forcing her to relate all that she’d endured, she’d been taken back to that awful day all over again, thrust right back into the horror of her worst nightmare. And he’d lived it—envisioned it—right alongside her. It had taken a piece of his soul that he would never get back again. He’d live the rest of his life knowing she’d suffered the unimaginable, all the while believing that he had done this to her. He couldn’t even think about it without becoming completely undone.

He wasn’t sure if having to relive her ordeal had instigated the panic attack that had left her unable to breathe to the point of passing out, or . . . if him protesting his innocence had finally sent her over the edge.

He’d never felt such a lack of hope in his life. Except when he’d had to face the fact that Gracie was gone and wasn’t ever coming back. He couldn’t survive losing her a second time. If she refused to believe him, if she ran as far and as fast as she could, he would never be whole. He’d forever be a hollow shell of himself, wandering aimlessly through life with no purpose, no hope. None of the joy that only Gracie could bring him.

But before he could even think about regaining the precious gift of her trust and acceptance, her belief in his fervent denial, there were other important matters to tend to.

His jaw locked and his hand went still against her slim back. Hatred consumed him, clouded his mind and formed a red haze in his eyes. While his bastard friends enjoyed their lives, their wives, children, Gracie had been out there alone, damaged, carrying invisible scars—
permanent
scars. Zack had been denied the very things his friends took for granted. Because they had made certain that he and Gracie had nothing of the future Zack had planned.

Why? Goddamn it,
why
? It was so bizarre and fucked-up that he couldn’t even wrap his mind around it. What purpose could they possibly have had in doing something so vile? Jealousy? Had they resented that his time was split between Gracie and school, with no time for anything else in between? And if that was the case, who the hell went to such extreme, criminal measures because they were fucking jealous? It was
insane
.

No, he didn’t have the answers. Not yet.

But he would.

He hated to leave her. It was the very last thing he wanted. But until he confronted the men who’d destroyed an innocent girl, he and Gracie didn’t have a chance. Because she wouldn’t believe him by his word alone. He’d find out the truth, no matter what he had to do. He was going to make them bleed, just as they’d made Gracie bleed, make them hurt just like Gracie had hurt. They’d find out real damn quick how well they fared when up against a man their size instead of abusing a much smaller, delicate girl.

It made him want to vomit. The men who raped Gracie had been twenty years old, four years older than her. They’d raped a
minor,
for God’s sake.

His breath stuttered from his lips and caught, making a sound almost like a sob.

He was supposed to be her first.

They weren’t going to make love until their wedding night.

Because more than anything he’d wanted to give Gracie the respect she was due and not precipitate his vows. He intended to make their first time together special. A night she’d remember the rest of her life. One he would as well.

He’d wanted to give her time to grow and mature more, to fully bloom into the woman she was about to become. And as she was coming to their marriage never touched by another man, so too had he wanted to honor her by giving himself
only
to her.

She was adorably shy when they spoke of making love, and they spoke of it often, sharing their hopes and dreams. He would whisper to her how glad he was that he would be the only man to ever make love to her and that he would honor her gift by giving her the same assurance. She would be the only woman
he
ever made love to.

The night he’d lost his virginity, his first year in the pros, he’d lain there beside a woman whose name he didn’t even remember and he’d never felt so sick in his life. He’d stared up at the ceiling, his eyes burning like he’d wiped them with sandpaper, and grieved the loss of Gracie all over again. He’d rolled out of bed and barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up into the toilet.

He hadn’t had sex again until after he’d quit football and was working as a cop. In time it got a little easier. He even managed to enjoy it eventually. In a physical sense. But never once had he been emotionally engaged. Never had he experienced the euphoria and mental satisfaction of making love with someone he cared about. Someone he
loved
.

Had Gracie ever managed to have a healthy relationship with another man after such a traumatic experience? The idea of another man holding her, touching her, kissing her, loving her . . . sliding into her soft, sweet body. It made his chest tighten to the point of discomfort and filled him with envy for this hypothetical lover.

He recognized the hypocrisy of his reaction and in truth, despite wishing with all his heart that
he
had been the one to comfort, love and pleasure her, and show her the beauty of making love to wipe away the ugly memories of pain, degradation and rape, he truly hoped she
had
found someone who cared enough about her to make the experience beautiful and pleasurable for her.

The idea of her shutting herself off from any sort of intimacy, and living alone—afraid—unwilling to trust anyone because of
his
perceived betrayal, broke his heart.

Despite his hope that she’d been able to overcome such a horrible life-altering incident at
sixteen,
such a fragile and impressionable time for any girl, he had the sinking feeling that she’d never allowed anyone close enough to establish the kind of trust necessary to allow such intimacy.

Though he’d certainly not had a very favorable impression of Sterling from their first meeting, he’d been wrong. It appeared that Sterling was a good man and that he’d been good to Gracie. But Sterling had made it clear that he and Gracie were just friends. Nothing more. Not that Sterling hadn’t been interested. He’d admitted as much. But Gracie had shut him down, and yet they had become friends.

She seemed to trust him, yet she hadn’t allowed more than friendship, which told Zack that she likely hadn’t ever gotten that far with anyone else.

That knowledge should have given him satisfaction, but all he felt was hollow regret that she’d never had anyone to show her tenderness and . . . love.

He wanted to be that man. He wanted it more than he wanted to breathe. But unless he could somehow offer Gracie tangible proof of his innocence and not just his word, he knew in his heart that he’d lose her all over again.

At that thought he went rigid, his jaw clenching to the point of nearly breaking his teeth. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow that to happen again. Murderous rage swelled within him and his mind was consumed with revenge. Justice. For Gracie. Truth for himself. Freedom. For them both. So that maybe—
maybe
—they could move past this. Together.

The soft strands of her hair that were wrapped around his fingers slipped from his grasp as he formed a rigid fist. He knew what had to be done. He wanted to seek vengeance. For Gracie. For them both. His thoughts were consumed with violence and making the pieces of shit who’d hurt his Gracie
pray
for death.

He’d
make
them confess every sordid detail of their sickening attack on a girl who legally was still a child. And then their wives could decide whether they wanted to remain married to a rapist or ever trust them with their own daughters.

His pulse thudded at his temples and he forced himself to calm his raging thoughts of retribution. Just for now. He lay his cheek atop Gracie’s head and pulled her a little closer to him.

“I love you, Gracie,” he whispered. “And if I ever hope to make you love me again, there’s something I must do. I have to leave you for a while, but I’ll be back. I swear.”

He turned his cheek, sliding it against her hair just enough so he could press his lips to her forehead. Closing his eyes, he inhaled deeply, capturing the feel of her, soft and warm and so very precious.

He would carry this memory of her in his arms, when, for just one exquisite moment in time, everything was good and perfect. It would be all that sustained him until justice was served and he came back to her with the answers they both desperately needed—and deserved. Because while Gracie was the biggest victim in this tragedy, they were both victim to something all encompassing and completely life changing. And it would take time—and understanding from them both—to possibly right past wrongs and to move forward from a past that would haunt them both for the rest of their lives.

TWENTY-FOUR

GRACIE
awoke with a heavy sense of lethargy. Her limbs felt heavy and slack and it took much effort to even turn over in bed. She felt exhausted, like she had lead in her veins, and her reflexes were dull and sluggish. It was as if she’d been drugged or heavily sedated.

She wrinkled her nose trying to remember if she’d taken any of the medication the doctor had prescribed when she’d been discharged, but no, she hadn’t had a chance. As soon as she and Zack had arrived at this place, things had been thrown into turmoil.

She went still as memories began sliding back into place, like pieces to a puzzle. Snapping together at a speed that momentarily disoriented her. Then some of the fuzziness dissipated and the fog lifted, revealing with painful clarity all that had transpired the night before.

Her hand tentatively reached out and she turned, wondering if Zack was still beside her in the bed. She didn’t remember him taking her to bed after her debilitating panic attack, but at some point in the night she’d briefly roused only to find herself firmly nestled against his body, his arms surrounding her like a protective wall. It had felt . . . nice. For the first time in years, she’d felt
safe
. And how screwed up was that? Nothing had been resolved. Nothing had changed. Or had it?

All her hand encountered was a bare space. Not even an indention or warmth to indicate that he’d recently vacated the bed. She frowned and was puzzled at the instant surge of disappointment upon finding him gone. All she wanted was to be next to him again, his arms around her, to experience just for a moment the reassurance that nothing could ever hurt her again.

But he had been the one who hurt her the
most
.

She couldn’t be swayed by words, no matter how persuasively they’d been rendered. But . . . what if . . . No, she wouldn’t go there. Her gift was infallible—when she still possessed the ability to read minds. But that was gone along with her innocence and belief in good.

She
hadn’t
been mistaken. There was no way all three rapists would have identical recollections of the same event.

And yet Zack had been utterly devastated by the revelation. No one could possibly feign that kind of reaction. He’d looked sick at heart and there was no faking the tears and anguish. Never had she seen such raw agony in another person.

She could make herself crazy trying to make sense of the insensible. There was no point in even attempting it. But she
could
make sure she was never again in a position of being betrayed by someone she trusted when the solution was so simple.

She wouldn’t give him—or anyone—the opportunity. And that was no way to live. Never allowing herself to get close to someone. Never having friendships, close relationships. Or sharing her life with someone she cared about. Hadn’t she already wasted too much of her life as it was? Living in a self-imposed void, carrying out the motions of each day, never dreaming of the future. Not having dreams at all?

The idea filled her with sadness, and, disgusted with herself for already weakening under his influence after only forty-eight hours, she shoved the covers back and gingerly sat up, sliding her legs around and over the edge of the bed.

Taking it slow, she eased up, holding on to the headboard so she didn’t end up in a heap on the floor. Her body groaned its protest. A hot flush washed through her body, and the stiffness and pain had her panting lightly as she weaved around like some drunk sorority girl. She paused a moment to gain her bearings, and after she steadied herself enough that she felt confident that she wouldn’t take a header, she took a purposeful step, pleased when she didn’t so much as wobble.

She was still dressed in the clothes she’d worn the day before. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she made her way to the closet. Zack had said Eliza had shopped for her and she was curious to see what the other woman had chosen.

If she had been worried, she needn’t have been. The clothing was a study in comfort. Soft—not stiff—denim jeans were folded neatly and arranged on the shelves. There was an array of tops to choose from as well as shoes, socks and, to her embarrassment, an assortment of panties and bras. It appeared as though Eliza had covered all the bases.

Bypassing the jeans, because she didn’t feel up to wrestling with the formfitting denim, she instead chose a pair of athletic pants and then selected one of the comfortable-looking shirts.

She’d kill for a hot bath and to soak for a couple of hours, but she knew she didn’t have a prayer of being able to get out of the tub once in, and she wasn’t about to ask Zack for help. Later she would attempt a shower and hope that she was steady enough not to slip and fall.

After brushing her teeth and taming her tangled hair into a much more manageable ponytail, she braved leaving the bedroom and carefully walked toward the living room. To her surprise, she saw Wade and Eliza—not Zack. Where was he? In the last few days, she hadn’t been able to move without him being no more than a foot away at most.