Mine to Take (3 page)

Trace glanced over his shoulder at Skye’s closed apartment door.

He had the power, and he was going to use it. 

***

The dream came again. It snuck up on him when he was tired or when
she
got into his mind too much.

He found himself back in that old house.  The one with the roof that sagged. With carpets that had been worn bare.

Another home. Another place.

His first night there.

“
Don’t, please…”

The voice had called out to him. 

He’d been on his feet before he’d thought twice. On his feet and on his way to
her
.

The dream took over.

His fist shoved open the wooden door, revealing a small bedroom. He hadn’t seen that one when they’d brought him in to the house earlier that day.  Two people were on the bed. The boy—his new “brother” Parker. The other was the girl…the one with the long hair and the sad eyes.

The pretty girl who’d been too shy to speak to him before.

But he was sure her voice had been the one calling to him, begging, “Please, don’t…”

Only she wasn’t speaking anymore. Wasn’t crying out, not pleading.

Because Parker had his hand over her mouth.  

“What the hell are you doing?”  Trace demanded.

“Get out, man, get out!”
Parker snapped back, but he kept his voice low.

So his parents wouldn’t hear?

Trace’s gaze shot to the girl. Tears leaked from her eyes. Parker had one hand over her mouth, and one of his hands pinned her small wrists to the bed.

Rage pushed through Trace. “Get off her, now.”

“Get out,” Parker said again, “or I’ll tell my parents to ship your ass out of here.  This is
my
house, I say what—”

He didn’t get to say anything else. Trace knocked the guy off her.  He drove his fist into Parker’s face, again and again. Bones broke. Blood spurted. Trace kept hitting him. 

“Stop!  You’re going to kill him!” Her voice. Her hands on him.

Trace’s eyes flew open as the dream—his past—vanished. 

His hands were clenched into fists. 

Skye needed him again.

I won’t let her down. 

Skye stared at her reflection.  Too pale.  Too thin.  She didn’t look like a star who belonged in the center of the lights.

That’s not who I am.

Sometimes, she wasn’t sure she’d ever really been that woman.

Her hands reached for the barre. She’d installed it herself.  Just gotten the mirrors positioned a few moments ago. Right after she’d finished up the paint job.  Done it all—herself. There was a grim pride in her accomplishment.  She’d sweated blood and tears for this place.

The studio had taken the last of her money.   She’d put down her deposit and paid rent for a half a year. Skye knew that opportunity—that precious six months—was her chance. To do something. To get her life back.

The studio was hers. She
would
make it work.

Only the image staring back at her in the mirror didn’t look so certain. 

Skye rose onto her toes, ignoring the twinge in her left calf. That twinge would soon turn to an ache, but she’d ignore that, too.  She’d grown used to ignoring pain over the years. That was the first rule of dancing. 
No pain.
If your body was weak, you ignored the weakness.  You danced until your feet bled. Then you went out onto the stage, and you danced some more.   

Her arms stretched. Her back arched.  Her first dance class would start in three days. That would give her just enough time to—

The lights turned off. Every single light shut off at once, plunging her into total darkness.

Her heels hit the hardwood floor. 
The circuit breaker.
Dammit, this same problem had happened before. Only then it had been daytime and sunlight had trickled through the windows, providing enough illumination for her to see. Now, there was just night to deepen the darkness.

She kept her hand on the barre as she made her way to the door.  The building manager had promised her that the problem had been fixed.

This isn’t fixed. This is—

A faint rustle of sound reached her ears.

Like a shoe.  The quick press of a footstep.

Skye froze. “Is…is someone there?”  When she’d left her apartment, Trace’s men had been installing new locks and an alarm system.  One of the men had even followed her to the dance studio. She was supposed to be safe.

The floor squeaked. She knew that squeak. There was a weak spot near the front door.  Every time she came inside the studio, she stepped in that spot and the floor squeaked beneath her.

Not alone.

She stopped advancing toward the door. Instead, she backed up, fast.

“Skye…” A rasp of her name.   

Turning, she ran away from that rasp.

But she didn’t get far.  Hard hands grabbed her and locked tight around her stomach. He spun her around and jerked her against his body—and those hands holding her so tightly
hurt.

“
I’ve been watching…”
His voice was still a rasp. A terrifying rasp. He was bigger than she was. So much bigger and stronger, and he held her easily when she twisted against him.   

But he hadn’t covered her mouth. His mistake. “
Help me!”
She screamed as loudly as she could.

Trace’s agent was outside. He’d hear her. He’d—

Her attacker slammed her into the mirror. The glass cracked and shattered around her.  His fingers pressed over her mouth, reminding her of a nightmare from her past that wouldn’t ever stop.

Her head ached where it had hit the mirror. The wooden barre shoved into her back. 

His breath blew against the shell of her ear. “I will be the one,” he told her, voice low and hard.

She lifted her knee. Tried to shove it into his groin, but he was already pulling back.

Even as the sound of footsteps pounded toward her.

Footsteps—and a light?

“Ms. Sullivan?” 

She clung to the barre. It seemed to be the only thing holding her up right then.
He was here. He was here.

The flashlight hit her in the face. “Ms. Sullivan, what happened? I heard you cry for help.” It was her guard—Reese Stokes.  She recognized his deep voice and that faint Alabama accent. If she could have moved, Skye would have hugged that man right then. Instead, she managed to say, “He’s here!”

That flashlight immediately swept the room, cutting through the darkness. But finding no one.

“He?” Reese asked her as he came closer. He put his arm around her. 

“
He’s here,”
Skye said again.  Trace had warned her, he’d told her…
He’s dangerous.
He’d been right.  If Reese hadn’t been there, what would her attacker have done?

“Skye?” 

At that familiar, deep voice, she tensed in Reese’s arms.
Trace.

The lights flooded back on at that moment, coming with a brightness that almost hurt her eyes.

Trace rushed toward her. He pulled her from Reese. “What the hell just happened?”

“She said someone was here.” Reese seemed to have just noticed the broken glass.

“Go. Search,” Trace ordered as he pulled Skye even closer to him. “I’ve got her.”

Pieces of the broken mirror had fallen to the floor. They crunched beneath Trace’s expensive shoes.

Reese hurried away from them.  When he ran away, Skye saw the gun in his hand. 

Her breath choked out. 
Why is this happening?

Trace’s fingers slid through her hair. He growled, “Dammit, you could have a concussion.”

What she had was a giant knot on her head. One that was making her dizzy and nauseous. Wait, was that a concussion?

“I’m getting you out of here.” 

Before she could say anything else, he’d lifted her into his arms.  He held her easily, as if she weighed nothing at all, and he hurried for the door.

Then they were outside. The crisp air hit her, pushing back some of the nausea, but not doing a thing to alleviate her fear. The fear had far too tight of a grip on her.

Trace carried her toward a dark Jag. He opened the door and sat her inside on the passenger’s seat. “Tell me what happened.”

She hadn’t seen him in ten years. So why was she so ridiculously glad that
he
was the one there with her?  “I was practicing…the lights went out. I-I thought it as the breaker. It’s gone out before and—”

He caught her chin in his hand. “When did the man come?”

She swallowed. “When it went dark. I heard the floor squeak, and I knew he was there.” She licked her too-dry lips. “I tried to run, but he caught me.” 

“Did he…” Trace’s words were gritted, “what did he do to you?”

Her eyelids flickered as she remembered. “He slammed my head into the mirror. Reese came in…before he could do anything else.”

I will be the one.

Her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists in her lap. 

“I’m taking you to the hospital.”

“No, I—”

“I’m
taking
you to the hospital,” Trace said again, anger snapping in the words. “You’ve got a concussion. You need to be checked out.”

“Boss!” Reese rushed toward them. “I searched the building, but no one’s there.” 

Her gaze darted down the street. There were other buildings, a few shops nearby, but they were all closed for the night.

“Stay here.  Get back-up on the scene,” Trace ordered Reese. “I want that SOB.  And we’re getting him.”

Then he slammed her door shut. She watched him through the window, chill bumps rising on her skin. Trace leaned close to Reese. Whispered something that she couldn’t hear.  The chill bumps got worse. Skye felt so cold then. So very cold.

Trace turned away from Reese and stalked back toward her. The driver’s door opened. Trace slid inside the vehicle, and the engine growled to life. 

I will be the one.

The words wouldn’t stop whispering through her mind. 

The car’s engine snarled to life, and the Jag shot into the night.

She looked back. Reese stood there, staring after them. Her studio was lit up, every light glowing.

And the monster who’d been in the dark—he was long gone. 

But he’ll be back.

The cold sank down, penetrating all the way to her bones.   

***

“Definitely concussed,” the doctor said as she shone a light into Skye’s eyes.

Trace crossed his arms over his chest. He’d moved back so the doctor could work on Skye, but he hadn’t been about to leave the small exam room. He wasn’t in the mood to let Skye out of his sight.

“We’ll need you to stay overnight for observation,” Dr. Denise Bond told Skye as she lowered her light. “It’s a precaution in a situation like this—”

“No,” Skye said, her immediate denial cutting through the doctor’s words. “I’m going home.”

“I don’t think you realize how dangerous a concussion could be.” The doctor spoke carefully, still in that soothing bedside manner that some docs managed so easily.  “Brain injuries are unpredictable. Your concussion appears mild now, but what if you have a seizure in the middle of the night?  What if you fall…is there someone at your home that can help you?”

Skye’s green gaze darted to Trace, then back to the doctor. “I-I’ll be fine.”

She’ll be alone.

The doctor glanced back at him. 

“
I’m
the patient,” Skye reminded her. Trace rather liked the snap of anger in her voice. Before, Skye had been afraid.  She’d been shaking when he first rushed inside that studio.

Reese should have been taking better care of her.  The agent had screwed up.

No, I screwed up. I should have kept her closer. 
Too much time had been wasted. 

“Are you…involved with the patient?” The doctor asked him, obviously trying to figure out his relationship with Skye.

He nodded.  She didn’t need to know more. “She won’t be alone.”

Some of the tension eased from the doctor’s face. “You’re going to need to keep her awake. Monitor her through the night.”

“Trace…” Skye began.

“Consider it done,” he said.

The doctor nodded, looking grateful. “I’ll go prepare discharge orders.” But then she hesitated. “You will keep a close eye on her?”

“The closest possible,” Trace promised. 

The doctor hurried from the room, and Trace headed toward the exam table. He locked eyes with Skye. Forgot about the doctor. “This is the way it will play out.  You come with me, or you spend the night here.”

Bright spots of color stained her cheeks. “I’ve been inside hospitals long enough. After the accident, I had
weeks
of therapy.  I can’t stay here.”

His hands pressed into the exam table on either side of her. “Then you’re coming with me.”  She’d been the one to walk into his office. To return to him.  He wasn’t about back away now.

“He’s accelerated,” Trace told her as he leaned in close. The room smelled like antiseptic, but she smelled of sweet vanilla.  He was close enough to see the gold in her eyes. “He snuck past my guard. He got to you. He hurt you.”  Trace barely held back his fury.  “I’m not leaving you on your own until that SOB is off the streets.”

A knock sounded at the door then.  He glanced over his shoulder.

“This is Detective Alex Griffin!” A voice called. “Skye, I need to talk with you.”

Trace’s eyes narrowed. He’d been wondering when the local boys in blue would be showing up.

“He’s the one who’s been handling my case,” Skye murmured. “The doctors…they must have called the police in.”

“You were assaulted.” Trace knew the notification would have been standard protocol.

“I guess he has to believe me now,” she said, voice tense.

His gaze cut back to her. Skye was clad in a one of those green paper hospital gown.  She looked so fragile sitting on that table. Her eyes were huge.  Her hair a dark curtain around her face. 

“Skye!” The detective called again.

And, before she could respond, the guy began to open the door.