Defending His Hope, page 6
“I was,” I whisper. “What else would you call it? I couldn’t leave the compound. I didn’t have a phone. A computer with internet access. A car. Money. Even a driver’s license. He kept me prisoner. Just because he didn’t sell me doesn’t mean I wasn’t his.”
Wyatt stares at me, a muscle in his jaw ticking and anger vibrating off him in waves. I don’t know what to do—how to make him understand. So I start talking.
“I met him in Vegas three and a half years ago while I was on vacation. He was charming. I was living in Los Angeles, and he actually courted me. Like flowers and candy delivered to my apartment, dates—he’d fly from Salt Lake City to L.A. on a private jet and whisk me away for a long weekend in Cancun or Vancouver…”
Now I actively regret not taking Wyatt up on the offer of bourbon. Though with how little I’ve eaten—for years as Simon kept me rail-thin—it would have gone right to my head.
“But every time we went somewhere, he’d disappear for hours on end. Business to take care of. And he was so sincere, so apologetic when he’d come back, that I believed him.”
“What kind of business?” Wyatt braces his hands on the counter behind him. Still tense, but listening.
“Importing and exporting fine art. At least that’s what he said. I should have questioned him. He never took me to a single gallery.” With a sigh, I lift my gaze. “Will you sit down? Please?”
“Will you eat more?” he challenges.
I shoot him a look, but he’s completely serious, and I roll my eyes. “I’ll try.”
Righting the chair, he perches on the edge of it, then slides my plate directly in front of me.
A deal’s a deal, so I try a bite of potatoes. “You’re not a terrible cook, you know.” A slight flush darkens his cheeks. He’s clearly not used to anyone flattering him. “These are really good.”
“Use enough butter, anything can be tasty.”
I don’t know how I can laugh when I’m reliving my worst nightmares, but I do, and pain snakes around my torso. Wyatt reaches for my arm, but stops with his fingers hovering an inch away. “Fuck, Hope. I want to touch you, but—”
“It’s all right,” I say softly. I need him to anchor me to the present. He drapes his hand over my wrist, his fingers warm and strong. He starts to trace a pattern on my skin with his thumb. It’s so calming, I melt against the back of the chair. “I know you’re not him, Wyatt. He was never…tender. Hell, once he knew he owned me, he didn’t speak to me at all unless he needed something.” Too many memories battle for space in my head. Tension grabs the back of my neck. I’m still ravenously hungry, but the idea of more food turns my stomach.
Just get it out. All of it. Then maybe…you’ll feel better.
“We dated for six months, and then out of the blue, the First Bank of Salt Lake City called me and offered me a job. It was more money than I’d ever made before, and when I told Simon, he was convinced it was kismet.”
Wyatt snorts. “I take it he arranged for the job?”
I nod, my eyes burning. “Three weeks after I moved, they fired me. I’d rented an apartment, but my landlord was at my door the next day. No job, no lease. And Simon was right there. Offering me a place to stay, telling me he loved me and he’d been about to ask me to move in with him anyway. I was all alone. He’d already cut me off from my friends—insisting they were all talking behind my back. My mom is still in California, but we haven’t spoken since I was a kid. She cheated on my dad when I was eight and left. Didn’t even get in touch when I sent word that he died. I never forgave her for that.”
The weight of how very alone I am hits me square in the chest. “Simon moved me into his house—his compound—but he sent almost all of my things to storage. Everything but my clothes. He said it would be easier for me to start fresh. I was so upset over losing my job that I believed him. God. I was so stupid.”
“No. You weren’t stupid, darlin’. You didn’t do anything wrong. This Simon Arrens is a piece of shit who doesn’t deserve to keep breathing.”
Arguing won’t get me anywhere. It doesn’t matter that he’s wrong. That it was my fault. That I didn’t see the signs until it was too late. All I care about now is keeping Wyatt safe. But the only way to do that is to leave as soon as the storm lets me.
Wyatt
With every word that spills from her lips, Hope loses a little more of her strength, her spirit. She swipes at a single tear trailing down her cheek. “I let myself be trapped. No friends, no job. And it was okay for a few weeks. He had staff. I didn’t have to lift a finger. His chef cooked all our meals—and I didn’t protest when Simon insisted we both switch to this strict vegetarian diet. I was hungry all the time, but he told me I’d get used to it. And I did. Mostly.”
I’ll cook her bacon and steak every meal. Hell, I’ll learn to bake. Cakes, cookies, pie. Anything she wants. Except, she’s going to leave in a day—maybe two—and then she’ll be alone again.
“Eat more, darlin’. Please.” I nudge the plate closer, and she picks up her fork and pushes the mashed potatoes around in a circle before taking a single bite.
“I used to sneak veggies from the fridge,” she admits. “Until he caught me. ‘So that’s why you’re still so plump,’ he said. ‘I’m so disappointed in you, Hope. I thought you loved me.’” Her tone bleeds anger, but it’s not all for the asshole who abused her. She’s mad at herself too. I’m going to rip his balls off and feed them to him for how he stripped her down to nothing.
“The first time he hit me, it was close to midnight.” She shudders, her gaze unfocused as she stares out the kitchen window into the darkness. “He’d taken my cell phone. To upgrade it. But it had been two days, and he hadn’t given me a new one. So I went into his office and got online to order one for myself. When he found me, he was livid. He dragged me up to the bedroom, shoved me against the wall, and told me I was never to touch his things without permission again.”
I clench my fists under the table. Murphy whines next to me and rests his head on my thigh.
Yeah, pal. I know. I need to calm the fuck down.
“I called him an asshole.” Hope’s shoulders curl inward, and she stares down at her plate. “That’s when he backhanded me. I didn’t even realize what had happened. One minute I was yelling at him, the next, I was on the floor tasting blood.”
If I thought she’d let me, I’d take her in my arms. But she’s trapped in her memories, and I know better than most the only way out is through.
“Simon apologized, tucked me into bed, and told me he loved me. He was so sweet, it confused the hell out of me. It was late. I couldn’t leave. The next morning, I walked out to the main road with just my purse and hailed a cab to the airport. But when I got there…” Hope’s eyes fill with tears, and she swallows hard. “None of my credit cards worked.”
“Goddamn asshole.” The urge to pace, to escape into the darkness, to take my aggressions out on the logs waiting to be split is strong, but Hope looks over at me like my presence is the only tether she has to sanity.
“A week before, he’d convinced me to let his financial advisor manage my portfolio. I didn’t think twice about handing over all of my account information. I had almost a hundred and twenty-thousand tied up in investments. Maybe ten thousand liquid cash. He took everything.” Her tears spill over, and I barely manage to move her plate out of the way in time.
Sliding closer, I wrap my arms around her and let her cry. “You didn’t do anything wrong, darlin’.”
“Bullshit,” she whispers, her lips close to my ear. “I let him take everything from me. I should have called one of my friends from the airport. Or one of my former coworkers. Or even the police back in L.A.” After a sniffle, she draws back. “Instead, when he showed up all ‘knight-in-shining-armor’ and told me it had to be some sort of mistake—that we’d sort it out—I believed him.”
Hope wraps her arms around herself and sniffles. Exhaustion darkens circles under her eyes, and I don’t think she has much left in her. “How long were you…with him?”
Her little huff is oddly reassuring. “I was only with him for maybe three weeks after that. But that’s all the time he needed to trap me. Before yesterday, I hadn’t left his compound in thirty months, two weeks, and five days.”
Fuck. I’m going to end the shitstain. Painfully.
“Hope, look at me.” Cupping her cheek, I dash away one last tear. “He can’t hurt you here. You were heading to Seattle, right?” She nods, and I try for a reassuring smile. Not sure if I’m doing it right since I haven’t had the need for that particular expression since I moved up here. “I know people there. They can protect you.”
Her shoulders tense. “You don’t understand. Maybe if I’d left right away, he’d have let me go. But after he knew I couldn’t run—after he took all my money—he told me I had to ‘earn my keep.’ I used to manage tax accounts for multi-million dollar corporations. So I started doing his books. That’s when he knew he owned me and stopped hiding what he did for a living.”
Every new revelation ratchets my anger another dozen notches. “So you can put him away. Testify.”
“Worse. Or better, depending on how you look at it.” Hope fumbles for the belt on my robe. What the hell is she doing? With her good arm, she reaches down her shirt and winces. “I knew no one would believe me if I walked into a police station and claimed Simon Arrens was a criminal.” She holds out her hand, and resting in her palm is a memory card.
“You have proof.”
“Bank records, emails, his electronic ledgers…all of it. And he probably knows it. His laptop will have a record of the files I copied. The type of man he is? He’ll be livid that I dared to leave him. But there’s no way he’ll let anyone with this data live free. He wants this back, and he’ll kill anyone standing in his way.”
7
Wyatt
For the first time since I turned my back on society, I regret it. Up here in the middle of nowhere, without a laptop or a cell phone—or any service—we can’t call for help. Can’t access what’s on the memory card or find out if it even still works.
“I hid it in my bra,” Hope says softly. “I didn’t know if I’d be able to get out after I copied his ledgers. I thought…that would be one of the few places he wouldn’t look. Even if he…punished me.”
Fuck me. I don’t want to know what the asshat did to punish her. The memory of her scarred back flashes through my mind, and I dig my fingers into my palms so hard I’m going to leave bruises. He whipped her. Used her as a punching bag. Maybe worse.
“That’s why you wanted your bra earlier.” Regret leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I was so short with her over the damn thing. “To make sure the card was still there.”
She nods, then glances back toward the couch. Her lower lip wobbles slightly. “I didn’t want to tell you. Not any of it. But the SUV…I’m sure Simon knows where it is. It was brand new.”
“With GPS.” Shit. “I found you two miles from here. But the car fell to the bottom of the ravine when the tree gave way. That’s at least another half a mile. Unless this guy is the Abominable Fucking Snowman, there’s no way he can get here until the snow melts. And that won’t be for at least a day.”
Hope doesn’t respond. Her gaze is fixed on the memory card in my hand.
“Come with me, darlin’.” I help her up and keep my arm around her waist as I lead her into the bedroom. “We’re going to put this somewhere safe so you can relax.”
She gives me the side eye. “I’m not just leaving it in your nightstand drawer, Wyatt.”
“Not what I was suggesting.” Pulling a painting of snow-covered mountains off the wall, I show her the safe, then press my index finger to the sensor. The door pops open, revealing two shelves, perfectly organized. My Glock 19, along with ammunition, a small stack of velvet boxes with all the medals and awards I’ll never wear again, my Trident, and a folder of government papers one needs, but never actually uses.
Keying in the long sequence of numbers that lets me add a new print to the lock, I gesture to the sensor. “Right index finger.”
“You’re giving me access to your safe?” Confusion furrows her delicate brows. “You barely know me.”
I lift her hand and press her finger to the glass square. “Hope, I was trained to read people. To know when they’re lying and when they’re not. Everything you just shared with me? I believe you, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to let you deal with this alone. So put the memory card in the safe, and tomorrow, we’ll go to the General Store, get you some clothes that actually fit, and I’ll call one of the few men in this world I trust. West lives in Seattle. He and his team—they’re all former military—can make sure Simon never hurts you again and keep you safe until he’s been neutralized.”
“N-neutralized?” Hope takes a step back, her voice cracking. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what you think I mean. Men like that...prison doesn’t stop them. Threats only make them more determined. Sometimes, there’s no other way.”
Fear steals the color from her cheeks, and she holds her injured arm close. “I used to pray he’d just...die. Or that one of his rivals would come for him. Even if that meant I died too.” She shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “But I never wanted to be responsible.”
“You won’t be.”
“In what universe?” Holding up the memory card, she chokes back a sob. “I wanted him in jail. Somewhere he couldn’t hurt me.”
“And how did you expect that to work?” I arch my brows, and when she doesn’t have an answer, I pluck the card from her hand and put it on the second shelf. “There is no place he can’t get to you. Not if he’s as connected as you say he is. If he has FBI agents on his payroll, he won’t spend more than a single night behind bars. Men like that have contingency plans in place if anyone dares come after them. You’re a financial planner. You deal in numbers. In black and white. I don’t. I live in the gray—or I used to. This? This is firmly in the gray. You want to survive? See another Christmas? Another birthday? Be able to walk down the street without constantly looking over your shoulder? This is what needs to happen.”
Slamming the safe door, I set the lock and rehang the painting.
Hope’s strength, her defiance, and the shred of control she was holding onto crumble into dust, and she backs up until she hits the bed. “I can’t… He’ll never stop…” Covering her face with her hands, she breaks, her shoulders heaving with each silent sob.
Did you have to be so fucking blunt? This is why you’re better off alone.
I don’t know how to comfort her. Or if she’ll even let me. I told her the truth, but that’s not what she needed. Hope needed me to protect her. To reassure her. Before I can sink down next to her, Murphy pads into the room, jumps up onto the bed, and presses his whole body to hers. Taking a seat on her other side, I drape my arm around her. Hope curls into me, and fuck. It’s the most natural thing in the world to have her in my arms. Every moment I spend with her makes me want more, and I’d do anything to stop her tears—except lie about the danger she’s in.
“Shhh. It’s gonna be okay.” I’m not sure I believe my own words. How can I when I know so little about this Arrens shithead? But there’s one thing I do know. He’s not getting to her when I’m around.
She peers up at me. Splotched cheeks, red-rimmed eyes, her lip quivering—desperate for reassurance I don’t know how to give. “How? You’re right. He’s too powerful.”
“I have some damn powerful friends of my own, Hope. Friends who don’t mind getting their hands dirty.”
She doesn’t look like she believes me, and fuck if I don’t want to promise her I’ll die before I let her ex-turned-captor hurt her again. I need to get the hell out of here. Put some space between us so I can think straight.
“We’re safe for tonight. No one’s getting through all that snow. It’s late, and you’re exhausted. I need to change your dressing, then you should rest.”
She doesn’t protest when I push to my feet and head for the kitchen for the first aid kit. And then I see her half-full dinner plate. Dammit.
I stop to pull another pound of bacon out of the freezer. She’s going to regain her strength if it’s the last thing I do. I’m not sure how many more meals I’ll have with her, but I’m gonna make them count.
By the time I return to the bedroom, Hope’s already under the covers, fast asleep. My robe is draped across the end of the bed, and Murphy’s curled up next to her.
Setting the first aid kit on the nightstand, I lean down and ghost my lips over her forehead. “Sleep well, darlin’. I’ll change that dressing in the morning.”
Before I cross the threshold back to the living room, I pause, one hand braced on the door jamb. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m gonna miss you when I have to let you go.”
Hope
I rise up on an elbow, blinking hard at the dull, orange glow coming from the small wood stove in the corner of the room. My arm aches, but it wasn’t the pain that woke me.
Murphy’s solid weight is gone, and only a hint of his warmth remains next to me. He whines from the next room, the sound immediately followed by a deep moan.
Wyatt.
Shit. I scramble to my feet, but the room spins. Throwing my hand out, I catch the wall and force myself to breathe.
“Take cover!” Wyatt’s muffled shout—and the overwhelming pain in his voice—helps me focus, and I stumble out of the bedroom. Murphy stands in front of the couch, nosing Wyatt’s shoulder. He whines again, finally pawing at the man’s leg. But Wyatt fights against the blanket tangled around his hips.
“Wyatt? Wake up. You’re scaring me.” I lean down, my hand inches from his shoulder until Murphy grabs the loose flannel next to my knee and tries to pull me back.
