Page 24 of Take

I CRIED AND SHOOK SO badly I could barely stand. He stood behind me, making sure I didn’t bolt, although I’d learned a long time ago that running and disobeying only caused more pain, more scars.

I looked over my shoulder at him. “Please. I’ll do better.”

He glared at me; arms crossed, a barricade against any escape. I lowered my head and then stepped into the shower, the freezing cold water instantly soaking into me.

Pain.

How could water cause so much pain? But within minutes, every inch of me was so cold it felt as if I was burning. I wrapped my arms around myself to try and control the shivering, but nothing would stop it . . . except him.

He controlled my pain and my comfort.

Finally, he nodded and I scrambled from the tub. He waited with the towel and then wrapped me in its warmth, his hands gently rubbing my arms and back.

Suddenly, it all changed and I had chains on my wrists and ankles and he was coming at me with the scorching metal rod. No. God no. My Ink. He was going to kill my Ink.

I sobbed on the floor, my foot with my Ink tucked under me. “No. No.”

Now we were at my Talde’s house and I was ten years old again; the day he took me. I was looking in on the scene as Drake and I stood together, his hand casually over my shoulder as we watched my house burn. I wasn’t crying. I was calm and accepting.

Then he said, “Let’s watch Jasper burn.”

I woke screaming.

I bolted upright in bed, my skin damp, hair stuck to my cheeks like cling wrap. The sheet was wrapped around my body like a cocoon. I panicked and scrambled out of the tangled mess, falling out of bed and landing on my knees. I knew it was just a dream but still I rubbed my wrists and ankles, making certain the shackles weren’t there.

The blanket of fear smothered me. I was that girl again, squeezing my eyes shut with a desperate plea that the imaginary world I was living was just that; imagined—it wasn’t.

Desperate.

Alone.

Scared.

I staggered over to the corner of the darkened room, the moonlight lending its hand to show me the way and sank to the floor. Bringing my knees to my chest, I wrapped my arms around them and weaved my fingers together. I was sweating but freezing cold, unable to stop the violent trembles.

The door burst open and I jerked my head up.

Jasper stood in nothing but his jeans which had obviously been hastily thrown on because they were undone and revealed the trail of sparse hair. His dagger was in his right hand, stance wide and ready as he scanned the room. Every muscle was flexed, eyes black and narrowed with brows drawn over them. There wasn’t an inch of him that didn’t look tense and ready to slice apart any that got in his path.

This was the Scar assassin. The man who had every right to be cocky as hell. A beast. Threatening and virile. A predator.

And yet, it was comforting. I took a shaky breath as he saw me sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. He lowered his arm and his shoulders sagged.

“Jesus, Max.” He kicked the door closed with the heel of his bare foot and strode toward me. He came closer and crouched in front of me. I heard the creak of his denim jeans as they stretched. He reached out and picked up a strand of damp hair and rubbed it between his fingers. Letting it go, he traced a finger down the moisture on my cheek. “You’re sweating. And crying.”

“It’s hot.”

“Bull. You have a fever? How’s the wound?” He put the back of his hand to my forehead and I shoved it away.

“It was just a dream.”

His scowl deepened and the lines around his eyes accentuated. Jasper looked primitive; every bone displaying its purpose. There was no uncertainty with the structure of his face, or his expressions. And in some sort of fucked-up way, I liked his scowl the best. It breathed emotion. “One hell of a dream to be screaming like a horde of vampires are in your room.”

I shrugged.

“Don’t fuckin’ shrug at me.”

The remnants of my dream washed away as my anger rose. “Get out, Jasper. I’m fine. Go back to your woman.”

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