Page 8 of Don't Let Go

Second, figure out whereherewas so I could plan accordingly. Squaring my shoulders, I took another deep breath. The guys needed to understand that no matter what, I wasn’t letting this go.

I couldn’t.

Chapter

Two

REMINGTON

“She’s getting restless,” McQuade warned when he emerged from her room.

The first time he’d gone in there had been following a nightmare that woke all three of us. EveryoneexceptPatch. It hadn’t woken her at all. If anything, she’d been trapped in that nightmare until McQuade settled next to her, then put a single hand on her shoulder.

Even in the low light cast from the hall into her room, there was no mistaking the frown easing on her face. More telling had been how the muted, almost smothered cries had ceased. She didn’tscreamnot long or loud. It was somehow worse, those near inaudible cries of pain. Censoring her own suffering, even in sleep.

It was a load of tosh, but she didn’t ask me.

McQuade eyed the coffee where it brewed. Locke and Patch both seemed to enjoy the espresso machine more, but espresso was not what she reached for all day. I preferred to give her options. I nodded to him. “Help yourself.”

The restlessness had been apparent over the past couple of days. She’d reduced the amount of sleep she needed. Thelingering signs of the concussion had faded and taken her light sensitivity with it. She hadn’taskedfor her computer the day prior, but she had been looking around for it.

Or presumably, that was what she was seeking.

“You’re thinking awfully hard over there,” McQuade commented. “Going to share with the class?”

I spared him a look. “Locke is the one who likes to discuss his feelings.”

His cough and splutter following his inhaling of the coffee amused me more than the comment. It also, almost, masked the sound of her bedroom door opening again. I cut a glance toward her reflection on the glass of one of the wall photos. It was blurred, indistinct—yet her. The long blonde hair that fell well past her shoulders and more than half of that length was a darker color. It was as though once she’d colored it years previously, she’d never changed it again.

Instead, she let the hair grow out. The blonde length a declaration for how long she’d been in hiding. A testament to her self-imposed exile, I supposed. Then again, she hadn’t gone below the grid for so long because it was a vacation. She’d genuinely constructed a prison of sorts out of her bolthole.

There she stayed, until she’d been dragged out of it. I couldn’t imagine her not kicking and screaming. So no, she’d given them a fight and they’d repaid her in blood and tears. Anger pulsed sluggishly through my blood the more I considered everything that had been done to her.

Including the latest—her memory loss. It wasn’t permanent, or so the doctor had sworn. But he also said he wasn’t sure if it was a true trauma response physicallyoremotionally. It could be both. So he strongly advised us to let her remember on her own. Thankfully, she hadn’t forgotten whowewere, even if she’d been stunned by our presence.

She remembered nothing of her incarceration or so she said… I believed her. She had no reason to lie to us. We’d been very up front about what we wouldn’t discuss. No one pretended we didn’t know, but the doctor thought for her sake, mentallyandemotionally, it would be better if she retrieved her memories whenshewas ready.

Information was power. I would listen for now, but I refused to let anyone have that kind of power over her.

“Are you all right?” The softness in the question grounded me almost as much as the concern filling her gray eyes.

Frowning, I glanced from her eyes to where her hand rested lightly against my chest. I’d missed her passage from the doorway to where I stood. Compromised. I was very much compromised for this woman. It could prove problematic, because none of us could afford to lose focus in a combat situation.

“I’m fine,” I assured her. Then because I wasn’t certain what had given my mood away, I added, “Why do you ask?”

“You looked—fierce,” she answered in a slow, almost sleepy voice. Not too drowsy though, she was waking up, yet still ready to do battle. We wouldn’t be able to delay her much longer. Whether she was ready or not, I had total faith that she would absolutely find out the information on her own.

“It’s early and McQuade isn’t the best company first thing.”

“Fuck you too, mate.” The cheerfulness belied the bite, but the snap was still there.

“Don’t call me mate,” I reminded him, then covered Patch’s hand on my chest. Closing my fingers around hers, I eased the contact that threatened to brand me through my clothes. “I made coffee. I was just considering breakfast. How are you feeling this morning?”

Initially, all but the blandest of foods had left her nauseated. She had vomited once or twice at the clinic. All consistent witha concussion. We’d kept the foods mild and eased her back into it. The night before, however, she’d eaten the grilled fish easily. I took that as a good sign.

“I’m hungry,” she admitted, her faint smile not quite erasing her puzzled expression. Though she didn’t say anything until I pulled out a chair for her at the table. Then I went about getting her coffee prepared. “Remy?—”

“I’m gonna grab a shower,” McQuade said and I cut a glance to where he leaned over the table and pressed a kiss to the top of Patch’s head. “Be good for Remy.”

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