Page 19 of Beloved Sacrifice

Chapter Four

Weston caught Rose as she started to slide to the floor. He grabbed her face in his hands as they both hit their knees.

“Rose,” he whispered, and laid his forehead against hers. “Rose?”

She clenched fistfuls of his shirt. “I can’t. I can’t hold it in.”

“Let it out.”

Rose pressed her face against his neck and screamed.

“Rose, Rose. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” He let out a slow breath. “I’m here, Brown Eyes. I’m here now.”

Weston pressed his cheek to the crown of her head and held her body tight to his. Deja vu washed over him. This wasn’t the first time he’d held her like this. She was shaking so hard that he worried she would fly apart if he let her go.

But he was finally holding her again.

He’d dreamed of, prayed for, this moment.

When she’d first woken up, he’d made the choice to drug her back to sleep. He’d had things to take care of, and though he desperately wanted to, he couldn’t talk to her, hold her, care for her, right then.

She’d seemed so detached, so cold when she woke this morning. Intellectually, he knew she was possibly still in shock and definitely grieving Caden’s death. Emotionally it had ripped at him to see that terrible blank look on her face.

And when she’d called him “Sir”…

Weston squeezed his eyes closed. The first time in over a decade he’d seen the only woman he’d ever loved, and he’d had to kidnap her, drug her, tie her up, and then cuff her to a bed. On top of that she was grieving.

As was he.

His little brother was dead. Dead because Weston hadn’t been good enough or fast enough to save him.

Rose continued to sob and scream through clenched teeth, her breath hot and wet against his collarbone. There was pain in those screams. He’d screamed like that when his bones had broken, muscles torn, and flesh burned. Rose was in just as much pain.

He watched the morning shadows change and lengthen as he held her. His bad leg protested being on the floor this long, but he wouldn’t move. He would hold her for as long as she needed to be held.

As long as she’d let him.

Weston had no illusions that once Rose had expelled some of her feelings, she wasn’t going to have a few things to say to him.

He’d practiced his side of the conversation thousands of times. But when he’d imagined this moment, Caden had been alive.

Rose stopped screaming. Now silent sobs and uneven breaths shook her torso.

The shadows tracked lazily and steadily across the floor. Weston clamped down on the part of him that was shouting this was wasted time, that they needed to move, because there were too many pieces in play, and his little cottage in the countryside was no longer the haven it had been for nearly five years.

Rose stopped crying.

The shadows vanished, the sun high overhead. The air coming in the open windows was warm. Weston eased his tight hold on Rose, keeping his arms around her, but not clenching her against his chest.

Rose sat up.

Without looking at him, she eased off his lap, first kneeling on the floor, then standing, bracing one arm on the wall as she did so.

Weston reached over and unfastened the remaining ankle restraint. Rose turned on the balls of her feet and walked away. The cottage wasn’t large—sitting room, kitchen, study, bedroom, and bathroom. He assumed she needed the bathroom.

The few times she’d woken before this morning he’d taken her to use the toilet, supporting her as she stumbled, eyes half closed. He didn’t know if she’d remember the way, or if she’d have to find it, but one way or another that’s probably where she was headed.

Weston slid both hands under his right thigh, just above the knee, and pulled up, grimacing as his leg bent. He clambered to his feet, neither graceful nor quick, but he was up. Rubbing absently at the damaged skin on the side of his neck, he limped over to the large chair in the sitting room.

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