Page 38 of Beloved Sacrifice

“Safe,” she spat. “Familiar?” She took a half step back, yanking her wrist from his hold. “Let go of me.”

Weston’s gaze snapped back to her, his jaw clenching. He was so big, so battle scarred. Caden had been lean and darkly elegant. More than once in her life she’d been told she and Caden matched—both with dark hair and eyes, with the lean builds of runners. And both of them so fucked up they were barely functional.

She and Weston didn’t match. They had once—he’d been her knight, her protector.

Now he was large and imposing, scarred and stern. But she hadn’t forgotten how he’d held her when she’d wept and sobbed.

“You were Caden’s submissive. I know you were both active in the lifestyle.” He sighed. “I should have realized that so soon after his death, you wouldn’t want to be reminded of having lost your Master, and—”

Your Master.

Rose wanted to throw up. She pressed her hands to her stomach. “Shut up,” she snarled. “Shut up, you son of a bitch!”

Weston turned to keep her in sight with his left eye. “Let’s go back inside. I’m sorry to have upset you.”

“To have upset me?” Rose couldn’t stop herself. She threw her head back and laughed, but it wasn’t amused. It was a horrible, desperate sound. “You’re an idiot, Weston. You were then and you are now. You have no idea…”

No idea what your brother did to me. No idea how much I’ve been hurt. No idea that I never stopped loving you.

“Enough, Rose. We don’t have time.”

The reprimand hit her like a physical blow. She thought she’d gotten ahold of herself. For a few minutes there, when he’d been explaining what he found out, she’d forgotten the events of the past week, caught up in the unraveling mystery.

But that hadn’t lasted.

She dropped her hands to her sides, bowed her head submissively, and said, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

Weston made a disgusted noise, and she flinched.

“Enough, Rose. I told you. We don’t have time for this. Stop playing.”

Rose inhaled and slowly raised her head. “Playing?” Before she could stop herself, or before her submissive self could censor the movement, she took a step to the side, raised her arm, and slapped him with her left hand. He hadn’t seen the blow coming, because she slapped his damaged right cheek, the side where he didn’t have an eye—a cruel, calculated move.

Weston’s head snapped back.

Her palm stung, and it felt good.

There were so many things she wanted to say, that she wanted to scream at him, but more than that she wanted to get away from him. She settled with spitting out, “Go to hell.”

And she ran.

She could move fast—she was out the door and blinking in the sunshine almost before he’d recovered. She heard him pounding after her, but she’d seen him favoring his right leg. He wouldn’t catch her.

Barefoot, she ran through the grass. The lack of shoes would become a problem at some point, but the little cottage—their cottage, the one he’d promised her so long ago—was in the middle of rolling green hills. She ran downhill, paralleling the gravel driveway. She’d have to follow the road to a town. From there, she’d…

Rose had no idea what she’d do from there.

Her steps faltered and she almost stumbled, but after a few awkward steps, she found her rhythm again. For now, she would run. Later she would figure out what to do.

There was a buzzing noise, and she slowed a bit to look up, her instincts humming. She thought she saw something small in the air above her but the sunlight was bright and she had to look away. Had to look at where she was running.

Was that her?

Marek looked at the image the drone was transmitting. He’d been surveying the small cottage where local gossip said an American war veteran with only one good eye lived. A few seconds ago, a door on the side of the house had opened and a figure darted out. He tapped the controls, dropping in elevation to get a better look at the figure.

A slender, dark-haired woman was running barefoot through the front garden.

Marek jumped off the hood, throwing the laptop and drone control panel into the backseat as he slid behind the wheel.

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