Page 5 of Brutal Ice

Fallen angel. He looks like a fallen angel. Sculpted cheeks. High forehead. Beautiful, but in a savage and dark way. His thick hair tumbled over his forehead. He wore all black. A thick shirt with sleeves that stretched down to his wrists.

“How did you wind up in the trunk of that car?” he asked her.

She blinked. Her eyes had been on his mouth. A mouth that was slightly cruel. Oddly…sexy.

What is wrong with you? You can’t find anything about him attractive. Not the time. Not the place. Not the man.

Except…

Hero?

“Violet,” he said her name as if he were tasting it—and he liked the taste. “How did you wind up in the trunk of that car?” His thumb brushed lightly over her lower lip.

“I was…dancing. I have a show coming up. I-I’m playing Snow White, and I stayed late because I was working on the finale. Everyone else left. I came out. The stage was dark. The whole theater was dark, as if everyone had forgotten me. I went out the back. I pushed open the theater’s rear door and then…” Her voice trailed away. She could recall shoving open the door. Going out into the night. Her breath caught.

“Remembering details, are you? Something that scares you?”

Everything about the night scared her. “I went out the back.” Her voice was a whisper. “Didn’t look behind me as I hurried for my car. S-someone grabbed me. Slapped a hand over my mouth.”

His thumb brushed over her lips once more. An ever-so-careful caress.

“And another hand grabbed my waist. I didn’t have time to scream.” The memories poured out as if a dam had burst. Fear poured through her. “I kicked back at him. Fought at his hold. I got free, stumbled forward, and—” Violet stopped.

Because the memory stopped.

“Violet?”

“He slammed into me. Twisted me and threw me to the ground. I think I hit my head.” Maybe?

His hand freed her chin. Rose to lightly slide over her temple. Then, higher, to her forehead. His long fingers dipped under the thick curtain of her hair, and she winced when pain shot through her head.

“Bastard,” he breathed.

“Then I was in the trunk. It was dark, and I couldn’t get out.”

He let her go. Eased back fully into his seat. “You didn’t see him. His face?”

She pushed at the memories but found darkness. “I don’t remember seeing him.”

He started driving once again.

“I’m not a big fan of the dark,” she confessed. She was rambling and didn’t care. Still trying to humanize herself in case he was the bad guy?

He doesn’t feel bad. He touches me so carefully. And when he’d said bastard in that low, lethal snarl, she’d heard the rage. A rage that had been directed at her attacker, not at her.

“When I was seven, my older brother Dawson locked me in a closet.” Violet gasped after her confession. Why, why had that spilled out? Now she just needed to stop. Only she couldn’t seem to do that.

“Why the fuck would he do that?”

“He thought it was funny. A joke. We were playing hide and seek, and he locked me in, and he meant to get me right out—that’s what he said—but, the lock got jammed. I was stuck in there.” Shivers spread over her arms. “My mom wasn’t home, and Dawson didn’t know how to get me out. It was so dark in there, and I stayed in that closet?—”

“How. Long?”

“Five hours. Until she got back. Dawson got tired of hearing me crying, so he went into the other room. He turned his radio up as loud as he could. I think it drowned out my cries.”

“Want me to kill your brother?”

“What?”

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