Page 24 of Beautiful Vengeance

Marcus reached for his cane and quietly pushed to his feet, then waited. He could see her now, lying on her side. Her brows were drawn together in a deep frown and she seemed agitated. His heart went out to her. Nightmares and night terrors were horrifically raw and real for anyone experiencing them.

For someone who had undergone capture and torture like they had, it was hell.

When she made another low sound and her legs twitched as if she was kicking someone in her dream, he couldn’t stand by and watch her suffer a moment more. He quickly rounded his desk and went down on one knee in front of the sofa. Her notebook lay on the floor. She still had the pen clutched in her hand.

He set his cane down and reached a hand toward her shoulder. “Kiyomi.”

Her eyes flew open, blind with panic and terror. Her fist drove upward, the end of the pen aimed at his face. Marcus reared his head back and caught her wrist in his hand just in time, stopping it inches from his eye.

Realizing what she’d done, Kiyomi heaved upright with a wrenching gasp and tore her hand free, dropping the pen as she shrank back into the corner of the sofa. “Sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, her face pale. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right.”

She shook her head and scooted farther away from him, dragging a trembling hand through her hair.

He couldn’t bear to watch her berate herself for something she had no control over. “It’s all right,” he repeated in a low voice. “No harm done. And I know what that kind of nightmare is like.”

She dragged a hand over her pale face and exhaled a shaky breath, still avoiding his gaze. “Yeah, I bet you do.”

They had that in common, something none of the others could relate to. “Here.” He offered her the mug of unfinished tea. “It’s cold now, but the honey will help.”

Kiyomi accepted it and took a sip, still not looking at him. “Thank you.”

He didn’t answer, trying to think of something to say to ease her embarrassment. To his surprise she set the mug down, leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck.

Recovering fast, he drew her close, pushing up onto the sofa to draw her into his lap. Kiyomi nestled in closer, and the way she pressed her face into the side of his neck squeezed his heart like a fist. This woman was as strong as they came. For her to reach for him like this and admit she wanted him to hold her told him just how shaken she was, and how much she trusted him.

“You’re safe,” he murmured against her hair. It smelled like strawberries and she felt like heaven, soft and warm in his arms. “You’re safe now.”

She inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly, her arms tight around his neck.

Marcus held her like that for a few minutes. Slowly her grip on him relaxed, but she didn’t let go. Didn’t try to pull away, still wanting to be close. Unable to help himself, he nuzzled her hair with his cheek, eased one hand up and down her back in a soothing motion.

She sighed and seemed to melt into his hold. “I keep dreaming the same thing over and over,” she whispered finally.

His hand paused on her back. “About what?” he asked, and resumed the motion.

She was silent a long moment. “Rahman.”

He made a low sound that told her he was listening, but didn’t say anything, waiting for her to decide whether she wanted to say more.

“I’m chained to the floor in my cell,” she continued and Marcus’s whole body went taut, outrage and protectiveness roaring through him. “He’s got the whip in his hand. And I can’t move. I know what’s coming, but I can’t get away no matter what I do.”

His own ghosts stirred, sending a ripple of cold over his skin.

Cold. Hungry. Tired. Pain.

Hands and feet tied to the chair they’d shoved him into the day before.

The man in the mask standing in front of him with the metal pipe in his hands. Waiting to slam it into Marcus’s pulverized thigh again.

He banished the horrific memory, focused on the scent and feel of Kiyomi instead. “Helplessness.” He knew it all too well.

Kiyomi lifted her head, their faces inches apart as she stared into his eyes. Hers were like mirrors, a deep, liquid brown so dark he could see his own reflection in them. “Did the men who hurt you die?”

“Eventually, yes.” Unfortunately he hadn’t been given the satisfaction of killing them himself. He curved his palm around the back of her head, gently ran it down the cool, silky fall of her straight hair to where it stopped between her shoulder blades.

“One day I’m going to kill Rahman for what he did to me.”

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