Even in the murky light, Caterina perceived the battle of emotions on his face: confusion, disbelief, disgust. But she had to try to reach him.
The blood on her palm and fingers had grown tacky as she moved them over the top of his hand and gently squeezed. A shudder shimmied across his body before he pulled his hand away.
He wasn’t going to help her, but would he send her back?
She surged to her feet, knowing now she needed to get away from him, but a wave of wooziness weakened her knees, forcing her to lean against the rough brick wall.
“Easy,” he said, holding up his left hand the way a cop might while directing traffic as he kept his gun trained on her.
“Can’t go back,” she warned, but then he urged calm with a slow dip of his hand and said, “I know you can’t go back.”
Did he know? she wondered, battling for purchase against the wall as her knees wobbled. She dug the tips of her fingers into the soft brick wall and stabilized herself.
His gun snapped up at her action and he muttered, “Holy shit.”
He didn’t understand.
How could he when she didn’t understand?
She had to do something to make things right with him. She had to focus. As she had more than once before that night, she began her mantra, focus, focus, focus. She fixed her gaze on the barrel of his gun and experienced relief a moment later when he finally lowered it.
“You’re Caterina Shaw,” he said.
She raised her gaze to meet his. His earlier emotions lingered there, along with a new one: pity.
Steely determination strengthened her knees. She didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. She had never wanted anyone’s pity, she remembered, along with another word, “Cat.”
He took a step forward as he said, “Your friend Elizabeth calls you Cat.”
An image flashed through her brain of bright blond hair, icy blue eyes, and a smile that came quickly and honestly.
“I’m Cat,” she repeated, but gasped with fear as he took another step toward her.
He recognized her distress and paused with his approach.
“You’re hurt. I want to help you, Cat.”
I’m hurt, she repeated in her brain and finally permitted herself to recognize the agony in her shoulder. A deep burn combined with a pulling pain whenever she moved. Wooziness when she tried to walk.
“He shot me,” she said, dragging the words from untrustworthy memory.
“Yes, you’ve been shot, Cat,” he said, the tones of his voice surprisingly kindhearted as he took another half-step toward her. “I will help you,” he added with a conviction that penetrated the last remnants of her fear.
Though Mick heard the word come from Caterina’s lips, the only features that seemed arguably human were her intense blue eyes and her hesitant voice. It was as if she was a young child searching for the right words to say, unaware of who she was.
What she was, he thought and heard her whisper, “Focus.”
Focus? he wondered, but immediately realized what she was attempting to do and joined in.
“That’s it, Cat. Focus,” he said, using her nickname to try and build trust.
Her head dipped down in what he suspected to be a nod and then in gradual stages, all the remaining bits of indistinct grey faded and were replaced by the pale tones of human skin.
He controlled his reaction to jump away at the unbelievable change, taking a moment to examine her. He had no doubt she was Caterina Shaw although she was paler and thinner than the photo he had been given. Her hair was the same deep ebony, but tangled, with bits of leaves and dirt caught in the thick curls. A purpling bruise marred one cheekbone, as if she had been recently struck.
Someone had hurt her, but that was not of his concern, he thought, remembering why he was here. He had an assignment to complete. He had to return her to Wardwell’s labs.
But then she pulled her fingers out of the brick wall and held out her bloodstained hand to him once again. She repeated her earlier plea. “Help me.”
Mick almost wished she had attacked him instead; gone into one of those rages warned about in her medical history. Violence, he could deal with. He considered himself a master in how to respond and protect himself and his men.
Sympathy and compassion? Normally not within his skill set. Yet that’s exactly what was needed here.
Fuck.