That night, Tessa slept peacefully, likely the first sound and restful sleep she’d enjoyed since fleeing Kentucky. When she woke the next morning, it was dawn, the first hints of rosy sunshine seeping through the window curtains and Rene was spooned against her from behind, his arm around her waist. She had slept well, but not long; after the shower, they’d tumbled into bed together for another round of lovemaking, a pattern that had repeated itself frequently—and fervently—throughout the night.
She lay there for a long moment, a soft smile playing against the corners of her lips as she enjoyed the simple closeness of him, the warmth of his body. His bandaged hand rested lightly at her stomach, as if even in sleep, he felt protective of both her and the baby. She slipped her fingers through his, still smiling, and drew his hand to her mouth, kissing the back of his knuckles lightly.
He groaned softly as he roused, moving behind her, and when she felt the first hints of arousal, the hard, dim heat of him poking her lightly, it stirred sudden, almost immediate want within her, the way even a glimpse of blood, a momentary whiff of it in the air would stoke her bloodlust.
“Good morning,” she said, wriggling her buttocks against his groin and making him groan again.
“Good morning,” he murmured groggily, delivering a light kiss to her shoulder but when she rolled over, crawling atop him, straddling him beneath the sheets, he grew tense, his expression apprehensive. “Tessa…”
He kept doing this; never in a million years would she have guessed that Rene would remain insecure about the matter of his leg. Every time they made love, Tessa would think that it would be enough; he’d realize it didn’t bother her. But then the next time would roll around, so to speak, and he’d grow shy and anxious all over again—so uncharacteristically so, it charmed her.
“Shut up,” she told him, grasping him by the wrists and halfheartedly pinning his arms to the mattress. She leaned over, brushing the tip of her nose against his until he smiled. “Now kiss me.”
He arched his brow slightly. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, obliging her request. As the kiss lingered and deepened, she could feel him growing, the hot, hardened length of him pushing up between them. He didn’t need an invitation; she didn’t offer him one. She raised her hips slightly, then lowered them again, letting him sink into her, sliding in, deep, slow and full.
“Mon Dieu…” Rene breathed, closing his eyes. It was all she let escape his mouth; she fell into a swift, grinding rhythm against him and he could do nothing but gasp and cup his hands against her breasts for the ride. By the time she was finished some twenty minutes later, he lay beneath her, gasping and trembling, the muscles in his chest, stacked in his abdomen all sharply defined with a gloss of exhausted perspiration.
“You’re going to wear me out, pischouette.” He looked up at her and smiled, his hands still covering her breasts, his fingertips lightly, almost idly toying with her nipples.
“Tough shit,” she replied, giving a playful wiggle against his groin.
“Ah, vraiment?” His brow arched again in amusement. Oh, really? “Is that so?” His fingers slipped from her breasts to hook beneath her arms, and she shrieked, writhing in a sudden, convulsive jerk as he tickled her.
“Rene, stop!” she squealed, pitching sideways, landing on the mattress. He leaned after her, catching her again between the ribs, and she laughed, kicking and struggling. “Rene, stop! That tickles!”
“Est-ce que c’est ainsi?” he asked, laughing and ducking as she slapped at him. Is that so? “Tough shit.”
They tussled together for a few moments and at last fell still, lying side by side and face-to-face in bed, laughing. As his laughter subsided to a soft smile, he brushed her hair back from her cheek.
“How does it look?” she asked. She felt better, the soreness in her body from her fight with Martin all but vanished, but hadn’t gotten up to look in the mirror yet that morning. She’d have to face her brother soon; Brandon would see the bruises on her face and at last learn the shameful truth about Martin’s abuse, and she wasn’t looking forward to it.
“Beautiful,” Rene replied, his fingertips lingering against her face.
Her cheeks burned with bashful heat. “I meant the bruises,” she said, slapping his hand lightly away. She rolled over and slipped out of the bed, not missing the way he self-consciously drew the blankets across his waist, keeping his leg from view.
She walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her healing had helped fade the bruises, but they still remained, unmistakable. She had makeup in her bag, another luxury she hadn’t been afforded as Martin’s wife, and wondered if some powder and foundation, if applied heavily enough, would camouflage the damage.
“You could feed from me, take care of all that this morning,” Rene remarked from the bed.
She turned and glanced past the doorway at him. “No.”
“There’s still time. We’re not hooking up with Lina and Brandon again until later on this afternoon,” he said.
“No,” she said again. “I just can’t, Rene. Please stop asking me.”
He sighed, sounding frustrated, nearly exasperated, and she closed the bathroom door, cutting him off before he could even begin to argue.
After dressing, she watched as he sat against the edge of the bed, shook baby powder into his hands, then rubbed them briskly against the end of his right thigh. He slipped the stump down into a pale, silicone sheath at the top of his prosthetic, a sleek set of gray and blue metal tubes affixed between the mechanized knee joint and the frame of his foot. She’d never seen anything like it before, and found herself staring, curious and fascinated.
Rene noticed her attention and seemed embarrassed but resigned. “It’s something else, no?”
“It’s neat.” She reached out to touch the cool titanium shaft of his calf. “Does it hurt to wear it?”
“Not usually.” He shrugged. “As long as this top part fits right, it’s okay.” He patted his hand against the silicone sleeve. “I had to go and have it resized several times after the surgery. As the swelling went down, the fit would change. It took it a while, and I’ll probably need to have it adjusted a time or two more.”
He leaned over, tossing the little bottle of Johnson’s baby powder into his bag. She watched as he hooked his jeans with his left foot and pulled them toward him, slipping them on as he sat. “How did it happen?” she asked in a quiet voice. “Your leg, I mean.”
Brandon had told her about the incident in general terms, but it was the first time Rene had seemed willing enough to even remotely open up to her. “Well…let’s see…” he said, and she worried all at once that she’d pressed too hard too soon; he wasn’t ready to confide in her and would be angry with her for prying.
“That’s okay,” she said quickly, kicking herself mentally in the ass. Why do you have to go and try to push things, spoil it all, just when it’s going so good again? “Never mind, Rene. I shouldn’t have—”
“It’s all right, pischouette. I don’t mind,” he said, surprising her. He dropped her a wink and a smile. “I mean, we’ve seen each other naked. Not much point in keeping secrets anymore, no?
“Lina and I were partners, you know, both of us on the police force. So one night, we get this call down in the projects, this ratty twelve-story tenement complex, a 10-103—domestic disturbance.”
His smile grew somewhat forlorn. “I still remember all of the call codes. I’ll never use a goddamn one of them again, but they’re filed away up here.” He tapped his brow with his fingertip. “I never had much thought about what I wanted to do with my life, but I sure liked being a cop. I was good at it.”
Another sad smile, this one directed to her. “That’s the way it goes, no? So anyway, Lina and I show up for this 10-103, knock on the door all official like, and while one guy answers the door, the other tries to duck and run out the window. Since most folks aren’t inclined to run from the cops unless they have something to hide, I took off after him while Lina cuffed his buddy. We found out later it was a drug deal, the guy out the window was a mule with a half kilo of cocaine crammed up his ass—about fifty grand worth. So no wonder he didn’t want to get caught.”
His eyes took on a distant cast. “It was cold out,” he said, his voice low, nearly a murmur. “I remember that. And it had been raining. You could feel the moisture in the air, see it in the way your breath would mist around your face. The steps were slick. I was trying to hold on to the rail with one hand and unholster my gun with the other. I saw him below me. He stopped for a minute, and I remember I had this crazy thought that hey, this son of a bitch is going to listen to me after all, he’s going to stop the chase. Then he holds out his hand at me…” Rene pointed his index finger at Tessa’s nose. “And the next thing I see is a big flash of light.”
He stood, tugging his jeans up, hiding the prosthetic from her view again. “I must have blacked out. I don’t remember it hurting when he shot me. He missed me the first time, but caught my knee with the second round. I remember falling down the stairs, praying to God that I didn’t spill ass over elbows over the side of that goddamn fire escape. And Lina crying—I remember that, because it scared me more than anything. I knew I was fucked up pretty bad if it made Angelina Jones bawl.”
He blinked as if coming out of a reverie. “Sometimes my leg hurts. Or at least I think it does. It’s like the nerve endings don’t know there’s nothing there…they forget or something. Phantom sensations, that’s what my doctor calls them. I’ll wake up in the middle of the night thinking I’ve got some hell of a leg cramp. Either that, or like my foot’s turned all cockeyed.” He glanced at her. “Crazy, I know.”
A cell phone rang, loud but slightly muffled, startling them both. Rene laughed, reaching reflexively for his pocket. “I bet that’s Lina,” he said as he pulled out his phone. “Wish me luck as I feed her another line of…” His voice faded, his expression puzzled. “It’s not me.”
Tessa quickly crossed the room, grabbing her purse off the back of a chair. “I don’t know who might be calling me,” she said, with a bright moment of panic seizing her. She’d called her father only two days earlier and had hung up on him abruptly after delivering the news of Caine’s death—news she hoped had reached the Elders by now. As she fumbled around inside the small bag, she hoped like hell it wasn’t Sebastian. Because then I’d have to explain to Rene why my dad would be calling, she thought. And I bet he’ll be pissed as hell to find out.
She frowned when she pulled out her phone only to find it dark and silent. “It’s not me, either,” she said, bewildered, even as a cell phone rang again from somewhere in the room.
“Ici,” Rene said as he grabbed a dark coat from atop the air-conditioning unit. Here. “This is Martin’s coat. I grabbed it when we left the other motel. I didn’t want to leave anything behind the Elders could track us by.”
He reached into the interior pockets as the phone continued to bleat, pulling out Martin’s cigarettes and lighter, tossing them aside with a disgusted little snort. Finally, he pulled out a slim, silver phone. By then, Tessa had moved to stand beside him, and peered around his arm to see. Martin had obviously set the phone to both ring and vibrate; it thrummed, nearly jumping, like something alive against Rene’s outstretched palm. She didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID display, but she sure as hell recognized the name, which had been preprogrammed into the phone.
“It’s Monica,” she said, just as the phone at last fell silent. At Rene’s curious glance, she added, “Martin’s first wife. She’s a real bitch.”
“Ah.” Rene raised his brow.
“She stole something from me once, a necklace my grandmother Eleanor gave to me,” Tessa said, bristling even now to think of Monica yanking the green sapphire from around her neck. It’s mine now, she’d hissed.
“Well, maybe we should call her back,” Rene remarked, tucking Martin’s cell phone into the hip pocket of his jeans. “Offer her a little trade. Speaking of which…I bet our little pal in the trunk is ready for another doping.”
“I’ll come with you,” Tessa said, and he blinked at her in surprise.
“No, pischouette. You stay here. Let me deal with that salaud.”
“No,” Tessa replied. Brandon had faced his demons when he’d stood up to their brother Caine. Rene had stood up to his by letting her see him without his prosthetic in place, by confiding in her. Everyone around her had made some measure of peace with their pasts. Now it’s my turn, she told herself firmly. She might not have been able to confront Monica or take back Eleanor’s necklace, but there was one score at the moment she could settle. I need to stand up to Martin.
“I take it you were close to your grandmother, pischouette?” Rene asked as they walked outside together.
Tessa nodded. “I guess you could say I idolized Eleanor when I was growing up. She and Brandon…they were my best friends.”
“Drôle,” Rene remarked. Funny. “I don’t remember Brandon ever mentioning her.”
Tessa thought of their sixteenth birthday, how she’d seen Brandon jerk away from Eleanor in the foyer, a mixture of anger, bewilderment and hurt on his face.
“He wasn’t as close to her as I was, at least not after we turned sixteen,” she said. “Grandmother Eleanor gave me a very extravagant gift—that necklace I told you Monica stole from me. It had a green sapphire pendant, ten carats.” When Rene raised his brows and whistled, she nodded. “It was beautiful. My grandfather had given it to her—his first gift, in fact, after they were married. It was very special to me, but I think Brandon must have been jealous, his feelings hurt. After all, it was his birthday, too. But Eleanor told me sweet sixteen is more special for girls.” She watched Rene pull the keys to Martin’s car out of his pocket and thumb off the car alarm. “I always wished they would have reconciled before she died, but I guess they didn’t.”
“How did she die?” Rene asked.
“I don’t know exactly…” Tessa murmured as he opened the trunk.
You’re a goddamn lying, stealing Noble whore, Martin had said as he’d tried to strangle her. Just like your slut grandmother. So I guess that makes it only fitting that you fucking die like Eleanor.
“…but I’m about to try and find out.”
Martin looked like hell.
The places on his face where bird beaks and talons had torn or pecked him open were beginning to heal, but still, it was hard to look like anything less than warmed-over shit when you were hog-tied and gagged in the trunk of your own mid-sized luxury sedan.
He squinted blearily against the abrupt glare of morning sunshine as the trunk swung open. When he caught sight of Tessa, his brows furrowed and he bared his teeth around the wadded up washcloth in his mouth, wriggling and mumbling at her, an inarticulate mess of sounds.
“Good morning, sunshine,” Rene said to him. He held up a plastic water bottle, in which he’d dissolved a handful of crushed up Percodan tablets. “Breakfast is served.”
The cleft between Martin’s brows cleaved more deeply and he muttered and growled around the gag, angry and defiant.
“Now, now,” Rene said, setting the bottle down and grabbing Martin roughly by the hair, forcing his head up. “That’s no way to talk, what with a lady present.” He jerked down the gag and moved to cram the mouth of the bottle between his lips. “Down the hatch.”
“Wait,” Tessa said, catching him by the arm. He and Martin both blinked at her in mutual surprise.
She stared at her husband, feeling tremulous and frightened, as if he could somehow still hurt her. She stared at him as she would have a rattlesnake curled by her feet; despite the ropes and her proximity to Rene, she still could feel that threatening potential energy surrounding Martin, coming off him in thick, stinking, nearly tangible waves.
“You said something yesterday,” she said, her voice choked and quiet. “You told me I was going to die like Eleanor. I want to know what you meant.”
He held her gaze, his eyes cold and filled with contempt. “Go fuck yourself,” he croaked, spittle spattering against his cracked, blood-crusted lips.
Rene jerked his head, tearing hair loose from his scalp, and Martin uttered a hoarse cry. “You want to join the Hair Club for Men, asshole? Keep up that charming attitude.”
“Tell me what you meant,” Tessa said, clearing her throat and narrowing her brows. In that moment, as he’d cursed at her, the illusion of intimidation had fallen away and she’d seen him for what he truly was—not the monster who had beaten and terrorized her for the last four years, but something pathetic, battered and helpless, so consumed with greed and jealousy, she doubted he had room in his heart or mind for anything else. “You tried to kill me. You tried to kill my baby. You son of a bitch—did you kill my grandmother, too?”
When he said nothing, turning his eyes away as if bored with her, she felt the same rage that had filled her the day before—that fire that had been Eleanor’s—ignite again. Tessa grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and shook him furiously. “You tell me!” she cried. “You son of a bitch, you tell me right now! What happened to my grandmother?”
He locked gazes with her again, the hatred in his eyes spearing into her. “Why don’t you ask your grandfather?” he hissed and, startled, Tessa let go of his shirt and drew back. Martin chuckled at her surprise and bewilderment. “Go on. Call him on the phone, you stupid cunt. Ask him about it. He should know how Eleanor died—he’s the one who killed her.”
“Liar!” Tessa punched him hard enough to knock him loose from Rene’s grasp and send him crashing back to the floor of the trunk. But she wasn’t finished. She launched herself after him, all but scrambling into the back of the Jaguar as she began to pummel him, scratching, slapping and pounding his head and face over and over. “Liar! You’re a goddamn liar!”
“Tessa!” Rene caught her by the waist and hauled her backward.
“You’re a liar!” she cried at Martin, squirming against Rene. “My grandfather would never have hurt Eleanor! He loved her!”
“Yeah?” Martin spat out a mouthful of fresh blood; her knuckles had sheared open his bottom lip. “My father was there. He saw the whole thing, told me all about it. Augustus Noble crushed her goddamn throat with his bare hands, until her eyes bulged out of her goddamn skull and she pissed her fucking panties—how’s that for love?”
“Liar!” Tessa yelled again, but she couldn’t get to him to punch him anymore, not with Rene holding on to her. He hoisted her aloft, leaving her feet to pedal in the open air, and carried her forcibly back from the car.
“That’s enough, pischouette,” he said against her ear. He dropped her unceremoniously against the curb and gave her a warning look from beneath crimped brows. “Let me finish with him.”
“But I need to—” she began, objecting.
“You need to sit tight and be quiet before you wake up the entire place and have cops crawling all over my ass, wondering why I’ve got your husband cinched up in the trunk,” Rene said in a low voice. “Now stand still and stop it, goddamn it.”
He returned to the car and leaned over the trunk. Martin uttered a choked, gurgling cry that cut off quickly. When Rene finished forcing him to drink the contents of the bottle, he stood again, looked about warily, then slammed the trunk down.
For a moment, she thought he’d be angry with her, but as he approached, his expression softened and he touched her face with a gentle hand. “You better now?”
She nodded, looking away, sullen and upset. “He’s lying.”
He canted his head to catch her gaze. “He’s trying to push your buttons, pischouette,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her. “And you let him. Come on. Let’s get on the road.”
“My grandfather didn’t kill Eleanor.” Tessa turned, following him back to the motel room. Here, she began to collect her things, shoving them with angry emphasis into a bag as she continued to speak. “He adored her, would have done anything to make her happy. They were everything I grew up thinking love was supposed to be.”
He loved her like I love you, Rene, she thought, closing her mind and mouth. He couldn’t have hurt Eleanor any more than I could you.
Rene made a strange little coughing sound and she paused, glancing over at him. “What?”
“Nothing, pischouette,” he said, shaking his head and shouldering his traveling bag. “It’s just…”
His voice faded and he shrugged, making her frown. “What, Rene?”
He met her gaze, his brow raised slightly. “To hear you and Brandon talk about your grandfather, it doesn’t seem to me like you’re describing the same person at all. I’m not saying anything one way or the other, but this great man you keep mentioning, the one who loved your mamère so much…he’s the same son of a bitch who broke Brandon’s hands, punished him for wanting to go to school.”
She blinked at him. “I’m not saying the Grandfather was a great man. I’m not saying that at all. I didn’t live in the great house after Eleanor died. I don’t know what things were like for Brandon then. I—”
“Sounds to me like things were bad off for Brandon for a long time before your grandmother died,” Rene remarked.
“What the hell are you saying, Rene?” she asked, her voice growing sharp.
He shrugged again. “Rien,” he said. Nothing. “Just making an observation, that’s all.”
He walked out the door, leaving her to stand in the middle of the room, blinking after him.
He’s right.
She had long struggled to reconcile within her mind the Augustus Noble who had so doted on Eleanor—the loving and adoring husband Eleanor had always described, who had smiled easily, laughed often and shown nothing but warmth to his wife—and the domineering patriarch who had so cruelly ostracized and abused her twin brother, offering Brandon nothing but icy contempt and condemnation.
She’d tried to tell herself that he hadn’t been cruel before Eleanor died, that the bitter malice in his heart had come about in the aftermath of that loss. But that was a lie.
Because he was always cruel. Brandon was always afraid of him.
She slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and pressed her lips together in a thin, troubled line. I’ve never wanted to believe that. I still don’t want to. Because if that’s true…if the Grandfather really is that kind of monster…
“It means Martin’s right,” she whispered. “He murdered my grandmother.”