Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)(66)

He’d failed. And if he didn’t get Chelsea back, all his work was for nothing.

That couldn’t happen.

Fury built inside him, and no deep-breathing exercise was going to settle it down. It raged in his chest like an animal in a cage, grabbed his ribs, and shook them like bars. He needed to release his anger or he wouldn’t be able to think clearly.

He went to his shed and picked up a knife. Pulling up his sleeve, he cut the skin of his forearm. Blood welled, but the slice was clean and sharp, the pain not enough to scramble his emotions. He needed the equivalent of a defibrillator to his emotions.

He fired up his blowtorch and heated the branding iron he’d used on Chelsea. The infinity symbol, because she was going to be his forever. The reminder stoked his rage higher. If he didn’t short-circuit it, he’d go into a red zone. A category-five hurricane of fury was building in his head. It couldn’t be contained. He had to decide how to release it.

His hand trembled with anger and anticipation as the iron began to glow. He rolled up his pant leg and pressed the orange-hot iron into his skin. The smell of burning flesh rose. Sweat poured from his pores. The pain burst, bright and beautiful and clear. It seared through his leg in a blinding explosion.

He lifted the iron. As the pain reached a crescendo and ebbed, the anger faded. He tossed the iron into the dirt to cool. Sweat soaked his shirt, and pain throbbed in his leg.

But his head was cool.

With the same first aid kit he used on Chelsea, he applied ointment and bandaged the wound. The lingering pain would help keep him centered on his task.

He pulled his pant leg down over the bandage, straightened, and walked outside. With renewed purpose, he continued his examination of Chelsea’s escape.

Just a few barefoot prints led toward the meadow and woods. Last night he’d followed her into the forest, but she’d gotten away in the dark.

This could all be fixed. He knew where she lived. He’d taken her from there once before. He could do it again. This time, she would be forewarned. The police would be watching her. The bar would be higher. But if he was patient, everyone would let down their guard eventually.

No one could remain completely vigilant for an extended period of time. It wasn’t natural. When nothing happened, they would become complacent.

But waiting was not one of his strengths. Maybe he should find another woman and hone his methods.

Chelsea was still meant to be his, but there was no reason she had to be his only woman. But what if she remembered too many details about the container? What if she led the police right back to his doorstep? There had to be some way to get to her.

He had to get her back.

And if he couldn’t, she’d pay the ultimate price.





Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chelsea rested her head on the pillow. Nerves hummed through her like electrical currents. Her body refused to accept that she was safe. They’d put her across from the nurses’ station to keep her under close observation. But it was the hub of the floor, crowded and noisy. Every bang of a metal tray or slam of a drawer startled her. The doctor, a tiny Asian woman with a calm demeanor, had said she was stable. But she didn’t feel very stable.

According to the doctor, her body was still in flight mode. They’d offered her a sedative, but she’d said no. Why would she want to be drugged and helpless again?

She shivered, tugging the heated blanket up to her chin. Would she ever be warm again?

Her entire body ached, from her torn-up feet to her beaten face. Her eyeballs hurt if she moved them too quickly. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t cut, bruised, abraded, or exhausted.

But she was here.

Alive.

She’d won.

A sound in the doorway made her jump.

Tim.

Her heart stuttered at the sight of him. She hadn’t thought she’d ever see him again.

He walked into the room. As much as he tried not to stare, she felt his shock at her appearance. She hadn’t seen her face in a mirror, but she knew she looked awful. Her lip was split, both eyes blackened, her nose broken. She was dehydrated and hypothermic. Her skin felt raw and tight, as if it belonged to someone else.

At the foot of the bed, a nurse wrote on a chart and talked in a soothing monotone. “It’s going to rain tonight.”

Tim shuffled into her room. He stopped, as if afraid to approach her. As if he didn’t want to frighten her. “Hey, Chels. It’s me.”

Emotions choked Chelsea. She didn’t know what to feel first. Love. Relief. Gratitude.

She’d wanted to live—to see her husband and her children again—and she had.

Now what?

The nurse hung the chart from a hook and moved to Chelsea’s side to take her pulse. “I was just telling your wife how happy everyone is to see her.”