Hell, he’d be doing her a favor if he did.
CHAPTER 30
FOUR HOURS LATER
The cavern was dark, shadowed. It had obviously been used for more than simply holding one gutless bastard beneath the glare of an uncovered bulb. It worked for that, though. Very well actually.
Gypsy stepped toward the light slowly, aware of Rule, Lawe and Diane at her back, ensuring her protection.
Was it the same, she wondered, not bothering to censor her thoughts as she felt Rule’s presence inside her. Was it the same as the hunt, the heady rush of adrenaline once he would have been caught?
He wouldn’t have run.
No, she thought as a whisper of certainty touched her mind. He wouldn’t have run. He would have lied. He would have turned to Thea and her parents and they would have believed him, no doubt.
“That’s far enough.” The voice came from the darkness, drawing her to a hard stop as her gaze jerked to the darkness behind the light.
Gideon.
“He’s not at his most presentable.” The voice was amused and filled with disgust, the primal rasp of sound had Jason Harte flinching, a whimper leaving his throat as the scent of urine became decidedly stronger.
A heavy sigh sounded from the disembodied voice a second before broad fingers curved over his shoulders. Where his nails should have been, strong, sharp claws stained with dried blood extended instead.
“He doesn’t hold his water very well,” Gideon drawled then. “I remember when we were in the labs fighting for the fucking Council. The bastards they sent us up against didn’t piss themselves so easily, did they, Commander?”
“No, they didn’t,” Rule agreed as Gypsy felt the heavy weight of sorrow, remnants of remembered fury and pain echoing from him as she tried to find a way to comfort him as he did her.
She reached for him with her hand, feeling his fingers enclose hers as she continued to stare at the terrified Jason.
His brown eyes were bloodshot, pupils enlarged with terror. The tanned flesh of his face was strikingly pale, the once immaculate shirt and slacks hanging on his frame, torn, smeared with dirt and blood.
“Mark was brave when he died,” she whispered, seeing none of that quality in the friend he’d so trusted. “He wasn’t afraid for himself, just for me.”
She remembered that. Remembered the pain and regret, the sorrow and how his gaze had been so heavy with the lack of hope.
The hand on his shoulder moved.
Another whimper left Jason’s throat, filtering through the gag tied across his lips just before it was released.
“Gypsy?” Frantic, terrified, he searched the shadows where she stood. “God, Gypsy, honey, what are you doing here?”
He tried so hard to seem sincere, confused. He wasn’t confused, not in the least.
“Mark always told me to cry when I needed to,” she mused, feeling a heavy, dark fury filling her. “He said it would heal my heart. He said I didn’t have to be brave, that was what big brothers were for. And he never gave me nicknames. But you always laughed at me. Told me to be a big girl when you caught me crying over something. You always jeered at me because you said I wasn’t brave. And I fucking hated being called Peanut,” she spat out at him. “It’s over, Jason. I remembered what Mark was trying to tell me when he told me to be brave, not to cry, and called me Peanut. But even more, I remember what I saw when I watched Grody whisper the name of the friend who betrayed him in his ear. The pain.” It tore through her, ripping at her soul. “He loved you like a brother.”
Jason’s nostrils flared as he stared back at her, despite the darkness surrounding her. His gaze searched the darkness for some sign of weakness, for a way out. She recognized that look. The look of guilt, calculation and pure fear.