So this was how it would end, she thought dully. This man she barely even knew . . . yet she did know him. The man she barely knew would shatter her, break her soul—even Patrick hadn’t been able to do that.
In a flat voice, she said, “I did it as often as I had to.”
For a second, he looked blank, but then he shook his head. “Fuck that . . . you did what you needed to keep him from hurting you. How many times did he hurt you?”
Her ragged, broken train of thoughts stuttered to a halt.
Her ragged, broken heart stuttered inside her chest.
Dru clutched at his wrists. “Wuh . . . what?”
“I’m going to kill him.” Joss stared off over her shoulder. “I plan on doing it slow. I need to gut him. Slowly. That takes a long time to die and I need to hurt him. For every time he hurt you, I’m going to hurt him.”
With an abrupt jerk, she twisted away from him and stumbled off, getting a few feet between them before she turned to face him. Her knees shook and wobbled.
“You don’t get it,” she sneered at him. Easier, she thought. Get some distance. Protect herself. “I fucked him, do you hear me? As often as I had to.”
His eyes glittered as he stared back at her. Slowly, he closed the distance between them. She backed up, but the bed was behind her and she had nowhere to go. When his hand darted out and fisted in her shirt, she tried to twist away again, but he jerked her up against him. “I get that. I get it just fine. Maybe I don’t like it and you can’t much expect me to, but you did what you had to and I can damn well accept it. What I can’t accept is the fact that he hurt you . . . now tell me,” Joss growled, pressing his brow to hers. “Tell me how many times he hurt you, so I can go and kill him.”
Trying to breathe around the aching swell in her chest, Dru shook her head. “No. You . . .” She licked her lips.
He cupped her cheek, his big hand gentle. “I waited a lifetime to find you again . . . and nothing is going to keep us apart this time. Not him.” Then he tipped her head back, pressed a kiss to her lips. “Not him. Not you . . . not me.”
* * *
SHE was staring at him like she didn’t know what to think. What to say.
“A lifetime,” he whispered, trying to think past the rage and heartbreak.
He’d known Whitmore had tried to hurt her. He’d sensed it a few times. But he hadn’t realized . . . My fault, he had to admit that. He should have realized just how fucked up things were. He hadn’t protected her.
But he could now.
He was going to find Whitmore—
Whitmore. His focus sharpened, and as if his thoughts were on a zip line, they zeroed in on that scumbag, and he found himself locked in on the man he wanted to kill, almost as much as he wanted to breathe.
Must leave. No time—Whitmore’s thoughts, erratic and very unlike him. None of that cool condescension, none of that arrogant disdain. Just disjointed, edgy rage.
He stopped fighting it and let his thoughts flow.
Time, space, everything spiraled away as he found his thoughts lodged in a very nasty place . . . Patrick Whitmore’s mind. And Patrick was in the middle of his slick mansion, pacing, swearing, furious, and completely pissed.
Surrounded by the flow of people, organized chaos as suitcases were carried out. Boxes neatly stacked.
Must get to the airport—
Sucking in a breath, Joss broke the contact.
“Aw, no. This isn’t good. He’s cleaning up and heading out,” Joss muttered, his voice hoarse.
Dru blinked, looking confused.
“Whitmore. He’s covering his ass and getting out of town.”
“But . . .” She shook her head. “How? The compound?”
Joss swore. “Until we can connect it to him, we can’t move on him. It’s dicey territory, what we do. We can’t exactly present a psychic as evidence for a warrant.”
Dru looked down.
“I . . .” She licked her lips.
“I’ve got evidence,” she said quietly. “It’s not a lot. But it’s evidence. Pictures of him with men that were out at the compound. A few pictures of him with some girls who are likely listed as missing now. It’s going to be mostly circumstantial at best, but it