of his fury, the connection was clear, too clear. It flooded through her and she saw the events of last night the way he had perceived them—her drunk, throwing herself at his guests, flirting with Joss . . . Mike, whoever the bloody hell he was, even the doctor who hadn’t been able to keep his eyes off her tits, before she passed out in a drunken slump.
Then she saw more . . . and it left her almost ill.
Whore me out, will you? She stared at him, shaking with a fury of her own, and this time, she failed to do the simplest thing . . . Dru didn’t give him the meek, mild face he wanted to see every time he looked at her.
There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Then he tumbled her against him.
Dru sensed it coming and she moved with him, twisting her wrist and jerking away at the same time. She was on her feet and moving, her mind working furiously. She could get away from him; there was no doubt of that. The question was what to do about those who didn’t have an escape net.
But then somebody moved out from behind one of the columns. Dru came to an abrupt stop, staring at him for a blink.
It gave Patrick the split second he needed to catch her. She struck back with her head, smashing it into his nose. She heard him howl with fury, and hot, savage satisfaction burned inside her. She’d wanted to bloody him for so long, so, so long . . .
“Help me, damn it,” Patrick demanded.
Minton went to grab her.
Dru processed everything she could feel coming from Patrick—he had plans for her, big ones. They didn’t involve her being harmed; that was good. She could do a lot of damage if they were trying to keep from leaving marks . . .
But then Minton had his hands on her and flash, flash, flash. She didn’t even have time to process what he was going to do before it was happening. Seconds later she was flat against one of the decorative columns, face first, something thick and sturdy entrapping her.
“You really shouldn’t have tried to cross me, Ella. Did you think I wouldn’t find out what a little whore you were under the skin?”
Patrick stroked his fingers down her cheek, down her neck, over whatever it was Minton was using to bind her in place before coming to rest against her hips. “Know what happens to whores, Ella?”
* * *
TERROR. Blind.
Rage. All-consuming. It seemed to suck him in and he was lost, forever.
Run, have to run—
It was a scream inside him and everything was fear, determination and terror. But not his—even as lost to this fear as he was, he knew it wasn’t his.
Dru!
He couldn’t break free from it. Couldn’t break away from that choking, consuming fear. It tore into him and destroyed him—
“Damn it, you son of bitch! Come out of it!”
Icy water doused him.
Choking, sputtering, Joss shoved against the hands holding him. Long seconds passed as he struggled against them. He was on . . . the floor of the hotel where he’d been staying with Jones. Soaking wet. And on the floor.
In the hotel? What the hell? He’d just been in Starbucks.
“I found you in the parking lot,” Taylor said, kneeling down beside him, eyes grim. “You were out. Tasing you didn’t help—we had to douse you with water. You’ve been out of it for almost thirty minutes. I had to have Morgan help me haul your ass up here.”
Joss closed his eyes, trying to process those words, but even as he tried, something awful and sick swelled inside him. A scream, trapped inside his mind, while a sense of wrongness grew and grew. Fear—terror—
Sitting there, water puddling around him, he blocked everything out and focused.
“Joss, what in the hell is wrong?” Jones demanded.
Ice.
. . . stop the ice . . . you’re not going to feel things you need to feel if you keep up the ice . . .
Slowly, he eased back on some of the shielding he’d built in his head.
And fury slammed into him.
Shoving upright, he snarled. “Phone. Need my fucking phone, now . . .”
Just the little glimpse . . . that was all he’d take, but still. Couldn’t reach out to her. Couldn’t take that grief again. But this wouldn’t happen.