A dozen years ago, he’d hurt her badly—and it had nearly killed him to rip her heart out. That she could still spare him even a shred of anger after all these years he took as a good sign. If he was irrelevant to her now, she’d have no emotion beyond mild surprise. She certainly wouldn’t bother to bristle and clutch that robe like a shield.
“From budding author to FBI Agent. That is a stretch.”
Then it dawned on him; he would be training his Cherry to go into the field, to submit to some unscrupulous ass**le who sold females for a living, a man who would touch her, maybe hurt her. One agent had already disappeared, might even be dead. She’d volunteered for immense danger. And he wouldn’t be there to guide her. But York would.
Damn it.
He crossed his arms over his chest. Maybe that way she wouldn’t see how hard his heart was pounding at the idea of her volunteering to walk into a snake pit. “Since you’re FBI, I presume you’re proficient with a gun and hand-to-hand, but if you don’t have the time or guts to fully prepare for a potentially dangerous BDSM environment, then I won’t train you for this mission.”
“Oh, I have the time and the guts, but you’re right; you won’t train me. I’ll find someone else. But I am going to do my job. Darcy Miles, the missing agent, is my friend. And what I do is none of your business.”
Because he’d thrown away the right to say anything when they’d been sixteen, near the end of their sophomore year. She didn’t spit out that she was no longer his, but the unspoken words hung brittle in the air, taking him back to that terrible day . . .
Tyler High School—Twelve years ago
Logan pulled out his cell phone and tried Tara’s number again. Once more, he heard her cheerful little voice telling him to leave a message—just like the last hundred times he’d called. He snapped his phone shut and raked a hand through his hair. God, this couldn’t be happening. Where was she? Why hadn’t she been in British Lit this morning? Clenching his fingers around his open locker, he tried not to hyperventilate or think about the menacing letter.
“Bro.” Hunter, his older brother, stopped beside his locker, wearing a scowl. His blue eyes softened with concern.
“So they just let seniors roam the halls now?” he tried to joke.
Hunter’s mouth curled up, but it wasn’t a smile. “I got a hall pass to check on you after I heard that you’d ditched out of Brit Lit earlier. How are you doing?”
“Well, Mom was murdered yesterday, and I found her body. How am I supposed to feel?”
Logan couldn’t seem to stop the flashes of his mother’s lifeless body, his horror at the spray of red running down the wall as she lay in a sludgy pool of her own blood.
At Hunter’s sigh, Logan raked a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I know it hasn’t been easy on you, either.”
“But it’s harder on you. You’d maintained a tight relationship with Mom after the divorce. I hadn’t spoken to her since she left Dad last year. And I’ll have to live with that.” Hunter’s eyes narrowed. “But just now, you seemed more concerned than grief-stricken. The worst has already happened. So what’s up? It have anything to do with Tara being absent?”
Logan opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He wanted to confide . . . but did he dare? Grappling with possibilities, he froze. Though he trusted Hunter with his life, the note had been very clear on the terrible consequences for failing to keep this to himself.
Hunter grabbed his shoulder. “Look, I heard that you freaked out when she didn’t show up for class. You wanna tell me something?”
Maybe. Logan truly hoped his brother had decided to pull a sick prank last night. If Hunter was behind this, Logan would totally rearrange his face—then breathe a sigh of relief.
“Did you jack with me yesterday by leaving a note on my pillow?”
Hunter scowled at him as if he thought Logan had a few screws loose. “No. When would I have done it? While we were at the police station? While I rocked Kimber to sleep?”
Right. At eight, their little sister had been terrified last night. After hours at the police station, she’d come away wise enough to understand that she’d never see her mom again, but too young to cope alone. Hunter had stepped in and stayed all night. And he wasn’t known for his levity, so hoping he’d pulled the prank had been a stretch.
Which meant the threat was real. Logan swore under his breath. What the hell should he do?
Scanning the hall to make sure he and Hunter were alone, Logan gulped down nerves about to make his stomach revolt. “Last night, not long after we got home from the police station, I found a note on my pillow. I—it was from Mom’s killer, threatening to kill Tara if I don’t stay away from her.”
His blue eyes widened with shock. “What? Did you tell Dad or call the police?”
“I can’t,” he choked out. “The note said that if I told anyone, she’d ‘suffer.’ Last night, I hoped it was just a sick prank. And I . . . needed to talk to Tara.”
“You called her?” Hunter’s grim tone said he disapproved of that impulse.
After all the police interviews, after they’d removed his mom’s body, Logan had needed to talk to the one person who understood what it was like to lose a mother. He’d also wanted to check on her, make sure no one had harmed her. And after he’d taken her virginity yesterday, she’d surely ached for some reassurance. Yet his Cherry had brushed aside her own needs to help him. She’d been so sympathetic on the phone, so understanding of his disbelief, anger, and confusion. Her voice alone had soothed him.
But after giving in to his need to hear her voice, he couldn’t find her.
Dread pounded his stomach as he nodded. “She agreed to meet me at the park at nine. I waited an hour, but she never showed. On my way to her house, Dad found me and dragged me home and . . .” He let out a sick sigh of worry. “I tried to call Tara all night. She didn’t answer or show up for class this morning.” Logan crushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I’m so f**king afraid that I got her killed.”