Surrender A Section 8 Novel - By Stephanie Tyler Page 0,14

looked nothing like his father, so she was having trouble reading him. It had taken her a year to really believe Darius’s intentions—and to someone who had a psychic gift, that it had taken so long had been almost embarrassing. It was a defective, infuriating gift, damaged and in hiding from years of abuse of her pushing it down and away, denying its existence for her own safety.

If she couldn’t see the future, she’d be no good for Rip. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want her back anyway.

Dare O’Rourke had plans for her too, and she could feel those as surely as if he’d already spoken to her out loud.

She should not feel a flutter deep inside her belly while pressed against the man taking her hostage, but it was undeniable. She fought not to lean in and smell his skin. She detected the scent of the jungle on him.

He’d tied her wrists together, tight behind her back, as if deliberately trying to scare her.

She could pretend, but why bother? She’d always known this day would come, was as resigned to it as she was to her gift eventually returning. But there was a part of her that was afraid of her reaction to this man . . . afraid of what he would do to her.

Her arms ached. This man would hurt her if it meant getting a rise out of her stepfather.

She’d always known it was one of the risks. Had lived the past six years as though the enemy was coming for her at any moment. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept with the lights off. She could fire a gun, knew every self-defense technique and was still on edge. Angry, if she thought about it enough, more than fearful. A good emotion to have behind her, she supposed, but she was tired of being on guard all the time.

If she was lucky, at times she could go a full twenty-four hours without thinking about it. Her house was old, a work in progress, and she’d known from her first moments here that the bayou was a place of magic and a place of lost souls. One could easily get lost.

It was perfect for her. Except she wondered if she’d ever find something to anchor her. Longed for it, but decided it was too much to ask.

In order to escape her father, she’d had to make certain sacrifices. This was much better than living in a house on one of the small islands off Grand Cayman, where she’d been a prisoner for most of her years growing up.

Still, people were always looking for her—both good and bad. She’d been told as much by Darius and Adele. And Grace felt the relentless press of horseman’s hooves at her back now more than ever.

Six years of relative freedom was all that she would be granted, it seemed. It was more than she’d ever thought she’d have.

It wasn’t enough.

Chapter Six

Hours earlier, Dare had brought Grace into his house, left her bound but ungagged in a chair in the living room facing the wall. He hadn’t said a word to her since they’d driven away from her place, and the tension had built to a nearly unbearable level.

Moving away from her had been a relief, although he could see her through the porch window from the old swing he lowered himself onto.

He’d brought one of Darius’s old guitars out with him because it had been sitting by the door as if waiting for someone.

Dare still didn’t know if he was that someone, but he set it next to him on the swing and listened to the rain slamming along the old roofing like it was trying its best to break it. His hands ached, as they tended to do in this weather, and no amount of flexing would help that, but he could still shoot and fight, and that was all that mattered.

Pain was always a part of his life—this injury made no difference.

Since he’d left the jungle, he’d exercised his hands constantly to keep them from seizing up, and they’d slowly begun to heal, one better than the other. He’d had to switch from being right-handed to left because the loss of sensation in his right hand made it difficult to handle a gun. Difficult, not impossible, but he was a better shot with his left than he’d ever been with his right. It was a different perspective. Some people said scars made things stronger because that