She remembered when her father died and the sheriff had come and escorted her out of her father’s home. Not this sheriff; that one had retired since then, but the new sheriff had been one of the deputies she remembered at the county office. She’d sat rigid in a chair, politely responding the same way to offers of a soda, candy. No thank you. No thank you. Please call my uncle to take me home. I’m fine. She’d seen her uncle cuffed and taken away, but it was what she’d been taught to say if ever she was separated from them, if anything happened that she wasn’t sure how it should be handled.
Rory had given her a different default, even if he hadn’t realized it. She didn’t know if it was right or wrong, but as it went through her mind, it was the only thing she could make her body do, so she seized onto the idea with both hands.
She dropped to her knees in front of Rory’s chair, bowed her head. The cold tile hurt her knees, snagged her hose. Probably ripped it.
I’m sorry. So, so sorry.
A long second of silence reigned, during which she died inside, because that silence overflowed with how she’d disappointed him, his family. Failed all of them. She was Rory’s, and she hadn’t been able to tell Hayworth that. She was staring down at the bracelet he’d given her, to remind her, and it hadn’t helped.
If she looked at Elaine, she would see shame. Maybe even anger. She couldn’t bear it. She wanted to curl into a ball at Rory’s feet, but since her body refused to do anything else but kneel, she didn’t cause him that additional embarrassment.
Please. I’m so sorry.
Rory’s fingers brushed her hair. The tension in them made her ache. She couldn’t tell if the lack of warmth came from him, or if she’d just gone so cold, she couldn’t feel it.
The sheriff was there, standing at her side.
“Miss. Are you okay?”
A long pause. Rory touched her shoulder. “Answer him, Daralyn.” The calm in his voice had to be taking a tremendous effort. That penetrated enough to give her the ability to speak.
“Yes,” she said. “I need to go home now.” She sounded like a robot, but she couldn’t inject anything into her voice that resembled real emotion.
“I need to talk to her alone,” the sheriff said. “You understand that, Rory? I need to know what’s going on here, from her.”
“It doesn’t work that way for her, Owen.” Rory’s anger surged back out. “You know that.”
“It’s going to work that way right now. I need you to back off.”
“How about I put my fucking fist up your ass? I’m not leaving her—”
“You want me to have my deputies haul you out of this room by force? Push me, and that’s what it will be. There’s a procedure here. I need to talk to her alone. Now.”
As Rory stared at Owen, rage and helplessness took him within a breath of throwing a punch. Being a cop, Owen sensed it, his eyes narrowing.
“Don’t do it, son,” he said. “That’s not going to help her, either.”
Even wearing a suit, not his uniform and sidearm, Owen carried the mantle of his job, and so did his deputies. The flick of his glance toward them said he wouldn’t hesitate to do what he’d threatened.
Rory looked down at Daralyn, kneeling at his feet. The move had been so unexpected. Rory thought Marcus might be the only one in the room who understood the crazy mix of feelings it had invoked in him. It also saved Hayworth, because it reminded Rory of his most important job. To protect his sub.
To care for her, give her what she needed. The problem was, he didn’t know exactly what Daralyn needed right now, and he wasn’t being given the space to figure it out. The protective side of him was about to go full berserker on anyone keeping him from it.
Which wouldn’t help her, either. So he did what would, though he didn’t want to say it like this. He’d owe Daralyn a huge apology later. “She’s not capable of communicating when it comes to things like this, Sheriff.” Her flinch drove a spike through him, but he pressed on. “My mom has her psychiatrist’s number, and Dr. Taylor has a call service to reach her after hours.”
“We’ll check into that. I still need to talk to Daralyn. And I need you all out of the room.”