The Last Echo
Page 75The bed shifted, and panic shot through her. He was leaving. He was going to leave her all alone again. No food. No more water.
And then he whispered, his voice softer, and much more hesitant, than hers had been. “It’s C-Caine.”
Violet’s eyes widened. She didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t like Sara. She wasn’t a trained profiler with years of experience behind her. She was a seventeen-year-old girl being held hostage by a killer. And she was terrified, afraid that any misstep might be her last.
She swallowed, telling herself she could do this. “Th—” Her voice shook. “Thank you, Caine.”
His gaze flew to hers, searching, she knew, for the truth in her statement. Or probing, more likely, for the lie. This was it. This was her chance to show him.
She inhaled and let the corner of her mouth move up. Ever so slightly. Just the barest hint of a smile.
But she had to be careful.
Too much and he’d see it; he’d know it wasn’t real. That none of it was real.
She felt dizzy, and her lip quivered . . . a tiny, hopefully imperceptible twitch. There was nothing false about the uncertain expression in her eyes. There was no part of her that wasn’t afraid.
When the bed shifted again, this time sinking from his weight, she knew she’d done it.
He settled down once more. Somehow Violet had convinced him to stay.
CAINE. HIS NAME WAS CAINE.
And she knew that.
It was a step he’d never taken before.
A new beginning. He didn’t fight his smile as he crept across the creaking floorboards, and then it faded from his lips. He hated the way everything here made noise, squeaking and groaning like complaints. He hated the outdated furniture and the musty-smelling pillows and the big, wide-open windows that overlooked the lake. Picturesque, his mother used to call the windows on their summer visits, but he disagreed. To him it was like being in a fishbowl. Especially at night, when the darkness outside was so complete, so impenetrable, that even the palest light inside put him on display. Neighbors or not.
That was why there were sheets hanging over each and every window now. So that no one could see inside. So that no one could look in and watch him. Spy on him. Judge him.
So that he and his girl could be alone.
The grin came back as he glanced down at the clean nightgown he carried . . . a gift. It was pretty, the nightgown. White cotton with just a hint of starched lace along the scooped collar. Pristine, just like her.
He stopped when he reached her door. It wasn’t locked, another thing he hated about this house . . . he hadn’t had time to outfit it properly. Still, he was good with his hands, and he’d managed to put a decent room together using the things he had at his disposal . . . sheets, wire, duct tape.
Plus, the isolation was good.
And now that they were getting to know each other, he doubted she’d want to leave. She hadn’t even screamed, and they always screamed at first.
Thank God, because he needed her. He needed to sleep. It was dark and it had been too long since he’d really slept. Good sleep. Deep sleep.
But with her here, all that would change. Now he could rest.
Because now he wasn’t alone.
Chapter 23
HE WAS IN THE BED WITH HER.
Even if Violet hadn’t felt the slant of the mattress and the steady rhythm of breathing coming from beside her, she’d have recognized the imprints on him from anywhere.
She released a shaky breath, struggling against that same fog she’d felt before . . . after eating the soup. Too many hours spent lying prone made her back ache like it had never ached before. Even the prickling sensation that Caine brought with him couldn’t overshadow this kind of pain. The noxious rubber smell he bore only made it easier for her to remain alert. His imprints kept her lucid.
She flexed her toes, moving as fluidly as she could. She didn’t want to disturb him. She didn’t want him to know she was awake.
But her foot didn’t just flex . . . it shifted. And her eyes widened as she lay there for several long, unblinking moments, trying to decide what that meant. Trying to decide what to do next.
She mimicked his breathing pattern. If he woke, she wanted him to believe she was still asleep. And then slowly, carefully, she tried her hand—the one farthest from Caine’s side.
Relief blossomed and she drew it down as steadily as she could. She clutched it against her own chest, against her heart. Curling her wrist, she wanted to sob with relief as the pain in her shoulder subsided at long last.
When, after endless moments, she was sure she hadn’t disturbed him, that he was oblivious to her stirrings, she let her hand drift upward until it found her throat.
She gasped as she realized the bindings at her neck were missing too, and then she bit her lips, silencing her own cry of relief.
She stiffened, waiting. Until she was certain Caine still slept.
He’d untied her. She was free. But why? Why would he take a chance like this?
A low, muffled groan escaped his lips. To Violet, it sounded like a growl or a bellow, not like a comforting sound of sleep. He shifted too, and she nearly forgot how to breathe, her chest collapsing in on itself.
She stayed where she was, unmoving, unblinking. After what felt like an eternity, she closed her eyes and tried again, moving ever so slightly, rolling as gently as she could onto her side. When he didn’t react to that, either, she moved farther still, edging breath by breath toward the side of the mattress.