Protective Hearts

Chapter 3

Chapter 3Dawn was creeping over the horizon when I woke, the light casting silvery shadows across the bedroom walls. The house was silent, only the crash of waves against the cliffs breaking the stillness of early morning.

A cautious glance revealed Rebel was lying exactly where he'd been last night. At least he hadn't eaten me while I slept. Seeing my eyes were open, Rebel got to his feet, lowering his front legs and stretching his body with a long shake, which worked its way all the way through to his bushy tail. When he dropped his huge head on the pillow beside me, I considered hurtling out of bed for a split second – but his expression was so pathetic, I laughed instead. I rubbed the top of his head tentatively, surprised to find the long black fur was amazingly silky. Rebel closed his eyes and a low rumble set off in his chest, making him resemble a large purring cat.

For a few minutes, I continued to scratch his fur, amused by the reaction it received. He was more like a dog than I'd expected, obviously relishing the comforting gesture of being petted. He seemed indignant when I abandoned the scratching, eyeing me reproachfully. “I can't spend all day scratching you,” I warned him.

Throwing the covers off, I sat on the side of the bed, yawning as I surveyed the room.

It was undeniably masculine and exactly what I expected from Ash. Oak furniture dominated the room, the dark wood balanced by an oriental design quilt in shades of green and gold. Plush pine green carpet was matched by heavy draperies in a similar shade. Ash had placed a large painting over the bed, an African American woman with heavily beaded hair and sensuous full lips.

Ash needed a woman in his life. He'd been single for as long as I could remember, dating constantly but never settling into a long-term relationship. Through the years I'd known him, there'd only been one long-term girlfriend, which led to a short-lived marriage seven years ago. Marianne was lovely, but Ash was too dedicated to his job, tied to a career that saw him working long hours and on call at a moment's notice. It was hard for any woman to play a secondary role to a man's career and although Ash and Marianne had tried hard, the strain became too much after two years. Last I had heard, she'd remarried and was living in Colorado with her husband and a couple of kids. Ash hadn't dated much since the breakup of his marriage, instead immersing himself further in his career. It was a shame, because he was a wonderful man and deserved a loving relationship with a woman who loved him.

Bryan had held the same opinion about marriage, insisting that being married to an undercover cop was no life for a woman. Bryan had made time to date prolifically, developing an appalling habit of loving and leaving women on a steady basis. I sometimes wondered if life in undercover had made Bryan the way he was, or was it an inherent personality trait? He'd never shown a desire to settle down with one woman, and I'd often been the one left to pick up the pieces, acting as agony Aunt to many of the girlfriends who'd fallen for him and had their fingers burnt when they'd wanted more than Bryan was willing to give.

I massaged shampoo through my hair in the shower as I thought about Bryan. He'd been a player, but he'd never deliberately hurt the women he dated. In truth, he'd had an uncanny ability to treat women with such profound respect; they invariably blamed themselves when he broke up with them. Miraculously it was never Bryan's fault; the women in his life were completely convinced it was something they'd done.

I missed him so intensely, and it created a physical ache in my chest. He'd always made time to see me, despite being busy with his career and endless parade of girlfriends. He'd dropped by at least once a week, sometimes falling asleep on my couch through sheer exhaustion. Life as an undercover operative was brutal, but he couldn't live without the adrenaline fix. He couldn't talk about what he was doing and it was clear from the erratic times he arrived, he was squeezing me in, around cases he was working on. Sometimes he turned up at two in the morning, but he'd always come, always cared, always been there for me.

Undercover was dangerous work at the best of times, but it hadn't killed him. Bryan had lost his life trying to save me and it created a sense of guilt so intense, I thought my heart would break because of it. If I hadn't become a victim of the Ripper, Bryan would still be alive.

Turning off the faucets, I stepped from the shower and reached for a towel, rolling my eyes at Rebel who was lying on the tiled floor. “This is going to stop,” I warned him, rubbing the towel across my wet skin. “Shep might think I need a guard… wolf, but I certainly don't need you in the bathroom.”

Rebel glanced up and barked once, before dropping his head back down on his paws.

Dressing in jeans and a red cashmere sweater, I pulled on socks and sneakers before heading downstairs. My efforts to be quiet were wasted when Rebel dashed down the stairs, his claws clattering on the bare wood. A glance into the living room confirmed Ash was still asleep on the sofa. Shelby and Taylor had decided to stay in a motel, but there was no sign of Shep. Maybe he'd decided on the motel option as well.

“Morning, Kitten. Want coffee?”

Shep's abrupt appearance in the dining room doorway was startling. He was bare chested, wearing faded blue denims, which rode low on his hips. Rampaging hormones bounced into life as I raked my gaze across a broad expanse of tanned skin, enhanced by dark brown n*****s, which captured my attention. He had a tattoo above his left n****e, a tribal pattern that expanded over his shoulder and down his arm. Taking a deep breath, I forced my gaze upwards, catching the amused glint in his eyes. “Yeah, thanks.”

Shep walked through to the kitchen and I followed behind, trying to regain some control over my reactions. Watching the finely defined muscle flexing in his back didn't help, and I resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.

Clutching my hands into fists, I climbed onto a stool at the breakfast bar, watching Shep pour coffee into a mug and add milk before handing it to me. “Sleep okay?”

I shrugged, sipping the hot coffee. “As well as I ever do.”

Shep raised his own mug to his lips, swallowing a mouthful before he spoke. “Being away from Chicago could help. I don't like Ash's plan, but it might help you relax.”

“Why don't you like Ash's plan?”

“I'm not comfortable with you out here alone. That's why I brought Rebel along, makes me feel more comfortable, knowing you've got backup.”

“Nobody knows I'm here. Surely that's safer than staying in Chicago?”

Shep frowned, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “I hope so, kitten. This bastard is clever. I like to think we're one step ahead of him, but until he's locked up, I'm not gonna relax.”

“Thanks for looking out for me,” I offered quietly.

Shep smiled faintly. “I owe it to Bryan to look out for you, Finn. He was a good man.”

I cupped the mug between my hands, warming my skin against the heated china. “It would help if I could remember something useful.”

“Still can't remember the details?”

I shook my head despondently. The Doctor had said I was suffering from hysterical amnesia, whatever the hell that meant. I'd never had hysterics in my life, yet now there were huge patches missing from my memory. The first hours after I was taken were clearest, everything afterwards was blank, or patchy at best.

The day I was kidn*pped had begun normally enough – I'd been doing deliveries, taking finished pieces to the storeowner who sold them. Delivery day was always hectic, but I preferred allocating one day a week to do the job, leaving the rest of the week for sculpting and teaching classes at the local community college. After stopping for a bite to eat with a couple of friends, I'd headed home, intent on working for an hour or two before preparing for a date. The ever-optimistic Shelby had introduced me to a new guy, and he was taking me out to dinner. Arriving at the apartment block, I pulled into the underground car park, pausing only long enough to gather up some paperwork and my purse.

Stepping from the car, I descended into a nightmare. Someone stepped up behind me, holding a sweet-smelling cloth to my face and I lost consciousness within seconds.

When I came around, the darkness was so absolute; I was convinced I'd been blinded. My arms were stretched above my head and held fast. I fumbled frantically with trembling fingers, discovering my wrists were encased in handcuffs, attached to a metal ring above my head. There wasn't a c***k of light, but as time passed and I strained with other senses, I heard subtle dripping from overhead. The freezing air and smell of damp earth suggested it might be a cave. If it was a cave, I must be deep within the bowels of the earth to account for the total lack of light.

It took a while to figure out I wasn't alone. Faint moans and whimpers were hard to distinguish at first, but they grew louder as time passed and I yelled, trying to get the attention of the other person.

When she began to speak, her words chilled me to the core, and highlighted exactly how much danger we faced.

Her name was Bonita Templewood and in a faint voice, she confirmed she was also being held captive. Bonita didn't know how long she'd been here, only that her arrival was prior to mine.

“Has he hurt you yet?” she questioned listlessly.

“My chest hurts, above my breast,” I confirmed, frightened by the context of the question.

“That's the first thing he does, brands you like cattle,” Bonita said bitterly. “It marks you as his.” There was a long pause and I heard her coughing violently before she spoke again. “It's a heart.”

My blood froze in my veins and a violent trembling began in my limbs, which I struggled to control. I'd heard of the Chicago Heart Ripper – it was impossible not to have heard of his violent rampage. For more than eighteen months, he'd been k********g prostitutes from across the city. They were found exactly seven days after disappearing, dumped n***d in the streets of Chicago, their bodies slashed and mutilated. Every single one could be recognized as a victim of the Ripper, by the heart carved into their chest, above the left breast. It was the only distinguishable mark, on bodies sadistically savaged. Media reports suggested the injuries were perpetrated while the victims were alive, tortured for days until the Ripper tired of his sick games and put them out of their misery.

“Where did he take you from?” Bonita asked. “I was working 49th Street, by Cromwell's.”

“He kidn*pped me from my apartment block.”

“Yo, girl, you weren't working the streets?” Bonita demanded.

“I'm not, I've never been…” I was struggling to filter thoughts through increasing panic.

“You're not a hooker? Well, s**t, that don't make no sense,” Bonita said incredulously, her voice a little stronger. “Why would he take you?”

“I don't know,” I admitted.

“Well, whatever his reasons, I know one thing for sure. My time is almost done.”

“What? What does that mean?” I demanded, testing the restraints again.

“He kidnaps a new girl, just before he kills the one he's holding. I've only got a day or two left,” Bonita stated. “Everybody gets seven days, that's what they said on the news reports.”

“Bonita… I'm so sorry.” It was a futile response, but I was struggling to comprehend the enormity of the situation.

“Don't be sorry, girl,” Bonita responded quietly. “I'll be glad to die.”

It was impossible to imagine what Bonita had suffered. What could be terrible enough to make death the better option? Horrific images filled my mind as I recalled grisly snippets from the newspapers.

Time wasn't easy to measure in utter darkness. It seemed as if hours had passed—or perhaps it had only been minutes—when the cadenced pace of heavy footsteps reached my ears. The steps were taken with deliberation, and steadily approaching, the sound echoing eerily. My heart hammered in rhythm with the chattering of my teeth. The sound of those footsteps was the most frightening thing I'd ever heard. Bonita started to whimper, the sound chilling in the absolute blackness.

What followed doesn't bear thinking about and has filled my nightmares. Bonita screamed and repeatedly begged for mercy, as the Ripper did inconceivable things, his voice a guttural monotone. He discussed what he was doing— as though he was narrating a perverted documentary.

He described what he would be doing to me next.

Tears streamed down my cheeks and blood trickled onto my forearms as I wrenched at the handcuffs, desperate to escape.

Bonita's screams slowed, progressively replaced by whimpers for mercy, and then blessed silence. I wondered if she was dead, if he'd killed her. Abject terror filled my chest, knowing I was next.

The sound of rhythmic footsteps started again, coming towards me unhurriedly and I yanked against the bindings, frenzied in my panic.

Cold hands stroked over my arms and I screamed. Though I couldn't see him, I could sense him standing near and my skin crawled. He rubbed his hands slowly and systematically over my shoulders and arms, before he fondled my breasts.

“You're my princess, Finnola,” he murmured, rubbing against me and I dry-retched, bile choking my throat. “You'll always be mine, forever more.”