For the first time that night, his hands began to tremble. His angel lay on the floor surrounded by death and blood. What kind of a monster was he?
He’d left her, and now he’d brought danger to her door. Her distrust of him had ticked him off earlier, but now he had to acknowledge that her instincts were probably good. This time. Shame filled him that he’d left her alone. Why? Those memories had to come back.
Small, she lay curled on her side, delicate features so pale. He had to get her out of there. Grabbing a pillowcase, he quickly wiped blood off his face and hands, tossing the material onto the floor. Leaning over, he reached down to gently pick her up.
Two cops met him in the hallway, young and earnest, guns aimed at him.
Fire zapped along his vertebrae. Absolute calm followed. Moves to disable them, to kill them, ran through his brain so fast his shoulders tensed.
Josie stirred in his arms.
The closest cop settled his stance, his gun aimed at Shane’s head. “Put her down.” The kid had to be about twenty.
Shane took a deep breath. “No.”
The cop’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I don’t want to shoot you, man.” His hand wavered just enough to increase Shane’s heart rate.
Shane leaned against the wall in case he needed to balance and kick out. “Call Detective Malloy. He knows what’s going on. Tell him someone broke into Josie Dean’s place.”
The other cop, just as young as the first, tilted his head and spoke into the radio strapped to his shoulder. He listened and then straightened up. “Malloy already heard the call—he’s on the way. And he sounds… pissed.”
“Yeah, I assume so.” Shane pivoted, fighting every instinct he owned so he could turn his back on the guns. “I’m putting my wife in her room. Feel free to follow me, but if you point the gun in her direction again, I’m taking it away from you.”
Not by one whit did he doubt he could do it. So many different ways to disarm the cops flashed through his head, his skull began to ache. Memories of fights, of stripping away weapons, of his killing people, ripped through his mind.
Whoever or whatever he was… there was no way he was the good guy.
Pity.
*
Men’s voices awakened Josie. She opened her eyes, keeping her body motionless in self-protection. A trick she’d learned from the foster parent who hit.
One voice filtered through the rest. Shane. Safety.
She sat up on her bed. “What in the world?”
Shane grabbed her hand from his perch next to her. How did they get back into her room? His gaze ran over her face. So serious. So pissed.
She fought a shiver. “What—”
“Flash grenade,” he muttered, wiping blood off his forehead with the back of his free hand. A cut splayed open above his left eye, and fresh bruises mingled with the yellowing ones already on his strong face and down his bare torso. He’d somehow donned jeans.
How many bruises could one body take?
Early sunshine glinted off the sparkling wooden floor. Cops in uniform strode by in the hallway, placing markers, taking pictures. Muted voices came from the guest room. A figure pushed off from the wall, his deep brown eyes bloodshot. “Mrs. Dean.”
“Detective Malloy.” Josie glanced down at her bare legs. Shane grabbed a blanket off the end of the bed to drape over her. “Ah, what happened?”
“Well, Mrs. Dean, as far as we can tell, three men attacked you and your husband. Two bodies are in the guest room, and one man is on his way to the ER.”
Bodies? Nausea swirled in her gut. Shane had killed two men? So what, his body count was up to five this week? “Who were they?” Her voice cracked at the end. The men had violated her home, her sanctuary. Maybe safety didn’t exist.
Shane stiffened. “They haven’t been identified yet, angel.” He dropped his gaze to her trembling lips. “Hold on, the next ambulance should be here soon.”
“I don’t want an ambulance.” She tightened her jaw to still her lips. “I’m not going to the hospital again.” Fear made her voice tremble, and she cleared her voice.
His focus narrowed. “Why not?”
He really didn’t remember anything, or he’d never ask that question. She’d already told him about her childhood, and the story had seriously pissed him off. It was all she could do to keep him from hunting down the bastard who’d hit her. She glanced away, seeking comfort in the pretty Norman Rockwell prints of peaceful homes she’d hung on the walls. “I don’t like hospitals. Most people don’t.”
“Josie.” Low, commanding, his voice held no quarter.
They hadn’t seen one another in two years, and yet her body reacted instantly to that tone. Sexy and male, it tingled down her spine. Her gaze swung to his. Deep gray, his eyes demanded an answer, as if there weren’t cops all around them. She struggled to derail his concentration. “Who’s after you?”