His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(11)
Author: Shayla Black

Along with a cloud of perfumed steam, Bailey emerged. He caught a glimpse of her barely covered in a yellow towel, little water droplets raining down her pale skin as she scurried across the room.

She stopped right beside the bed, and a moment later the TV flipped on. She scanned a few channels, then paused.

“Welcome to Callindra Howe,” said the male announcer with the buttery voice. “Thank you for being with us. Your story of survival and courage has inspired many in the face of adversity, and everyone is thrilled that your story has a happy ending.”

“Thank you for having me here.”

“In case you’ve been living under a rock . . .” The voice-over went into an explanation of Callie’s history, surviving the murder of her entire family and repeated attempts on her own life. The backstory included a description of Aslanov and his research, along with a hint that this played a role in her tragic past. A little gasp escaped Bailey.

Joaquin inched his gaze above the back of the chair. She stood stock-still and staring. What had her so mesmerized? He cocked his head to see the TV. A picture of Viktor Aslanov appeared on the screen. He whipped his stare to Bailey again. She looked spooked and pale.

Suddenly, she made a frantic grab for the remote on the nightstand, stabbing her trembling thumb furiously against one of the buttons. Nothing happened on the first two tries.

“Damn it,” she muttered, staring down at the device in her hand, her body taut.

“My story has a happy ending,” Callie said on the screen. “But my mother’s didn’t. Every woman can live a longer, healthier life by having regular female exams. Pay attention to your body and report anything out of the ordinary to your doctor. If you can’t afford a regular exam, please contact the Cecilia Howe Foundation. Besides cancer research, we’re trying to help women with limited resources get the care they need.”

“That’s an admirable goal,” the announcer said in praise. “Contact information is on the screen, folks. But let’s talk about something very happy, Ms. Howe. You’re marrying Agent Mackenzie soon. What can you tell us about the wedding?”

Bailey jabbed at the remote again, and the TV finally went dark. Into the shadowed room, she emptied her lungs. That action seemed to deflate her whole body. She clutched her towel to her breasts, shaking, looking like she’d seen a ghost.

Maybe she had.

Because she was Tatiana Aslanov?

Right now, that likelihood seemed pretty promising. With one possibility dead, one missing, and the other in Africa, Bailey Benson was his last hope for uncovering the truth and stopping these ruthless savages from killing again. Even if she wasn’t the scientist’s daughter, this sweet little ballerina wasn’t equipped to deal with the danger about to knock on her door. Joaquin knew he had to be aggressive and act fast to keep her safe. Fuck the consequences.

*   *   *

RED splattered her once-pink shirt. She pressed her lips together to hold in a scream. If she couldn’t stay quiet, something bad would happen.

Terror made her heart thump in her chest, drum in her head. As she looked around the ransacked house, splashes of red marked the walls in nearly every room. She was afraid to look closer. Time to get out. But as she ran down the hall, she slid in more of the red stuff, nearly losing her balance. It lapped at her toes, warm and sludgy. Some scent she didn’t like tinged the air. Her stomach turned, but she kept running.

Finally, she made it to the door and reached for the knob. But her hands were covered in red. Horror assailed her.

The wind blew the back door open. With a silent screech, she darted outside. Cold. Snow had fallen recently. The ice bit into her feet, but she kept charging as fast as she could, until she couldn’t breathe, until the tears turned icy on her face. Until she came to another road.

She walked what seemed like forever, past animal pens and pastures and dormant trees. Her feet had long ago gone numb. Quiet smothered her. The absence of noise—even the call of a bird—somehow scared her more.

Where was she going? Where could she hide? She didn’t know. Would she walk forever and never see anyone again?

Then an old blue sedan pulled over. A woman with a kind face and brown hair opened the door and gave her a look that held both pity and horror.

“What’s your name, little girl?”

She didn’t know. She should, but all she knew now was that she felt cold and shivering and afraid.

The man dashed around the side of the car with a phone mashed against his ear. Concern creased his face as he held out a hand to her. She reached for him, praying he offered warmth and safety, but she caught sight of her hand again. The terrible red had seeped into her skin, dripped under her fingernails . . .