His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(32)
Author: Shayla Black

“I want to see,” she demanded.

“Answer the question first. What color is the shirt?”

Why did she get the feeling that answering would open a Pandora’s box of crap? That it would rain a bunch of shit down on her head? Even if it did, she couldn’t afford not to face it. “P-pink.”

“Is it clean or dirty in your nightmares?”

“It’s stained with blood.”

“Tell me this isn’t you.” Joaquin shoved the photo in her direction. “Look me in the eye and tell me you think this is some other little girl.”

With shaking fingers, Bailey took the eight-by-ten and forced herself to look at it.

In the image, there sat a little girl staring at a wall in what looked to be a police station. Her eyes appeared vacant, her face whiter than pale. A paramedic hovered beside her, draping a gray industrial blanket around her shoulders in an attempt to keep her warm. Underneath it, she wore a pink pajama top smeared with blood. The face . . . she couldn’t deny that it was hers.

With a cry, Bailey dropped the picture from her numb fingers.

Chapter Six

JOAQUIN jumped to his feet and rushed to Bailey. Shit, she looked ghostly white. Her pupils had gone nearly as wide as those of her child self in the photo.

He knelt and grabbed her shoulders. “Tatia—” No, she didn’t want him to call her that. “Bailey?”

No answer. She looked through him. His gut clenched.

“Baby girl,” he crooned. She’d responded when he’d called her that before, liked it. He didn’t really want to stop and think about the fact that he enjoyed saying it to her.

“T-that girl . . . it’s me.”

Her four small words should probably have filled him with triumph or thrill or something other than this sick, roiling churn. He tried to reassure her with a soft voice. “I know.”

“I . . . I don’t understand.” She finally blinked at him, and tears swam in her big blue eyes. Disillusion broke across her face. She looked so fragile, it tore at his fucking heart.

“I know it’s a lot to take in.” He caressed her arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll leave you two for now,” Sean murmured, turning to Thorpe.

The club owner nodded. “Let us know if you need anything. Take care of her.”

A subtle warning. Joaquin barely heard it as Bailey began to sob. He brought her to her feet and pulled her close. She fell limp against him, her legs barely supporting her. Now what?

Hell, he didn’t do crying women. He didn’t even do emotion. What he needed was a manual, training, or backup—something. But Sean and Thorpe were already shutting the door behind them.

As she clutched at his shirt and cast a begging blue stare at him, Joaquin knew he was on his own. He’d stirred the shit pot to avenge Nate, so he had to deal. Still, he panicked a little at the thought. When was the last time he’d been this close to a woman unless he was fucking a one-night stand? Hmm . . . Never.

“They lied to me,” Bailey cried into his shirt, then abruptly pulled away, turning her back to him and wrapping her arms around herself.

“Your adoptive parents?” He watched her cross the room and fought the urge to follow. What was wrong with him? He should be happy that she wasn’t sobbing on him anymore. Instead, guilt flayed him raw.

Bailey nodded, her light brown hair brushing the length of her narrow back, the ends curling toward her waist. She was so damn tiny, and he’d heaped a shit ton of problems on her shoulders. He had to be careful or he’d break her. Somewhere, his logical brain asked why the hell she mattered. Joaquin wanted to say it was because, as Tatiana Aslanov, she might know something useful. But he wasn’t good at bullshitting himself.

Oh, fuck. Wanting to sleep with her he understood. But this crappy remorse cocktail with its anxiety chaser swirling through his veins? It wasn’t easy lust. He’d wanted to kiss her earlier—no mistake. In fact, he’d wanted to rip Thorpe’s head off for interrupting them because he’d been aching to strip off that too-big T-shirt and get his mouth all over her pretty hard nipples while he worked his way into her pussy.

Right now, he wanted to kick his own ass for crushing the world as she’d always known it. Doing so was safer for her. She’d be better equipped to elude danger if she understood it. But in less than a few hours, he’d ripped away the veneer of her existence to expose its secret underbelly. She couldn’t take more now.

And for some fucking reason he didn’t understand, he wanted to fix everything in her life so she had no reason to do anything except smile.

“Of course!” she shouted back. “Whoever they really were. They lied to me about everything. Who I am, where I came from . . .” She clenched her fists and turned on him with a little red nose and trembling lips. “They made me think I was crazy. By the time I was seven, I was seeing a shrink for my ‘delusions.’ And all that time, they spoon-fed me my school lessons, made me home-cooked meals, drove me to dance class, and placated me about spats with friends or boys who didn’t like me. It was all just a lie. So if they weren’t really parents, what were they? Babysitters? Bodyguards? Brainwashers?”