She didn’t have to ask him again what his grandfather had wanted him to do. He’d already told her. “I won’t kill them.”
What sort of monster would ask his grandchild to kill kittens on command?
“You don’t have to like it, Quentin.”
“If I don’t do what he says—I won’t—he locks me up in here. Sometimes I don’t know how long. I get hungry. Not very cold—” He sniffed and wiped at his nose. “We don’t get cold easy. But then Grandfather brings the ropes—” He broke off and crawled to lean against the wall, curling into himself.
It was enough. She wouldn’t force him to experience more of this… this torture. For that was what it must be. The questions could wait for another time.
“It’s all right, Quentin,” she said. “You’re going to be all right now.”
“Don’t tell Braden.” He stared at her almost as if he really saw her. “Don’t tell him. He’ll do something and Grandfather will hurt him. Rowena doesn’t know. I make sure she doesn’t find out. Promise you won’t tell!”
“I promise.” She swallowed hard. “Take my hand.”
He did so with such immediate trust that she felt dizzy.
“We’re going to leave here, now,” she said. “Can you do what I say?”
His eyes—those rich cinnamon eyes overlaid with pain—gazed right into hers. “Yes.”
“Then I want you to remember another place, another time. The Napa Valley, and the Haven, and the room where I am talking to you. You’ve been here before.”
“I… can’t.”
“You will. It’s a restful place, where the sun shines and the air smells like green things. Here you cannot be hurt.”
“There is no such place.”
“At the Haven there are people who care for you.”
His face was utterly open, all hope and gratitude. “Do you… care for me?” he whispered.
It had been possible until that moment to maintain some semblance of detachment. With that simple, guileless question, objectivity shattered along with her heart. She pulled him into her arms.
“Yes,” she said. “I care for you, Quentin.”
His mute sobs shook her body. He fought them, as any boy might fight such humiliating weakness, and yet he clung to her. His mind had journeyed back to his childhood, but his arms were still those of a man, strong and apt to wring the breath from her lungs.
She stroked damp hair away from his forehead and murmured in what she imagined must be a maternal fashion, but she felt anything but maternal. His cheek rested on her breast. His breath burned through the fabric of her bodice. Soon he’d wake, and no longer be a child. What then?
As if he heard her thoughts, he stiffened and pulled himself up. The child in his eyes still reached for her, but she could see it—him—fading away, subsumed by another presence. Quentin, coming out of the trance at last.
But he didn’t let her go. “You care for me?” he said, his voice nearly a snarl. “Liar.”
Her heart stopped. “Quentin—”
“Don’t call me that!” He shook her, just enough so that she felt clearly how much he could hurt her if he chose. “You think you can help him?”
“I don’t perceive your meaning,” she said. She couldn’t show any hesitation now, or uncertainty. “Please explain.”
They were knee to knee, chest to chest. Each of his harsh breaths rocked her forward and back. “He explains. I don’t have to.” He jerked her against him. She turned her head just before his lips touched hers.
“Never again,” he rasped. “It will never happen again. Do you hear me?”
“Yes. I hear you.”
“He tries to shut me out, but I won’t be buried.” His fingers framed her face. “He won’t take what he wants. But I will.”
He was going to kiss her. Not gently, not lovingly, but with the merciless drive to dominate.
“No, Quentin,” she said, planting her hands between them. “It’s time for you to come back. I will count backward from five to one—”
“No.” He pushed her away. “No.” Leaping to his feet, he flung himself against the wall like a caged animal, raking at it with curved fingers. His nails bit deeply enough to tear the wallpaper.