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Chapter Seven
Light from the muted television washed over the bed. Some comedy program, one he usually enjoyed, played out in silence on the screen but his attention was on Jenna.
Two days had passed since that defining moment between them in the exam room. Connor could still feel the conviction in her hands, the imprints of her fingers on his jaw where she held onto him. She’d been so frantic and still unable to utter a single word, but he’d seen terror in the depth of her eyes. Terror he couldn’t fathom, not the seed or the root.
But he had said something to quell the fear. He’d witnessed the change in her in the seconds before she slipped away…yet couldn’t put his finger on what had turned the tide.
She slept now, natural and quiet. Most of the last forty-eight came down to routine—check her back, feed her, use the bathroom, sleep. She had a sleep cycle of four hours, and Connor was sneakily findings ways to extend it. Four hours was not enough rest.
There was the faintest blush of color over her skin, a sweepingly light pass of a blusher brush kissing her otherwise pasty flesh. It was better than when she first arrived, especially now the bruises were on the right side of healing, and Connor was determined she’d be glowing within a couple weeks.
On his back beside her, Connor kept an eye on her as he let himself drift. Catching a few z’s here and there while she slept was his only shot at resting; when Jenna was awake, he doted on her. When she was sleeping, there were so many thoughts in his head he struggled to set them aside long enough for sleep to take him as well.
Nightmares came often. He wasn’t sure if she was aware of them, the sheer number and ferocity of the hellish dreams he usually shook her out of. Not unprepared, he’d rapidly picked up the signs of an imminent strike, stirring from his doze when her breathing changed, hitched sharply.
Everything went downhill from there. That little hitch unleashed a maelstrom of emotion, every damn time, and he couldn’t grasp any of it. Vocal nightmares were so much easier to deal with than the almost ghostly apprehension that came with what plagued Jenna.
Even her subconscious knew better than to make a sound.
Closing his eyes, he tucked his hands beneath his head and willed the busy little brain bees scurrying around in his head to fuck off. They were determined to raise questions that, of course, couldn’t be brought to light during the daylight hours.
Caleb hadn’t been seen since Connor bloodied his face, but he had taken the time to call and let Connor know the search was on. The list was long, but he’d brought in two deputies to work alongside him, was considering taking it higher up the chain of law enforcement to access more useful resources.
No leads yet from the messed-up rag of a shirt Jenna had been wearing. DNA on the samples taken from it so far matched Jenna. Only Jenna. Sweat and blood, tears.
Downstairs, the hallway and kitchen smelled of gerbera daisies, courtesy of the bouquet from Cain. The immense arrangement of flowers must have cost his youngest brother a pretty penny—some of the blooms were colors Connor had never seen, intensely vibrant, and they added warmth to the living room where Connor had finally decided to put them in the window.
Step two of his rehabilitation plan for Jenna was coming up, and the flowers were a handy aid to boost her lagging spirit. Not to mention they made him smile, recalling Cain’s mortified blush as he shoved the heavy vase into Connor’s chest and mumbled something about Jenna and good wishes.
Light from the TV flashed over his closed lids, irritating him a bit. He liked to have it on through the night—it offered softer light than the lamp so Jenna didn’t have to wake in the dark; it kept his thoughts from stifling him during the few minutes he concentrated on the damn thing; sometimes he found things he just had to buy from the infomercials that hit the screen at three a.m.
Automatic vegetable peeler that could also dice cheese, devil eggs and suck an orange dry with more finesse than the hooker who worked the corner of Main and Fifth? The infomercial sold it so smoothly, Connor’s sleep-deprived brain had already placed the call and handed over his credit card details before he knew what he’d done.
He did like his vegetable peeler, though—it was hypnotic to watch.
Thinking of the test carrot spinning around and around, the skin curling away, Connor’s head finally switched off.
He jerked awake not ten minutes later from a twisted dream of naked carrots running screaming from a murderous vegetable peeler gone mad. Already his body turned to the right, his arm reaching for Jenna.
She wasn’t there.
Chest tight, he reached for the lamp. Before his numb fingers could press the button, a shadowy figure tottered across the foot of the bed. Backlit by the TV, Jenna’s hair haloed around her head, and he caught a glimpse of open, blank eyes.
Frowning, he sat up and leaned against the headboard. This was different to anything she’d done before. Always, it was the change in breathing kicking things into motion, then her limbs twitching until the situation escalated.
She’d never sleepwalked before.
Not good, he thought as Jenna dropped to her hands and knees, gathered the clothes he’d thoughtlessly stripped off and discarded just a few hours ago. This new pattern meant he had more signals to learn. Maybe he should tie bells around her ankles.
He watched quietly as, still on her knees, she meticulously folded his clothes and made a neatly stacked pile in size order, sweater on the bottom and his socks turned into one another on the top. Shuffling on her knees to the nearest chair, she set the pile on it, then crawled to the bathroom.
The light flashed on. Intrigued, Connor slipped out of bed and eased toward the door, leaning around the jamb. Oh hell, no. Sleeping or not, this was something he wouldn’t tolerate. “Jenna.”
The toilet brush clattered into the bowl. Jenna dropped flat, her arms stretched out in front of her as best she could with the toilet in front of her, and left her naked butt raised. Trembling, forehead touching the tiles, she tensed.
Connor padded over to her, crouched down. He hated how her body braced for pain, how she cowered when he laid his hand on her nape and rubbed gently. “Good girl, Jenna. You’ve done a lovely job tidying up, but it’s time for bed now, okay?”
She wouldn’t look at him. Could she tell the difference between his voice and her captor’s in this state, or was that asshole’s voice spinning around in her head?
