Page 54 of Wild Devil
Sammy takes off, bounding over the paths that lead to the lakefront. It’s secluded out here, which is surprising for such a beautiful location. I assume the weather has something to do with it. It’s chilly, and Daze has to scold Sammy more than once to keep him from touching the water.
To his credit, the boy responds to every warning with a firm nod and a cherub grin. Cheeky. I can tell already that he’ll grow up with more than his fair share of Daze’s penchant for bending the rules. For good or bad? That remains to be seen.
Eventually, the three of us sit on a rocky outcrop and watch the waves lap at the shore. I’m not sure exactly when it happens, but when I look over at Sammy, he’s fast asleep with his head on Daze’s shoulder.
I don’t know why now feels as good a time as any to broach the topic, but with a heavy breath, I confess, “Nothing happened between me and Colton. I didn’t let him touch me.” Raw anger creeps into my voice, and a deep understanding crosses over Daze’s features.
He nods once. “Good. Are you ready to tell me what else happened out there?”
My voice breaks as I tell him everything, checking periodically to make sure Sammy doesn’t wake up in the middle of the horrible retelling. I tell him about my father’s threats and Silas’ visit. Then of Colton. As my voice breaks, Daze takes my hand in a firm fist, silently urging me to continue. When I reach the part about the girl, however, he hisses, visibly disgusted.
“Those sick sons of bitches…”
“No, I should have done something,” I insist. “I should have done more. Fought back. Anything but run away like a scared little girl.”
Yet again.
Self-pity almost swallows me whole—until I look up and catch the fire in those beautiful gray eyes that hold my own without flinching.
“The hell you could,” he snaps, his voice rough. Suddenly, he grips my hand tighter while stroking the back of it in a way that makes my heart twist into knots. He can be so gentle when he wants to be, despite the harsh callouses that mar nearly every inch of his palms. He softens his grip without seeming to think about it, as if he’s painfully aware of his effect on people. It’s a marked sign of humanity that Silas, Colton, my father, and anyone like them doesn’t possess. “You fought back, but you’re one damn person. I’m just thankful as hell that you made it out in one piece.”
“But my father is still out there,” I say. “Who knows what he’s doing. God, those poor girls…”
“That’s not all he’s up to,” Daze says darkly.
I look at him questioningly, but he hesitates to respond. After checking one more time to make sure Sammy’s asleep, he cradles his son’s head with so much tenderness it hurts to witness.
“Your father’s plans don’t end with his fucked-up little cult,” he says. “There’s more to it.”
“Like what?”
“He wants to blow up the entire city.”
I blink, unsure of how to interpret that. Am I surprised? Maybe. The word choice is rather blunt, but somehow, I doubt that Daze is exaggerating. I can sense the tension he’s tried so hard to hide all along. This is the real reason he’s been on edge since we left Westpoint.
“How?” I stammer. “And when?”
“We’re not sure of the finer details,” he admits with a heavy sigh. “But the intel is credible. It’s going to happen soon. Probably during his little victory speech at city hall.”
“We have to stop him,” I say, already wracking my brain as to the many potential ways my father could utilize his newfound power to sow chaos—not to mention the untold damage he could do with someone like Silas as his attack dog.
I lurch to my feet, and head toward the truck we arrived here in.
“We need to go. Now?—”
“Wait.” I look back to see Daze cradling a dozing Sammy in his arms. With a pleading expression, he jerks his chin to the cabin. “Just give me a minute.”
Reminded of reality, I deflate of some of the urgent tension driving me to move now. Act now. Instead, I swallow hard and follow Daze into the cabin. We pass his sister and the hulking man he referred to as Kane seated at the dinner table. Once inside the farthest bedroom, Daze gingerly tucks Sammy into bed. He lingers, smoothing his fingers along his son’s mop of blond hair. My heart aches watching him. It’s hard to remember that these hands—capable of violence—can be so gentle as well.
I turn around, feeling like a voyeur watching what should be a private moment. Daze is on my heels before I can even blink. Warm, he uses his body to encase me from behind, cupping my waist in the palm of each hand. Then he steers me outside and down the porch steps.
“Hold on,” he murmurs into the nape of my neck as we stand still on the earthen path leading to the road. “Nothing good can be accomplished by rushing in there, guns blazing.”
But that’s the exact M.O. he’s stuck to since the moment I met him.
Unless all the head trauma he’s taken in the past few days has caused lasting damage, I can’t imagine why he’d call for tact now.
Unless…