Page 62 of Stolen Faith
Once she was calm, she smiled, but it was feeble. Wobbly. “Thank you. Both of you. But I also meant literally.” She gestured down at the dress. “It’s tight.”
Rowan eyed her extremely battered dress. “Why don’t you take it off?”
“I already feel helpless. Being naked won’t help that.”
The word helpless stuck in her brain, looping on repeat.
“Here.” Behind her, Brennon pulled off his shirt and held it up. “Don’t get naked. Put on my shirt and then we can just undo the top of the dress.”
Izabel studied his dirty dress shirt. Slowly, she took it, sitting forward and slipping her arms into the sleeves. She buttoned it, then turned her back to Brennon.
“Would you?”
Warm hands reached under the shirt, and then there was wonderful relief as he lowered the hidden zipper. Though they’d ripped the top of the dress while molesting her, all they’d done was tear the outer fabric away from the lining, which still fit as tightly as it was meant to.
Izabel let out a low groan of relief, taking a wonderful, deep breath.
“Better?” Rowan asked.
“So much better.”
Rowan watched them, his gaze assessing. They were still close to her, crowding her personal space. But she didn’t feel trapped. She felt protected. Didn’t feel helpless, she felt…safe.
Brennon yawned and that triggered her own yawn.
“Sorry,” he said.
“We should sleep.” Rowan looked around. “Come on.”
He brought them over to the front wall of the cell, positioning them so that anyone who opened the door would have to come almost all the way in to see them.
Brennon lay against the corner where the wall met the floor and opened his arms. Izabel lay on her side, resting her cheek against his bare chest, one arm tucked around his waist.
Rowan lay beside her, his back pressed to hers. Izabel reached back with her leg, hooking her foot around Rowan’s ankle, needing the connection. After a moment, Rowan’s hand came to rest on her hip.
The concrete was cold and hard against her side, but the large, warm bodies of her fiancés chased away the chill.
Exhausted, but safe, at least in this moment, Izabel fell asleep.
In her sleep, Izabel forgot.
Forgot that she was being held captive.
Forgot the terror birthed by torture.
Forgot the pain of the past few days.
But she didn’t forget them. Didn’t forget who the two men pressed against her were. She felt the warmth of Brennon’s chest under her cheek, the hard wall of Rowan’s back against hers, and she knew exactly who they were.
They were hers. Her fiancés. Her trinity.
Izabel stretched, her body stiff after what she was fairly sure was many hours of sleep.
And as she stretched, she ran a hand down Brennon’s bare chest, the sole of her foot up Rowan’s calf.
Both men stirred, shifting restlessly, and when she looked up, Brennon was staring down at her, his gaze heavy-lidded but not sleepy.
“Brennon,” she breathed.