New York to Dallas

sat on the side of the bed. He always knew, she thought. Somehow he always knew what to do. Now, it seemed he was as lost as she. “I thought it was over. I haven’t gone back there in a while. I thought I was past it, that I’d resolved it, and it was done.”
    Careful not to touch her, he sat beside her. “Being here, dealing with what’s happening here. It’s no wonder it triggered this.”
    “It was more. It was worse.”
    “I know.” He started to reach for her hand, then dropped his. “I know it was. Can you tell me?”
    “At first, it was the same. The room, the cold, the light. So hungry. The same, getting the knife, eating the cheese. And he came in, drunk but not enough. And it starts. He hits me, so hard. So hard, and he’s on me. It hurts.”
    He rose, had to, walked back to the window, stared out blindly. “You were screaming.”
    “I couldn’t stop, and he wouldn’t. But . . . they were there, all around us. All the girls. The girls like me, all those eyes watching him rape me. So sad, so empty. All those eyes.
    “And my arm.” Instinctively she wrapped it close to her body. “The snap and the pain when he broke it. And I’m crazy with pain and fear. The same, that’s the same. And the knife in my hand. And the blade’s in him. The blood runs over my hand. It’s so warm. So warm, a comfort. No, no, not a comfort. A thrill.”
    When he turned, she’d gripped her hands together in her lap. “Not like it was, not like I remember. Not that mindless defense, not just survival. I wanted the blood. And so did they. The girls, all the girls telling me to kill him. To kill him. And his face—then McQueen’s—his then his then his. Kill them.
    “I wanted . . . I felt . . . horrible, ugly pleasure. I don’t think I put those marks on you because you hurt me. I think, oh God, I think I fought you because you tried to stop me.”
    She pressed a hand to her face, wrapped her arm around her body, and broke with a shuddering, wrenching sob.
    She tried to turn away when he came to her, but now he knew what to do.
    He held her, stroked her hair, her back, and when she went lax, lifted her into his lap to rock.
    “Why do you suffer for that? Baby, why do you make yourself pay for that? A dream, a nightmare of the nightmare you lived. Only a child.”
    “I wasn’t a child, not at the end. All the girls, Roarke, bruised and bloody and calling for death. But I wasn’t a child when I gave it to them. I was me.”
    “You were a child when he brutalized you. And now you work yourself to breaking for those girls, and for one you saved once already.”
    “I can’t be what I need to be if I kill, not that way. Not in defense, but because I want it over. I can’t be if I enjoy it. Then I’m what they are.”
    “You could never be.” He swallowed back a fresh spurt of rage, fought to keep his voice, his hands gentle. “They tried to make you nothing, those obscene excuses for a mother and father. And you made yourself everything they weren’t.”
    “It scared me. It . . . shamed me. What I felt.”
    “You went to bed exhausted, and angry. That part’s on me.”
    “I might’ve had a little to do with it.”
    He managed a smile as he brushed tears from her cheeks. “Maybe a little at that. Don’t punish yourself for a dream, baby.”
    When she rested her head on his shoulder, he closed his eyes. “Do you want Mira?”
    “No. Yes. Maybe.” Her voice broke again as she tightened her arms around him. “I want you. I want you.”
    “You have me, always. Don’t cry anymore. Don’t cry now.”
    “Her face is in my head. Darlie. I knew he’d take another, but now her face is in my head. I know what she’s feeling now—the shock, the shame, the fear. She’ll have nightmares, too. It’ll happen over and over again, long after we stop him. We have to stop him.”
    “We will.”
    She let out a long breath. “We will. Let me fix those scratches.”
    “It’s all right.”
    “No, let me.” She drew back, framed his face, looked into his eyes. “Let me.”
    “Well, I expect knowing us, Summerset packed a first-aid kit. It’s likely in the bathroom.”
    “I’ll find it.” She got up, paused. “You stopped me. I know it was just a dream, but you stopped me. It sounds weird, but I think by stopping me, you saved me. So thanks.”
    He could see her, his Eve. He could see what she’d made herself. “We’ve saved each other all along, haven’t we?”
    “I guess we