Trace’s agent was outside. He’d hear her. He’d—
Her attacker slammed her into the mirror. The glass cracked and shattered around her. His fingers pressed over her mouth, reminding her of a nightmare from her past that wouldn’t ever stop.
Her head ached where it had hit the mirror. The wooden barre shoved into her back.
His breath blew against the shell of her ear. “I will be the one,” he told her, voice low and hard.
She lifted her knee. Tried to shove it into his groin, but he was already pulling back.
Even as the sound of footsteps pounded toward her.
Footsteps—and a light?
“Ms. Sullivan?”
She clung to the barre. It seemed to be the only thing holding her up right then. He was here. He was here.
The flashlight hit her in the face. “Ms. Sullivan, what happened? I heard you cry for help.” It was her guard—Reese Stokes. She recognized his deep voice and that faint Alabama accent. If she could have moved, Skye would have hugged that man right then. Instead, she managed to say, “He’s here!”
That flashlight immediately swept the room, cutting through the darkness. But finding no one.
“He?” Reese asked her as he came closer. He put his arm around her.
“He’s here,” Skye said again. Trace had warned her, he’d told her…He’s dangerous. He’d been right. If Reese hadn’t been there, what would her attacker have done?
“Skye?”
At that familiar, deep voice, she tensed in Reese’s arms. Trace.
The lights flooded back on at that moment, coming with a brightness that almost hurt her eyes.
Trace rushed toward her. He pulled her from Reese. “What the hell just happened?”
“She said someone was here.” Reese seemed to have just noticed the broken glass.
“Go. Search,” Trace ordered as he pulled Skye even closer to him. “I’ve got her.”
Pieces of the broken mirror had fallen to the floor. They crunched beneath Trace’s expensive shoes.
Reese hurried away from them. When he ran away, Skye saw the gun in his hand.
Her breath choked out. Why is this happening?
Trace’s fingers slid through her hair. He growled, “Dammit, you could have a concussion.”
What she had was a giant knot on her head. One that was making her dizzy and nauseous. Wait, was that a concussion?
“I’m getting you out of here.”
Before she could say anything else, he’d lifted her into his arms. He held her easily, as if she weighed nothing at all, and he hurried for the door.
Then they were outside. The crisp air hit her, pushing back some of the nausea, but not doing a thing to alleviate her fear. The fear had far too tight of a grip on her.
Trace carried her toward a dark Jag. He opened the door and sat her inside on the passenger’s seat. “Tell me what happened.”
She hadn’t seen him in ten years. So why was she so ridiculously glad that he was the one there with her? “I was practicing…the lights went out. I-I thought it as the breaker. It’s gone out before and—”
He caught her chin in his hand. “When did the man come?”
She swallowed. “When it went dark. I heard the floor squeak, and I knew he was there.” She licked her too-dry lips. “I tried to run, but he caught me.”
“Did he…” Trace’s words were gritted, “what did he do to you?”
Her eyelids flickered as she remembered. “He slammed my head into the mirror. Reese came in…before he could do anything else.”
I will be the one.
Her hands were shaking. She balled them into fists in her lap.
“I’m taking you to the hospital.”
“No, I—”
“I’m taking you to the hospital,” Trace said again, anger snapping in the words. “You’ve got a concussion. You need to be checked out.”
“Boss!” Reese rushed toward them. “I searched the building, but no one’s there.”
Her gaze darted down the street. There were other buildings, a few shops nearby, but they were all closed for the night.
“Stay here. Get back-up on the scene,” Trace ordered Reese. “I want that SOB. And we’re getting him.”
Then he slammed her door shut. She watched him through the window, chill bumps rising on her skin. Trace leaned close to Reese. Whispered something that she couldn’t hear. The chill bumps got worse. Skye felt so cold then. So very cold.
Trace turned away from Reese and stalked back toward her. The driver’s door opened. Trace slid inside the vehicle, and the engine growled to life.
I will be the one.
The words wouldn’t stop whispering through her mind.
The car’s engine snarled to life, and the Jag shot into the night.
She looked back. Reese stood there, staring after them. Her studio was lit up, every light glowing.
And the monster who’d been in the dark—he was long gone.
But he’ll be back.
The cold sank down, penetrating all the way to her bones.
***
“Definitely concussed,” the doctor said as she shone a light into Skye’s eyes.
Trace crossed his arms over his chest. He’d moved back so the doctor could work on Skye, but he hadn’t been about to leave the small exam room. He wasn’t in the mood to let Skye out of his sight.
“We’ll need you to stay overnight for observation,” Dr. Denise Bond told Skye as she lowered her light. “It’s a precaution in a situation like this—”
“No,” Skye said, her immediate denial cutting through the doctor’s words. “I’m going home.”
“I don’t think you realize how dangerous a concussion could be.” The doctor spoke carefully, still in that soothing bedside manner that some docs managed so easily. “Brain injuries are unpredictable. Your concussion appears mild now, but what if you have a seizure in the middle of the night? What if you fall…is there someone at your home that can help you?”
Skye’s green gaze darted to Trace, then back to the doctor. “I-I’ll be fine.”
She’ll be alone.
The doctor glanced back at him.
“I’m the patient,” Skye reminded her. Trace rather liked the snap of anger in her voice. Before, Skye had been afraid. She’d been shaking when he first rushed inside that studio.