She'd thought Dallas would be hers by now.
She'd thought he would understand that it was inevitable.
Was it her fault that she had to hurry him along? That she had to make him see?
Where love was concerned, a girl had to do what she had to do, and Dallas Sykes was a man with a flair for the dramatic. He liked a show. He liked to make a statement.
He might be angry at first; she understood that. Because her plan to clear the path to him was--what? Radical? Dangerous?
No. Imperative. She had no choice, really. He was, quite simply, hers. The world just didn't realize that yet.
More importantly, Dallas didn't realize that yet.
She didn't understand how he could not know. Between them it had been special. It had been pure. Not like those sluts he'd drawn into his bed. Not like this ridiculous affair with his sister, all the more vile because it was splashed all over social media, their shame making headlines and turning stomachs.
She'd never considered him dim-witted, but maybe he was. Because he should know. He should understand. And yet he didn't.
But that was okay. He would soon enough.
And then...
Well, and then he'd truly be hers.
Again.
"She's not here. Goddammit, she's not here."
Dallas Sykes's blood burned with dread and fear curled in his gut like acid as he stalked down the dark, residential block of Eighty-Second Street, his eyes scanning every nook and cranny, searching for a woman he knew wasn't there.
This late, the street was deserted, the residents tucked safe in their beds behind the darkened windows of the Upper West Side townhouses that rose like the wall of an inescapable maze on either side of Dallas.
Where? Where the fuck was she?
The area was too damn dark, the few door lights far too dim to be any help at all. Instead, Dallas used the light on his phone to cut through the night as he scoured every damn inch of the street for some sign of Jane. A broken fingernail. A shoe.
God forbid, even blood.
He shuddered, trying to push back his terror. He wasn't succeeding.
This was his fault, goddammit. His.
He'd hidden the truth from Jane, thinking he was making it better. That he was sparing her more pain. But those buried secrets had burst free, wild and vicious and dangerous. And now she was gone. Missing. Possibly dead--except she couldn't be dead; the thought was too big, too horrible to even wrap his mind around.
But captive? Oh, dear Christ, what if she'd been thrust back into the horror of their childhood, and all because of him?
"Keep looking." Liam's voice--firm, controlled--filtered through the speaker. "I'm showing a signal."
"Of course I'm going to keep looking," Dallas snapped. "But she's not here." His voice rose, matching his escalating fear. "And neither is her damn phone."
"Stay with me, Dallas. You can't help her if you lose your shit."
"Fuck." A fresh wave of fear crested inside him, and Dallas had to tighten his grip on his own phone in order to fight the almost irresistible urge to hurl the damn thing to the ground. But he couldn't. As impotent as his smart phone was at the moment, it was his lifeline to her.
Jane.
His heart. His soul.
The one person in all the world he craved, needed, loved more than any other.
And Liam was right--he couldn't help her if he lost control. If he let himself drown in fear and memories.
So he wouldn't. He'd stay on the street. He'd search. He'd follow every lead. But in the end, he would find her because no other option was even conceivable. He'd find her, he'd rescue her, and then he'd kill the fucking bitch who'd taken her.
Fighting a shudder, he once again looked at the image that someone had sent to him from her phone.
Jane. Beaten and battered.
Jane. Unconscious and helpless on a sidewalk. This sidewalk. Or at least somewhere near here, because Liam was tracking her phone to these coordinates. So where the hell was she?
Slowly, he drew in a breath, then exhaled with just as much precision. "You're sure this is the location?"