Chapter 21 You Can't Count In Dreams

Chapter 21 You Can't Count In Dreams
Tessa stared at the ceiling, blinking back tears, disoriented. Count to ten. She'd once been told that you couldn't count in your dreams. One, two, three....
And that's all it had been: a bad dream. She stared at the clock. Two hours had passed. She must have dozed off only to reawaken to the nightmare that had become her life: being chained to Dane's bed.
She shivered, unable to shake the remnants of the grisly nightmare in which Snake had dumped her concrete-weighted body into Lake Summer. She'd floated downward in slow motion, sinking in terror to land amidst a watery graveyard of decomposing bodies with fish-eaten eyes. Her lungs ached as she held that final breath, refusing to relinquish her life.
Seven....eight....nine.... She struggled to sit up.
How would she get out of this mess---- alive and unharmed?

Dane's harrowing description of her potential fate had left her numb. White slavery. Could she survive being sold, assaulted, or being made into a drug addict?
A sob broke free. How many women had met fates like this? How many had become victims of such a heinous crime? Did anyone even suspect that such a thing was happening? What must their families be going through?
For the millionth time, she thought about her own family. In her case, it could be another four weeks before her family even missed her or suspected something was wrong. Her shop was closed for the summer, which gave the two college kids who worked for her a chance to go home until the fall semester. Her mother was husband-hunting on the French Riviera. If Tessa remained incommunicado all summer, they'd hardly notice.
The only other person who might notice her absence was her ex-fiance. She knew from her mother's letters that Madeline was encouraging him to 'start over.' But Tessa had her doubts. He had wasted little time finding her replacement.

The sad truth was that no one would miss her on a day-to-day basis. Tessa had planned on following the summer craft show circuit across the Midwest, interviewing potential designers for her shop. Because she had wanted to leave room in her schedule for spontaneous forays, she hadn't left an itinerary with anyone. And she had used cash the last two times she purchased gas and food, leaving no credit card trail. Once they discovered her missing, how would they find her?
Unless someone pulled off a Hail Mary and found her car from the bottom of the lake, it could be a long time before anyone suspected foul play.
She closed her eyes, thinking about the man Snake had killed, and once again saw the knife plunge, blood spill across the floor. The man hadn't even cried out. Didn't beg for mercy. And she'd never felt so helpless and frightened in her life. Matt Michaels. Who would miss him? Family? Friends?
Bogen seemed to think Michaels was working with someone else. If that someone connected Snake to Michaels, would they come around asking questions? That had seemed to be Bogen's primary concern. He wasn't the least bit concerned about the fact that Snake had murdered a man. He'd been worried about it drawing attention to their operation.
What had she gotten herself into? Snake was a murderer, but clearly Bogen authorized it. How many cars and bodies lined the bottom of Lake Summer?

Would Dane learn about Michaels's death at this meeting? How would he react? She felt certain Dane wouldn't sanction murder. That didn't necessarily mean he'd turn against Bogen and Snake though. Or did it?
She recalled Dane's warnings against letting anyone know her secrets. The more she thought about it, the more it seemed that Dane, for whatever reason, was indeed trying to protect her. But how far would he go for her? And how far was she willing to go to test that theory?
She shifted positions and grimaced when the cuffs chafed against a sore spot on her wrist. She hissed out a breath when she saw the raw skin. After Dane left, she tried in earnest to break free. She had pulled and tugged, determined to squeeze one of her hands through the opening. It had proved futile. Her flesh gave way more readily than stainless steel.

She tensed when she heard a noise at the front door. Someone was entering the cabin. Please, if it wasn't the sheriff, please let it be Dane. Pure, choking dread rose in her throat at the thought of Snake or Duke finding her like this.
Chained.
Helpless.
She held her breath as the bedroom door opened slowly.

"Miss me?" The quip died on his lips as Dane took in her obvious distress. Moving to the bed, he unshackled her. Her wrist bled where she'd tried to escape the cuff. Damn it, didn't she know she couldn't force them open?
But could he blame her for trying?
He tossed the cuffs on the floor, silently cursing the circumstances that required their use. Sitting beside her, he gently pulled her arm forward to examine it. She reacted violently, swinging her other arm. "Let me go!" she shrieked, launching herself at him, raking his cheek with her nails. "You have no right----"
Dane responded without thought, flipping her onto her back and quickly pinning her to the bed, allowing her to vent her frustration by struggling uselessly beneath him. Within moments, she settled, turning her face away, eyes closed. He could feel her body trembling as she wept.
For the first time since getting involved with Bogen, Dane questioned his course of action. God, he didn't want to be a hero. This slip of a woman had cracked his tough facade, made him want to forget about the others and focus only on her and her needs. Which he couldn't allow himself to do. Not now, anyway.

The temptation to put her on his motorcycle and drive as fast and as far away as he could was strong. But where would that leave the ten women Sanchez held captive? They deserved their freedom every bit as much as Tessa did. And if the cartel wasn't stopped, how many more would become victims?
"You can let me up," Tessa's voice sounded hoarse, but steady. "I won't fight you again."
Dane studied her, took in her puffy eyes and red-tipped nose. Her bottom lip quivered. The urge to kiss her was strong----to kiss, to console. To hold her close and make things right again. Instead, he brushed his fingers lightly against her tear-stained cheek. She shivered from the cold.
"Would you believe me if I said I was more concerned about you harming yourself?" In one smooth move, he rolled onto his feet, leaving her alone in the bedroom.

Tessa sat up, straightening her clothes. Before she could stand, Dane returned carrying a first-aid kit and a wet towel. Kneeling before her, he took one wrist. When she offered no resistance, he gently bathed the abraded skin.
Tessa recoiled, but not from his ministrations. His cheek sported two bloody welts from where she scratched him. The sight appalled her. What had come over her? She'd never been violent a day in her life, had never physically hurt another person for any reason.
Until now.
Was this how it started? How violence begets more violence?
She reached out and gently touched his cheek, her hand shaking. "I'm sorry I scratched you," she whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment, wishing he could kiss away the hurt and anguish he saw in her eyes. Instead, he looked away.
"I'm sorry for a lot of things, Tessa. Most of which I don't know how to fix right now."
An awkward silence ensued as Dane smeared antiseptic cream on her wrist. When he finished, Tessa picked up the tube, weighing it in her palm. When Dane started to stand, she stopped him. Very deliberately, she smoothed a small amount of the cream over his cheek.
"If we're both sorry, that's a start."
For a moment, she thought she saw remorse race across his eyes. But just as quickly, it disappeared, replaced by that odd, unreadable look she was coming to recognize.
Dane tugged her to her feet. "Come on, I'll take you for a walk outside."