“Calm, girl!” Griffin spat out harshly.

The third pass of the needle came unexpectedly. Outside in, instead of inside out, and it glanced Charlie’s front teeth as it moved, curving through her throbbing lip. The drawing of the thread became barely noticeable as the tears fell slowly, her body began to grow hot and trembled.

Charlie’s mind seemed to open just then, stretching out before her like her favorite stationery store—all sorts of neatly arranged paper—parchment, hand-cut greeting cards, notebooks, pads of exquisite delicate paper as thin as tissue, stationery meant for fountain pens, sturdy cardstock capable of enduring any pen’s torture. Her OCD in reams of writing material. And she wandered. Charlie remained aware of the stabbing, pulling, shooting pain as each stitch pierced her lips.

Words held such a prominent spot in her life. Charlie loved to read, talk, and write. There was always something personal and achingly profound about the words. Words were the commerce Charlie dealt in, in her personal life and professional life. And Griffin worked today to painstakingly remove them from her world. All of them. Her pleasure, her joy, her safety net, her expression, her toolbox—all removed by a madman who had no use for them. Charlie found herself more vulnerable now than she’d ever been before. There were no words that could stop Griffin’s madness.

Finished with his work, Griffin rose from the chair, admiring his handiwork. Charlie knew she looked grotesque. Thick, black thread stitching blood red, swollen lips together, a gash crudely refashioned in Frankenstein fashion.

“You’re welcome.” Griffin grinned, stroking her hair out of her face, his touch something altogether different now. Charlie tried to cry out but the stitching held too tightly, and her lips felt twice their usual size. She ran her tongue delicately around the inside of her mouth, immediately wishing she hadn’t.

Chapter Nineteen

Declan stood in the midst of his office, gathering his belongings to head home for the day. Home to Charlotte. No matter that she wasn’t at his house, despite the trite sounding nature of the sentiment, he truly believed she had become his home. He shut the lights off, prepared to shut the door and leave work behind when his phone beckoned. He fished it from his pants pocket, sliding it on to discover two messages from her. There was an unread one from around one this afternoon.

Charlotte: Please read the manuscript ASAP. I need to give Ms. Rouseault the initial paperwork today.

And another that had just arrived.

Charlotte: Declan, I need help, please.

Declan cursed, placing his hands on his desk, bracing himself against the torrent of fear and anger that gathered inside him. Something was horribly wrong, but he couldn’t quite place his finger on it. Something about Charlotte’s persistence with the particular manuscript must be a clue into what was going on with her.

He noticed the manuscript sitting there. He leafed through the pages, finding only a few of them marked. Words and letters circled here and there. The proofer marks didn’t make any sense. Charlotte wasn’t a proofreader; she was a researcher. Perhaps she’s sending me a message. Quickly he retrieved a pad of paper and a pen from the desk drawer and went to work writing down the circled words and letters. When he finished, the code spelled out the message: By the time you read this, I might already be dead. She will kill me.

Fuck! Who the hell is “she?” Declan knew Ruby Rouseault must be a pen name, but it also sounded familiar, like he had heard it before. It didn’t matter at the moment. He flew out of the office door and ran solidly into Owen.

“What’s wrong?” Owen demanded. “What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” Declan choked out. “She’s hurt. I have to go. She’s at her house.”

“Charlotte? Wait. I’ll go with you,” Owen said grimly as he started down the hall to the bank of elevators.

Not arguing, Declan ran after him, his heart beating like a hammer.

“Fuck!” Declan clipped out.

“It will be okay. We’ll get to her. Charlotte will be okay.”

Declan closed his eyes. Despite taking care of Griffin, he should have kept Charlotte better protected, kept a man on her. What if Griffin had gotten to her?

A half hour later, the car had squealed to a stop in front of Charlotte’s craftsman home, and Declan jumped out, Owen close on his heels. The first thing he noticed when he burst through the door was the metallic smell that filled the room. His heart seized at the sight before him.

“Good God!” Declan choked out.

Charlotte lay in a heap in front of the coffee table. Blood was everywhere. It covered her face.

“Call 911,” Declan barked to Owen. God, he should have already called an ambulance, but he hadn’t been thinking. His only thought was to get to her as soon as possible.

He fled to her side, dropping to his knees, afraid to touch her. Her face was a mess, eyes swollen, blood everywhere, lips sewn together with black thread.

“Charlotte, I’m here. I’ve found you. Wake up please, my love. Please.” He was pleading with her as he placed a shaky finger to her neck to check for a pulse.

She stirred, emitting a moan.

Oh, fuck. Someone had tortured her mercilessly. Rage exploded through Declan’s chest until he couldn’t breathe. His vision dimmed, his pulse pounding almost out of his head. He was falling apart, all semblance of control shattering.

She tried to lift her right hand, and he saw she was holding something. He gently pulled it away. It was a screen shot of a picture posted to the Internet; a picture of her splayed out on his table, naked, hot wax poured onto her beautiful body. A picture he had taken for his private enjoyment. And now it was public. How the hell?

He quickly stuffed the photo into his pocket before anyone could see it. If Michaela arrived and discovered it, she would lose her fucking mind. Right now, the only thing Declan wanted to worry about was Charlotte and getting her to a hospital. He would deal with the picture later.

“Is she okay?” Owen asked as he dropped beside Declan. “My God. She’s obviously not okay. Ambulance is on the way. What the fuck happened?”

The sound of the siren approaching washed relief over Declan. “The ambulance is here, my sweet girl,” he soothed. “They’ll get you to the hospital and I won’t leave your side. Stay with me, Charlotte. I love you. I love you so much.”

The EMTs burst through the door, hurrying into the living room, moving in to assess Charlotte’s condition. Declan moved back so he wouldn’t be a hindrance to their examination.

“Diminished breath sounds on the right,” the taller paramedic reported. “Get the oxygen.”

“How bad is she?” Declan questioned.

The paramedic shook his head. “She’s a mess. A few rib fractures at the least, maybe a punctured lung, dislocated shoulder, and then there’s her mouth. We won’t be able to tell the rest until she gets examined at the ER.”

Declan went pale. The assessment was bleak, so utterly serious. The paramedics brought in a stretcher, and worked efficiently to secure the c-collar and then give her oxygen. They whisked her off and loaded her into the ambulance quickly. Declan barely had time to jump into the back before they roared away.

***

Declan arrived in the emergency room waiting area to find Michaela and Aaron being interviewed by two police officers. Aaron did his best to keep her calm, but given the situation, Charlotte’s sister was a wreck. She alternated between loud, heart-wrenching sobs and shrill screams.

Just when there seemed to be a lull in the cacophony, another sound exploded into the small, cramped room. “What the fuck did you do to Charlie?” a familiar voice roared. Declan’s head jerked up as he saw Emerson Stone standing in the entrance to the waiting area, the elevator doors closing behind him. Declan had been so immersed in the scene between the officers and Michaela that he never heard anyone walk in.