Page 30 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Her skin twitched and flinched beneath the soft stroke of the material, her back so tense he thought her spine would snap if he made one wrong move.

Did Jasper have any idea what had been done to her? He sure as hell didn’t have this tapestry of scars on his body, or the mental wounds in his head. Not to Tabitha’s degree, anyway.

Furiously impotent to do anything to fix it, Grit finished up and bundled her into the robe, tying the belt securely around her waist as she stood and shuddered. “Good girl, thank you for trusting me. Sit down, little tiger, and get stuck into your food.”

As shell-shocked as she’d been when he found her sitting in the tub, Tabitha shuffled around the couch and plunked herself down, staring vacantly at the blank screen on the wall.

Fuck, he’d broken her again.

Chapter Four

Tabitha

“…sending her back.”

The first thing she heard when she woke was Grit’s voice, low and calm. Better than any music, in her opinion. It had been in her head last night as she fell asleep, quietly crooning to her about some ridiculous story that he’d probably made up.

She loved the rumble of it, the soothing cadence.

“No. I can protect her here. She needs more than dumping in a holding cell until someone tracks down the asshole siccing everyone on her.”

Bathroom, she decided, visualizing the direction of his voice. She felt wrung out, too exhausted to open her eyes. Her body was heavy, almost bruised, and there was a nagging feeling telling her something wasn’t right.

“Come on, Jasper, you don’t have time to deal with this. If I send her back, she’s going to spend the next few weeks of her life in a goddamn cell, alone. Just about everyone in the office is petrified of her; none of them are going to keep her company. The only ones who aren’t terrified are the ones who know her, and all of you have caseloads, families, random fucking dramas. It’s not happening.”

Groaning, Tabitha frowned. What the hell was he talking about? She wasn’t going anywhere she didn’t want to go. Coming here last night was an indulgent mistake; she’d been uncharacteristically lonely, and Ashford had struck her insecurities during that brief phone call.

The contract on her head needed to be dealt with, which meant getting back to Ireland and hunting down the cowardly prick who’d set a dozen crosshairs on her forehead.

Ireland was going to be a nightmare. Normally, she had no ties to hinder her, but given how homesick she’d felt while dealing with Luca… handling business across the water while Grit was here sat uncomfortably in her stomach.

How the hell he’d convinced her head or her stone cold heart to latch onto him, she didn’t know. Her ability to distance herself from clingy emotions was something she prided herself on, and now it was as useful as a dead dog.

“Christ, I’m not going to molest her, J. Give me some damn credit. I keep her here, she stays out of trouble. She has company, she’s happy, she’s safe.” Grit sounded exasperated. “No, she didn’t try to kill me in her sleep. Honestly, she was so fucking tired, she slept through the night. I put the restraints on her just in case, but she hasn’t been an issue.”

That nagging feeling warning her something was wrong? It began to throb like a second heartbeat, pulsing in her belly as she opened her eyes and stared at the thin leather binders smothering her arms from fingers to mid-forearm.

As soon as she saw them, she felt them. The constriction, the pressure from the straps buckled around her forearms in two places, the way the leather molded to her hands so she couldn’t dislocate her thumbs to slide them free.

The sound she made was sheer, unadulterated panic in its purest form.

The chain securing the binders’ D-links was lengthy, sufficient enough it didn’t hinder her movement or make her feel tied down, but just the fact she was restrained, unable to defend herself, brought memories crashing down.

They weren’t cuffs, she told herself. She could fight like the tiger Grit called her and still not rip the flesh on her wrists to pieces like she had when she was a kid.

Her heart bounced against her ribs, rocketed into her throat, and almost choked her as the panic swelled and grew claws.

Even telling herself that Grit wouldn’t tie her up and leave her in a room full of strange men, wouldn’t force her to try and defend herself with both hands bound, didn’t quell her terror.

She was a fool, an idiot. She’d trusted him and been caught.

How the fuck had she gotten so comfortable she’d slept through him strapping her into the damn things? How had she continued to sleep wearing them?

“Leave, leave, leave,” she gasped, attacking the straps and buckles with her teeth. The taste of leather and metal bit her tongue, saliva making the stupid things slippery as her stomach revolted and drool filled her mouth. “Paw in the trap, the hunter kills the cat. The cat was fucking naïve and doesn’t deserve a reprieve.”

“J, I gotta go. She’s awake. I’m not arguing with you over this—she’s staying right where she is.” In the bathroom doorway, Grit filled the space. Damp from a shower, steam swirling from behind him, he wore nothing but a pair of boxers and a concerned frown. “I’ll update you later, just focus on tracking down the Irish fucker.”

Tabitha gave up trying to bite her way through the binders, rolling off the bed and lurching away from him as he approached cautiously. She got six feet away from the bed before the chain yanked taut.

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