Forged in Ash by Trish McCallan

Author:Trish McCallan [McCallan, Trish]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781612185347
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 2014-01-28T05:00:00+00:00

She awoke slowly, skimming along consciousness to the drone of masculine voices.

“How do we know she’s not faking it?”

“Because I can tell, and she’s not.”

She recognized the one voice, the Southern one. Although it was missing the gentleness and croon. The other voice—the cold, hard, and brutal one—was not familiar. She wanted to keep it that way. Best to keep her eyes closed and head down. Simcosky’s girlfriend had said they wanted to question her. Since she wasn’t dead, the blond bimbo must have been right, which meant the longer they had to wait for their answers, the longer her lifespan.

So she lay there, still as possible, as the urge to move, to stretch, to ease her battered muscles became a constant itch.

“Did Kait make out okay with the five-oh?”

“Yeah.” It was Marcus Simcosky’s voice. But less loud and angry. “She covered for us.”

“Told you. She’s quick on her feet.”

“When the fuck’s she going to wake up?” the hard, gritty voice demanded, and Jillian knew he was talking about her.

Fingers touched her neck, lingered. Jillian fought to regulate her breathing. Could he tell from her pulse she was awake? The thought sent her blood crashing through her veins. Certainly he could feel that. Panicked, she tensed, ready to launch herself up and at him, when the hand fell away.

“She’s awake. You might as well open your eye, sweet cheeks. We’re not going to hurt you.”

Liar.

His voice might be gentle and his hands soothing, but he was one of them. A murdering, lying bastard like Zane Winters and Marcus Simcosky.

Still, it was useless to keep pretending. Best to face her fear and enemy. With a deep, ragged breath she opened her eyes. Or eye. Her vision cut off to the left of her nose.

She was lying down, something soft beneath her head. Her right eye, which was still working, although blurrier than normal, had a hazy view of brown leather—maybe the back of a couch. She couldn’t see anything to her left. When she tried to force her left eye open, a molten poker pierced it. She froze, and the piercing pain settled into a deep, raw ache. After a moment, she released her pent-up breath, reached up, and gingerly touched her eye. The cold of an ice pack chilled her fingers. Holding the ice pack in place, she rolled her head until she could see to the left. A tall blond man with concerned blue eyes came into view. She recognized him from the television and papers. He was one of the men responsible for Russ’s death.

That concern was just another lie. Like the lies they told about her brother to the FBI and the reporters.

An IV stand caught her attention. Frowning, she forced her blurry gaze to focus on it, to follow the plastic line that ran from the clear bag down to her arm and into the needle that penetrated the vein beneath her elbow.

She jolted up and swayed. Once her head stopped swimming she tried to tear off the tape that held the needle in place.

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