Tiny knots formed in her belly. She felt each one like a spike settling deep. She knew. She knew it was bad. And she knew it was Rafe. Her heart pounded, slow and hard, hammering in her chest as if trying to destroy her. The coppery taste of fear was in her mouth. She sank into the chair, grateful that Eli’s fingers were around her wrist, holding her to him. She needed the connection, needed his strength and confidence. There was a reason Eli was arrogant.

“Just tell me, Eli. When Rafe is involved, there’s no way to pretty it up.”

His hand swept through her hair. His eyes went soft. “No, there isn’t. I wanted to spare you, Cat, but I also don’t like keeping anything from you. It smacks of deceit, and I promised myself I wouldn’t deceive you no matter what the issue was. Even if that meant we clashed over it.”

She was grateful to hear that. She’d known he was bothered and brooding. “I prefer to know everything when Rafe is involved. I probably know him better than anyone else. If anyone can predict his movements, it’s me.”

“Cordeau found Poetry Slam.”

He shifted position, his hand slipping from her wrist, the connection lost. She heard herself scream. The sound never came out of her, but it was there inside, a long, low wail of pain.

“Who did he kill? How many?” She looked down at her hands. How much blood did she have there? How could she ever wash it off? Scrubbing her skin didn’t work, she’d tried. The skin had come off, but not the blood.

“David Belmont, and Bernard Casey. He also killed the man, Jase Fulton, who made a pass at you that one night. David was supposed to have gone on vacation. I warned him. He said he would, but he didn’t. I guess he was afraid of losing more business and he went back after a couple of days. Malcom is safe. I hadn’t considered Cordeau might think Bernard or Fulton were any threat to his hold on you.”

She shook her head. “You say that so gently as if he stole softly into their rooms, the silent angel of death, and just struck them down in their sleep. He tortured them, didn’t he?” She looked up, her gaze meeting his. “Didn’t he?”

She saw the answer in his eyes. The wariness. The sadness. He was watchful of her, knowing how she felt. She waited. She knew, but she waited anyway. The silent screams kept coming but no one heard them but her.

“Yes, Cat,” he said on a soft sigh. “He tortured them.”

Her heart took a battering. Sore. Bruised. Her chest hurt. “How close is he to us? To Jake and Emma and their children?”

“He can’t touch them. I warned Jake. He won’t find us.”