Page 17 of When He Defends

She held her ground. She would not be intimidated by him. “You know a victim, don’t you? Someone close to you. Very close.”

He marched for the motel’s small office. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, but he did know.

So she waited. Right outside of the small office. He went in, talked with the female clerk, got them the late checkout, and when he came out of that door, Emerson made sure she was standing in his path.

He growled. A sound that should not have been sexy, but, oddly, it was. Deep and dark and it pulled at something equally deep and dark inside of her. Something she’d worked extremely hard to keep hidden. “It was the way you reacted to Misty and her son. There was a crack in your mask. I saw it. For just a moment, she was personal to you. She reminded you of something—someone—from your own past.”

“Misty wasn’t personal. I’d never met the woman in my life, not until our fun-filled stay here at the Motel from Hell. Late checkout is one p.m., by the way.” He advanced.

Again, she did not retreat.

“Who was it?” Emerson asked him. “A friend? A lover?”

His eyes flashed. “Are you asking me if Ihurtsomeone, Emerson?”

“No.” Immediate. Then, “Yes.”

His teeth snapped together. “You think I would?—”

“Not the victim. No, I don’t think you’d ever hurt a victim.”

Some of the tension eased from his shoulders.

“But I think you’d hurt the perpetrator.”

He smiled, and the smile did not reach his eyes. “I’m not the judge and jury. Punishment isn’t my department.” That was a shark’s smile. Terrifying in its beauty.

And sharpness.

She exhaled. “We should take this conversation inside.” Not that anyone was out there to hear them, but?—

He took her hand.

The move surprised her so much that she jerked. Jumped.

He quirked one brow. “Emerson, are you afraid of little old me?”

No, she wasn’t. In fact, he was one of the few people she didn’t think she would ever fear. “You wouldn’t hurt me. I’m not a predator.”

His fingers twined with hers. His touch scorched her, but she didn’t say a word as he led her back to her room. Room twelve. He stopped at the door. “Get some sleep.”

He let go of her hand.

“Was it your mother?” Emerson pushed.

Hit.She saw it on his face. The flash of pure savagery. His motherhadbeen a victim in the past.

But he shook his head. “Don’t go down this road with me, Emerson.”

“You’re a protector, straight to your core.” She understood so much now. “Some protectors are born. Some are made. The instinct to help the victims—that’s what drives you. I wonderedhow you were such a good profiler. Now I get it. You’re so good because you’re working extra hard to understand the victims and to help them.”

“No.” He leaned toward her. Put one hand on the frame of the door near her head. “I don’t understand the victims. I understand the perps. I know how they think. I know what they want. I know what they need. I understand them completely, and that’s how I become their nightmares.”

She almost forgot to breathe. “Gray?” A squeak.

“You are right about one thing, though. I know a victim.” His lips thinned. “My mother left the sonofabitch who hurt her when I was five years old. He tracked us to a motel much like this one.” A shake of his head. “When he came banging at the door, everyone looked away. The lights went out in the nearby rooms, just like they did tonight. People pretended not to hear his yells. Not to see him breaking down the door. Everyone needed it to be someone else’s problem. It wasmyproblem.”