Page 2 of Caring for Cailin

Well,the voice amends,they came for Noelle. But they don’t seem like men who’d leave you behind, either.

My gaze flickers to the woman responsible for our rescue. Noelle. The most recent captive added to Dario’s stable of captive actors, and hopefully, the last.

She’s standing beside a tall, blonde man who’s looking at her like she’s his entire world. He can’t stop touching her—stroking her face, kissing her hair, and hugging her as if he can’t bear to let her go. His expression is tortured, as if her being here is somehowhisfault instead of the man tied up and bleeding on the floor nearby.

My heart tugs at their poignant reunion.

On the heels of that, there’s a pinch of jealousy.

No one came for me,I can’t help thinking. Four months I’ve been missing, and nothing. Noelle’s here for less than a day, and her boyfriend—fiance? husband?—comes rushing in to save her.

Stop it,I can almost hear my dad say. He still talks to me sometimes, even though he’s been gone close to twenty years now.Jealousy isn’t a good quality to have. And really, you should be thankful. If this man didn’t love her so much, he wouldn’t have come. And what would that mean for you?

He’s right.

Before all of this, I wouldn’t have been jealous of all. I was too focused on my career to think about a relationship. A boyfriend would want time I didn’t have to give. He might have gotten upset if I had to kiss another man for a role. He wouldn’t have liked me having to be away for months at a time if the opportunity arose.

But now…

I don’t want to think about acting again. Not after being forced to perform in Dario’s screwed up plays where your role meant the difference between life and death.

I don’t want to travel anymore. I just want to go home.

And I can’t deny wishing I had someone like Noelle’s boyfriend to comfort me. To be my port in the storm of chaos around me. To pull me into his arms and promise that everything’s going to be okay.

“Shut up,” one of the other rescuers growls at Dario. The man is huge—at least a foot taller than me, and has bulging muscles everywhere—and as he shoots a murderous glare at Dario, my captor’s face pales with fear. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

The tall man is one of the men who arrived with Noelle’s boyfriend, along with three others. They’re not police, but they have all have an intimidating presence, and the way they talk to each other makes me think they might be part of some sort of team.

While the tall man holds Dario at gunpoint, the others are tending to the victims. Not Dario, but my fellow actors, Hector and Paul, who both look to be in dire shape.

A dark-haired man is holding a wad of folded gauze to Hector’s chest, trying to stem the flow of blood from where Dario shot him. Another man kneels by his side while he attempts to start an IV on Hector. Not far from them, a silver-haired man tries to steady the knife sticking out of Paul’s stomach.

A small moan works its way up my throat at the sight of so much violence. Hot tears trickle down my cheeks. As I’m watching the scene in front of me unfold, Dario turns his head, and his gaze locks onto mine.

“Cailin,” he hisses. His voice lowers in that threatening way that always makes me feel like throwing up. “Get over here and help me.Now.”

“Don’t talk to her!” snaps the man holding a gun on him. “What did I say about being quiet?”

Then the man looks at me. His fierce expression gentles. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

I open my mouth to speak, but for some reason, nothing comes out.

Glancing at the man with Noelle, he calls out, “Webb. Check on her—” He angles his chin at me. “She might be injured.”

Noelle’s boyfriend—Webb, apparently—says something quietly to her and starts to release her, presumably to come check on me.

The despairing look on Noelle’s face makes my voice start working again. “No,” I croak. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt. It’s fine.”

Finemight be a bit of an exaggeration. But I’m not hurt, and that’s the most important part. I don’t need their help, not like Hector and Paul do.

“When are the police getting here?” the silver-haired man calls over. As he lifts his head, I get a better glimpse at his face. In contradiction to the color of his hair, his features appear younger. Not in his late twenties, like me, but not in his sixties, like Dario, either. If I had to guess, with his faintly-lined featuresand eyes wise with experience, I’d put him somewhere in his forties.

“They should be getting here any minute,” one of the other men replies. He pauses. “At least, I damn well hope so.”

Almost to emphasize his point, Hector coughs, spraying blood from his mouth.

“Shit,” Webb grits out. “We need the paramedicsnow.”