He took the damp towel off her head and tossed it aside. Her hair fell in tangled wet hanks to her bare shoulders. Her neck was long and graceful, her chin stubborn.

And she looked ready to drop with both weakness and degradation. She was not a woman used to needing help, he could tell, especially not with something so personal.

“Feel better being clean?” If he kept her talking, maybe this would be easier for her—and for him.

“You have no idea.” Dare pulled the shirt down over her head, and as soon as she popped free, she added, “Do you have any scissors?”

He had to practically lift her arms to get them through the armholes. Because a bra had been well beyond him, he’d bought the shirt big and loose. It fit over the bundled towel she had wrapped around herself. “Why?”

“I was going to cut it.”

“It?” He reached beneath the shirt and pulled away the bulky towel. Surprise stilled him for only a moment. Dirt, distress and injury had hidden it, but Molly Alexander had one hell of a rack.

And he felt like a grade-A prick for noticing.

“My hair.” Not quite defeated, but close, she sat back on the bed again. Face pale and mouth tight with strain, she kept her shoulders back, her bare knees and ankles squeezed together. “There’s no way I’ll get the tangles out. And truthfully… I just don’t care enough to try.”

She was not his problem, Dare reminded himself, and her hair sure as hell didn’t matter to him. But damn it, for whatever reason, he didn’t want her to give up now, not on anything.

“Let’s worry about it tomorrow, okay?” Taking her arm again, he got her upright and helped her step into the shorts. Decently dressed, clean, and marginally rested, she made quite a picture.

Sort of cute, but still very bedraggled and wearied, not to mention abused.

Dare led her to the table. “You sure you don’t want to do this in bed?”

A hoarse laugh huffed out. “I’ve been tied to a disgusting, filthy mattress for nine days, unable to sit up or walk or…anything. Trust me, I’d rather be at the table.”

The image sickened him. “Gotcha.”

He set juice in front of her. “Try to drink it all, okay? It’ll help.” Then he opened the microwave and pulled out her still-warm cup of soup.

“I know the pancakes probably smell good, and there’s enough for you if you want to give them a go, but I figured it might be too much—”

“It would be.” She drank a little of the juice, waited, then drank some more. “It’s been so long since I’ve eaten, I have to take it slow or I know I’ll be sick. And I’d rather be beaten than barf again.”

“Again?”

Her expression flattened with memories. As if the shock and humiliation still burned her, she didn’t look at him as she explained.

“At first they brought me corn tortillas and some kind of strong alcohol. I was afraid of what they’d do if I got drunk, so I wouldn’t drink it. But then they gave me the nastiest-looking water, like something out of a mud puddle. I didn’t trust that, either, and they tried to insist, but I just…couldn’t.” Her shoulders hunched a little as she drew into herself. Her voice lowered. “That’s when they started…drugging me.”

Dare set aside his fork. Hearing even a smidge of what she’d gone through made it near impossible to stay distanced; he wanted to go back and kill people all over again.

“After that, I couldn’t seem to resist when they told me to drink it, but I got…sick.” Her hands fisted, and her entire small body tightened. “It’s not like there was any place for that. I mean, not a bathroom or even a bucket. I… I soiled part of the small area they’d given me, and tossed up the pills they’d forced down my throat.”

Jesus. To imagine being a woman alone, afraid and sick, stuck in such an untenable position—he hid it from her, but it enraged him.

“They stood over me, furious, barking at me in a language I didn’t understand, but I got their meaning loud and clear, and I cleaned it up the best I could with the rags they threw at me. After that, they barely fed me. Usually only once a day, but at least the water they brought was cleaner, I guess to avoid a repeat of things.”

Motherfuckers.

“But then yesterday and today they brought me nothing at all. I don’t know why.”

She left out a lot of details, but Dare didn’t push her. He couldn’t begin to imagine how wretched it’d be to get ill while closed in that hot, airless little trailer. The feeling of helplessness was something he’d never experienced, but he knew it’d be different for a man.

Any woman held captive would be constantly under the fear of more than just physical abuse or neglect. She’d be terrified of rape.

Setting the soup and a spoon in front of her, Dare broached that topic. “They manhandled you a lot.”

She said nothing, just tasted her soup, groaned, and tasted it again.

“Molly…if you were hurt…” Idiot. She was so hurt that it pained him to think of it. Dare started over. “That is, if you were hurt in ways that aren’t easy for me to see, then a trip to the hospital would be a good idea.”

With each bite of soup, she looked more lethargic, as if the nourishment eased a terrible ache and allowed tiredness to take over again.

“Molly?”

“I can’t.” She took another swallow, but her eyes were getting heavy as color seeped back into her cheeks. “Can’t what?”