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Dante felt her fingers twitch in his grip.
“And do you remember what happened to you?” Valerie continued, her touch light as she inspected a particularly nasty bruise.
Another wave of tension coursed through the woman’s hand, her hold tightening until her nails were little crescents of pressure against Dante’s skin. Her silence was a tangible thing, a shadow looming over the trio.
Valerie sighed gently, a sound of understanding rather than frustration. “It’s okay, you’re safe now. I need you to let go of this nice man’s hand for a moment, sweetheart. Can you turn over for me?”
The woman’s grip became a vise, her panic manifesting in the painful press of her fingers. “No, please,” she gasped out, her voice a ragged edge of fear.
Dante’s heart clenched. “I’ve got you,” he murmured, locking eyes with her. “Not going anywhere.”
As she exhaled a shaky breath, the bone-crushing grip on his hand relaxed marginally.
Valerie finished her assessment with a nod. “She needs to be properly examined and then rest,” she announced. “But it seems safe to move her for now.”
But the woman couldn’t walk, her legs buckling like broken things when she tried to climb from the car. Without a word, Dante draped his coat over her before sliding an arm beneath her knees and another behind her back, lifting her into his arms . She was disconcertingly light, as though made of bird bones and fragility, and he was suddenly, fiercely protective.
Dante’s world narrowed to the woman in his arms, each revealed bruise had caused a phantom ache on his own skin. The soft moans that escaped her were daggers to his chest, carving an unfamiliar path of raw anger and fierce protectiveness through his typically unyielding composure. Every wince she made was a call to arms, each pained breath she drew, stirred the storm brewing inside him.
As they moved, her frailty became an echo in his very bones, a haunting melody that drew out parts of him he’d never known existed. He was a fortress, a haven; he needed to be her sanctuary in a way that clawed at his reasoning, defying every rule he’d ever set for himself.
He wanted—no, needed—to shield her from the world’s cruelties, to be the barrier between her and any harm. The intensity of this new, inexplicable instinct was like a riptide, pulling him under with its ferocious current.
Never before had someone stirred such a tempest of emotions within him. It was as though she’d unknowingly whispered a code, unlocking a vault within his soul he hadn’t realized was there. The sensation was unnerving, foreign, and yet, as he held her closer, it was as natural as drawing breath.
He would protect her, heal her, keep her safe within the fortress of his arms. And somehow, in a way that defied logic, he understood she was irrevocably altering the core of who he thought he was.
As he carried her away from the Tesla, her head tucked against his chest, Dante could feel the weight of every stare, the hum of whispers like static in the air. But all he could truly think about was the fragile burden in his arms and the trust she placed in him, a perfect stranger.
CHAPTER 7
Consciousness ebbed and flowed like a gentle tide within Rebecca, her world a mixture of pain and the blurry edges of her surroundings. But through it all, there was him—the man whose arms felt like steel bands wrapped in velvet, providing an unyielding support that her body so desperately craved. The world outside seemed to fade away as she was carried up a series of steps, the rhythm of his stride a comforting lullaby that kept the encroaching darkness at bay.
The air shifted around her as they entered a building, grandeur and blessed warmth seeping into her senses. Despite the fog clouding her mind, Rebecca couldn’t miss the majesty surrounding her—the scent of aged wood, the distant crackle of a welcoming fire, and underneath it all, the steady heartbeat of the man who held her.
His stride didn’t falter as he carried her through the luxurious space. She nestled closer to him, her face burrowing into the crook of his neck. She inhaled deeply, the scent of his cologne—a crisp, clean fragrance underlined by the natural musk of his skin—acted like a salve to her frayed nerves. It stood in stark contrast to the harsh, acrid scents of her recent past, replacing them with something protective and resolute.
He moved effortlessly through the expanse of the lobby, the murmur of voices and the subtle shift in the sound of his footsteps from hard wood to cool marble registering in the back of her mind. Her safe harbor adjusted his hold on her, his muscles flexing in a way that both reassured and fortified her ailing strength.
Nurse Val-something opened a door on their right-hand side and led them into a space with a clinical sterility that prickled at her senses. The distinctive aroma of antiseptic filled her nostrils.
From her vantage point, cradled against a fortress of a chest, Rebecca could only catch glimpses of the room they entered, her view fragmented and obscured, much like her thoughts. The haze of pain that clouded her senses seemed to ebb and dull, allowing her the faintest clarity to absorb her surroundings.
Even through the fog, she noticed the stark contrast between the warmth of the previous areas and the clinical, functional nature of this new space. Below, a hard, unyielding surface reflected the harsh lights above—linoleum, she realized, its pristine condition speaking of meticulous care.
Her eyes, drifting in and out of focus, latched on to the silhouettes of high beds lined up like sentinels in the room, their presence both ominous and comforting. Each was flanked by a small, mobile table, the kind she’d seen in hospitals, poised to serve their essential function. There was a sterility to the place, a sense of preparedness, from the gleaming trays that she imagined were for instruments to the crisp white sheets on the beds, barely ruffled.
A soft rustle drew her fragmented attention to the center of the room, where a curtain hung, its length and purpose inscrutable from her position but clearly acting as a divider, a guardian of privacy. It was pulled to one side now, but Rebecca could envision it drawn closed, creating two separate sanctuaries within the larger space.
Everything here spoke of efficiency, of healing, but it was also impersonal, clinical. The room was a far cry from the chaos she’d fled, yet it lacked the warmth and safety she was currently cloaked in.
So, when the blond man attempted to lower her onto one of the beds, an unfamiliar panic surged. Her limbs, weak yet suddenly animated by raw fear, clung to him. The thought of being separated from her newfound protector, even by a mere few inches of air, was a terror she couldn’t articulate, couldn’t even fully comprehend. All she knew, in that base part of her that craved safety and comfort, was that she needed him. Needed the solid reality of him to ward off the nightmare she was still not convinced she’d awoken from. The realization made her burrow closer into the man holding her, seeking comfort in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her cheek.
Rebecca’s grip on the man didn’t wane, her fingers entwined in the fabric of his shirt, her sense of safety anchored in his solid presence. Yet, amidst the persistent throb of pain, another voice sifted through the fog, feminine and gentle, a soft cadence that seemed to stroke her frayed nerves.
“You’re safe here, dear,” the nurse—what was her name again?—cooed, her words weaving a tapestry of safety around Rebecca and adding to the comfort of the strong arms holding her. “This is Rawhide Ranch, a sanctuary. Nobody here will harm you; I promise.” The soothing and rhythmic voice continued to fill the sterile room, recounting a tale that felt far-removed from Rebecca’s harrowing reality. She spoke of a Ranch, vast and historic, nestled amidst mountains and borne from a legacy of compassion. Founded over a century ago, transformed by benevolence and fortune—sapphires, was it? The narrative seemed like a beacon from a bygone era, of rescuing women from destitution, of promises of education, respect, and dignity.
The story continued and Rebecca’s fingers on the man’s shirt held their death grip, as the nurse talked about a place where the vulnerable were shielded, where individuals known as submissives and Littles sought refuge and found love, guidance, and partnership under the vigilant stewardship of a man named Master Derek.
