Page 6 of Promise of Punishment

Oh god!

“Help,” he murmurs to my surprise. His eyes are too swollen to open.

“I’m here. I’m going to help you.” It won’t be enough, but I have to try.

Where to start? I assess his many wounds, then set down my backpack and dig out my limited supplies. This isn’t good enough. He needs a doctor.

“I-I think I should go for help.” Maybe I should scream. Mom wouldn’t want me to leave this person to die just so I don’t get caught.

“Help!” I shout, about to stand so I can yell louder.

His hand flops from his abdomen to my knee. “No,” he says and winces like it hurts to talk. “No… one…” he struggles to get out, “can… know.”

Could he be on the property illegally? A trespasser? A thief? The Hale family is extremely strict about visitors, but that hardly seems possible given the amount of security. He doesn’t fit the appearance of an employee either. The chauffeur doesn’t even wear a suit this nice.

“No… one… can know,” he murmurs again, then coughs and groans in pain. His hand slides off my knee onto the long grass.

It kills me to see him suffering, but I know all about keeping secrets for a good reason.

“Okay. No one will know.” I use my bottle of water to soak a napkin and gently wipe his face and chest. A cut slices through his eyebrow, his temple, his bottom lip, and dried blood coats his nostrils. I don’t want to wipe the inside of them in case his nose is broken. I check his head for cuts. Nothing but lumps. The blood in his hair must be from all his facial wounds. Even the small cut on my eyebrow from when Dad smashed my head into the stove once produced a scary amount of blood.

I peel his shirt open all the way. Large bruises cover his entire chest and abdomen. He might have some broken ribs. Based on the rips in his dirty pants, I’d guess his legs are banged up too. But stripping off his pants would take too long given the length of his legs, so I do a quick pat down of his pants, checking for blood. None. That’s good.

I return my focus to his upper body, which appears to have taken the worst of the beating. Once I have him wiped down, I clean my hands again with my sanitizer and put some on another napkin to disinfect his wounds.

“Sorry about this. It’s going to burn.” I dab the alcohol on the cuts on his face. He hisses but otherwise holds it together.

The whole time I clean his body, I tell him how good he’s doing and how sorry I am for hurting him more.

3

MY ANGEL

Wes, 21

An angel saved me.

Gentle hands cleanse my battered body as I pass in and out of consciousness. I have no idea who this person is, only that she has the sweetest voice. A nurturing voice. The kind that soothes you when you need it and can make you forget the pain—if only for a moment. The kind of voice I never got from my mother or even my nanny.

“I’m sorry,” she says again in her American accent as she cares for me in a way no one ever has.

I must be dreaming or dead. No one is here with me. I can’t see or smell anything to sense where I am. I know I’m outside. I have no idea where. I have no idea how this girl found me.

The only thing I know for certain is my parents left me here to die.

It could have been their plan all along. The man my father hired to fight me had two helpers who jumped in when I was a punch away from winning. I should have assumed my father wouldn’t play fair. He never has.

After endless kicks to my face and ribs, my body ached with such agony, I wanted to die. I welcomed it and could have died here, but fate had other plans—ones that have gentle hands and a tender voice.

I don’t know how long this girl stays with me, only that one time when I come to, she’s gone. Maybe she was never here. I cough up blood, my ribs aching, but she’s not here to wipe my face and whisper words that I can’t recall other than her chanting, “I’m sorry.”

Wes

The ground shifts beneath me like it’s moving. I jolt fully awake but can’t open my swollen eyes. The sun isn’t bright behind my closed lids, and it’s cooler. Night.

Something shoves against my body.

I groan in pain.