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“Stay still. Please, Arch.” Mara has tears pooling in her eyes. She is trying to be strong, but even though I cannot see it, I know what my back must look like. Mr. Holland had taken a cane to me, for fuck’s sake. Ten lashes with the Devil’s walking stick. A specially made rod from a Hercules tree. “Hercules” told you all you needed to know about just how strong the thing was. I’m trying not to cry myself. I’m nearly eighteen, but still a kid. I haven’t filled out in all the right places yet. The rigid, hard muscle is developing on my body. The gym they allow us to use when we turn seventeen helps that, but I still don’t have a lot of bulk around my back yet.
Mara leans over and presses a gentle kiss to the top of my shoulder. I welcome its comfort.
“I won’t let them do this to you again.”
I twist around so I can sit up and take my hand, cup it around her chin, and pull her sorrowful eyes up to face me.
“I protect you, not the other way around, Dollface.” I flash her my best grin so she still thinks I’m the happy boy she took as her best friend.
“We need to look out for each other.” She runs her hand over mine, our combined affection for each other sears me with a sense of calm.
“We do.”
“You need to try and get some sleep. Let me finish cleaning these wounds?” As I lay back down, I try to swallow down the vomit that threatens to spill from my throat. “Sleep, Arch.”
I drift off to the sounds of Samara singing me the same comforting lullaby, “Baby Mine”, which my mother did when I was young.
“Pull him up!” The barked order has me jumping from the bed ready to kill. My legs give way though, and I collapse onto the floor in a heap. What the fuck? My whole body is freezing on me. I have no control over anything. I try to move my arms, but they disobey me. My eyes roll back in my head now, my vision hazy with clouded judgment. I’ve only ever felt this one time before, it was the night Samara left. I force my sight to focus on the men who now carry me over their shoulders. They wear the white coats of the creators. I’m in big trouble; will I survive this?
Chapter 5
Samara
A low sound startles me awake, and I’m on my feet in seconds. With my mind still clouded in a sleepy fog, I try to make sense of the noise. It’s only when I glance around the room that I realize I’m not in The Warehouse, and the sound is coming from outside.
Even after all the training I’ve had with Hunter and TJ, deep down the fear that wracks through my body still leaves me paralyzed. The vibration on my nightstand stops, then starts back up. When I pick up my phone, I notice a message from Hunter.
Open the damn door, Buttercup.
Frowning, I pad over to the wooden front door, which has a mottled glass pane fitted into it, and find a dark figure on the other side. The blurry image offers a hint of the man who for some reason has followed me to the town I didn’t tell him about. Even though he knew I had a dark past, I never offered up too much info because I knew Hunter would do something stupid like seek revenge without me.
Without further thought, I pull open the door to find Hunter standing there with two large Styrofoam mugs of coffee and a box of what can only be my favorite breakfast. Jelly donuts.
“Buttercup,” he smirks. Stepping by me without an invitation, he heads into the kitchen and sets down the box and two mugs.
“What are you doing here?” I shut the door, turning to face him in the small space. His gaze roams the cabin, then lands on me in what could only be described as feral hunger.
“Came to get my dick wet. Why else would I be here for you?” He shrugs, but I know he’s lying. I’ve learned how to read body language, trained with an eagle eye to spot a liar from someone being honest.
“And you drove a few hundred miles just to fuck me?” I laugh, grabbing the one coffee cup, bringing it to my lips. “Somehow, Hunt, I doubt you’d need me for that. There are far too many girls who throw themselves at you every day.”
“Maybe, but you’re the sweetest.” He winks, opening the box of sweet treats. He spins it around, allowing me to choose my favorite. One that’s dipped in dark chocolate with a strawberry jam center. “That’s disgusting,” he tells me, glaring at the sticky-sweet liquid all over my fingers.
