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Laura continued to fight, to move her body away from him as his knees hit the bed.
My hands yanked against the rope, but it was no use.
“Bartholomew!” She screamed for me to help her—but I couldn’t.
He forced her onto her stomach so he could take her from behind, her ankles together and her wrists secured above her head. Her screams were muffled as her face was pressed into the comforter. Then he raised his hand and spanked her ass—hard. “That’s a fine piece of—”
I let out a scream and pulled every muscle in my body at once. Just like with a mother who lifted a car off her child, the adrenaline increased my strength, and I shattered the wooden chair into two separate pieces.
“Silas!”
I forced my back into the first man and made him slam into the wall. When the next guy came, I spun and struck the chair against him. Then I did something I’d never done before and threw my arms over my head, nearly popping my shoulders out of the sockets, and finished off the next one who came for me—while my ankles were still locked together.
Silas lunged for the gun on the nightstand.
I jumped forward, over the corner of the bed, and pushed the gun off the surface before he could reach it. It landed on the floor closer to me, and I grabbed it first. Then I aimed it at his terrified face—and fired.
Again.
And again.
Once the gunshots were over, it was quiet.
Except for Laura—who sobbed.
I yanked the rope free from my ankles and got to her as quickly as I could. I untied her wrists and ankles then pulled my shirt over my head and dropped it onto her exposed body, even though everyone except us was dead.
She moved into my chest and sobbed.
“It’s over, sweetheart.” My arms locked around her body like steel bars, and I held her. My chin rested on her head, and I felt the tears build in my eyes. They were hot tears, tears I hadn’t felt in over a decade. I didn’t let them fall. I blinked several times, forced them to dry, and pretended it hadn’t happened. “I’m here…I’m right here.”
22
LAURA
I didn’t speak for days.
Bartholomew relocated me to his apartment, and I spent my time barricaded in his bedroom, which was bigger than my entire apartment. It had its own sitting room with a TV, had a bathtub as big as a hot tub, a balcony that had a beautiful view of the city.
His butler brought all my meals, and I ate at the dining table, sometimes alone, sometimes with him there to watch me. I hardly looked at Bartholomew, and I wore his baggy clothes at all times.
He never left me.
Sometimes he would work from the couch, his laptop on his knees, taking phone calls throughout the day and night. But he never left the room. Whenever I showered, he never stepped into the bathroom, respecting my privacy.
He never spoke to me. Didn’t ask me a single question. He was the most intuitive man I knew, understanding I wasn’t ready totalk without having to hear me say it. He was patient, giving me everything I needed without instruction.
Finally, I found the words. “What happened…?” I sat across from him at the dining table, my spoon sitting in the bowl of soup I had hardly touched.
His elbows were on the table and he was about to take another bite, but he abandoned his utensils and his appetite to look at me straight on. “He’s the one who gave me the cut.” He moved his left arm, which now had a long scar that almost reached his elbow. “I should have killed him. I’ll never make that mistake again.”
“Why me…?”
His eyes dropped. “He knows I’m not afraid of pain or death. Hurting someone important to me is the only way to stress my pain receptors. Otherwise…I feel nothing.” He looked at me again. “I’m so sorry.” He’d probably never apologized for anything in his life, but he said the words with pure sincerity. “It’ll never happen again.”
“You can’t guarantee that.”
His eyes hardened. “Yes, I can.”
