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I know exactly where I am when I wake up. Oh, how I would have loved two minutes of blissful ignorance between the end of my dreams and my eyes fluttering open. But no. I’m not that lucky and this is no dream. It’s a fucking nightmare, and unfortunately, it’s real.
I go to move and groan when I remember my arm is cuffed. Testing my restraint, I jolt in surprise when I realize my wrist is free. I roll over, fully ready to get up and test the door again, but I’m hit by two things at once—pain from my aching body and a large arm reaching for me.
I yelp when I’m yanked against a hard chest. I struggle to get free, but that struggle hurts my already tender body, making me whimper. The hold on me loosens a fraction before I hear the rustle of blankets, and then the light from a cell phone is turned on and spun my way. I gasp as the light hits my eyes.
“You look like shit. Let me go get you some ice and painkillers,” Slade states before getting out of bed in nothing but the boxers he slipped on earlier.
“What the hell are you doing in bed with me?”
“Keeping an eye on you.”
“Your eyes were closed,” I snap.
“I’m a light sleeper. There is no way you’d get past me without waking me up.”
“So then sleeping in the chair should be fine.”
“I’m not sleeping in the fucking chair,” he grouses as he opens the door to the bedroom and pauses on the threshold, looking back at me.
“Yo, Jagger.”
I don’t hear anything, and then a few moments later, a groggy Jagger emerges from Slade’s room in nothing but a pair of white boxer shorts. Fuck me, don’t these men own pajamas?
“What?” Jagger grumbles, squinting as Slade flicks the hallway light on.
“Stay with Astrid. I need to get her some ice and pain meds.”
Jagger’s whole body tenses, and his head snaps in my direction, though I doubt he can see me very well in the dark.
“Is she okay?”
Is that concern I can hear in his voice? If it is, I can work with that. I’m pretty sure I remember reading somewhere that it’s best to endear yourself to your kidnappers so they think of you as a person and not a thing. If I can make them care about me, maybe they’ll let me go.
“She’s sore, which, given her idiotic escape earlier, is hardly surprising,” Slade replies.
Yeah, I won’t bother trying with that man. I’d have better luck with Satan.
“I’ve got her,” Jagger replies, heading my way. I scramble to sit up and bring my knees to my chest.
I’m shaking, and I’m not sure if it’s left over from my panic attack, the cold, or from something else entirely, but suddenly this whole endearing-him-to-me thing sounds like the most ridiculous idea ever. He moves to the corner of the room and turns the lamp on, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow.
When he turns to look at me, his jaw clenches, so I can only assume Slade was right, and it looks as bad as it feels. “Christ, Astrid.”
He walks toward me and climbs onto the bed. I watch him warily as he lifts his hand and gently tips my jaw up with his thumb before skating his other thumb over the apple of my cheek.
“You’re going to feel that for the next few days, but the ice will help.”
I swallow, not sure what to say when he moves to the other side, so he’s between me and the wall and slides under the blankets.
“Come on, get in.”
I shake my head. “I need to use the bathroom.”
It’s an excuse, but I need a goddamn minute to get my shit together before I have a heart attack.
His lips twitch, but he doesn’t stop me as I scrabble off the bed—ignoring the pain—and hurry to the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I steady myself against it for a minute before cursing because I really do have to pee, and I don’t want to do it with him on the other side of the door. Biting my lip, I know Slade won’t think twice about coming in here. I turn on the faucet, running the water before hurrying to the toilet and relieving myself, setting a new land speed record. I flush and hobble over to the sink, my knees throbbing—possibly even more than my head.
As I wash my hands, I look in the mirror and groan at my reflection. Fuck, I do look like shit. Worse than shit, actually, whatever that might be. The bruising on my face stands out in stark contrast to my pale skin, and my eyes look like I’m suffering from the hangover from hell. My right one is swollen, as is my cheek. I must have hit the ground harder than I thought. I look down and inspect the rest of my body and sigh. There are bruises around my biceps and wrists, and my knees are red, but at least they are beginning to scab. I clench my fists, and the skin on my injured hand pulls painfully tight.
