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The door slams open. I wish I didn’t jump, but I did. Reflexes are a bitch sometimes.
Red stomps down the stairs. If looks could kill, I’d be dead already. Twice over.
“Could you make any more noise, Red? Some people are trying to rest.” I glare back at him.
“Unfuckingbelievable,” he mutters. He grabs my feet and drags me toward the middle of the room. He pulls a large knife out of a pocket and flips it open. My pulse picks up. He cuts the zip tie on my ankles and puts the knife away. He grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me to my feet. I can’t stop the scream, it hurts. And then my head spins and the nausea kicks up.If I throw up, I swear to god I’m aiming for his shoes.
“Get your pretty ass up those stairs.” He gives me a shove toward the stairs.
I wobble a little bit but don’t fall down, and given that my hands are still tied behind my back, that would really have sucked. At the top, the door opens and another angry, burly man stands there. He grabs me roughly by the upper arm and starts dragging me down the hall. Given that he’s at least a foot taller than me, I can’t keep up. I stumble and fall down, crashing onto the knee I banged on the container earlier. I give a loud hiss.
I feel a hand in my hair again.Nope, not again.My scalp has had enough. I jerk my head back and hit him in the balls. I’m rewarded with his moans of pain. New guy is still in front of me, so I realize it must have been Red’s balls that I rearranged, a fact confirmed when the man himself slaps me across the face and I feel my lip split.
Something breaks inside me. I laugh. I laugh and laugh until I’m hiccupping. It must be the concussion. I should be crying. I should be afraid. Actually, I realize, Iamafraid. I’m fucking terrified. But I’m also really, really mad. I have no power to change a goddamned thing. I knew the risks of being undercover with the Bratva, or at least I thought so. But this? What the hell even is this? Who are these guys? Maybe it’s cumulative adrenaline or some odd sort of PTSD, but my anger at being absolutely powerless is overcoming my basic instinct to be afraid. So I laugh with blood running down my face and mobsters staring at me like I’ve got two heads.
Apparently, we no longer trust me with walking, since New Guy throws me over a beefy shoulder like a sack of flour. I just hang. I’ve got no reason to fight right now. Of all the things today, being manhandled is annoying, yet tolerable. Plus, I’m a little tired from my giggle fest a few minutes ago.
We wander down a few more hallways until we come to a door. I’m unceremoniously dropped onto a bed. Red pulls his knife back out. I scramble backwards and hit the headboard.
“No!” I screech.
Red laughs. Bastard. “Oh, we finally found something that scares the ice queen.” He reaches for my ankle, which I pull away. He lunges.
“No! You better fucking kill me. I swear to god—” My cursing is cut short when he succeeds in pulling me down the bed, flipping me over, and cutting the ties off my hands.Wait. What?
“I’m a lot of things, girly, but I’m not a fucking rapist.” He almost seems offended.
What the hell?
He points at a door opposite the side we came in. “Clean up. Change your clothes. You stink.” Then he turns and walks out. The door slams shut. A faint click inclines me to believe it’s locked.
I let out a shaking breath. My pulse is still racing. But I really do need to pee. I roll off the bed, limping on my hurt leg. I open the door to a sparkling bathroom that looks like it came out of a hotel. After taking care of my immediate issue, I wash my hands and look in the mirror.
And gasp.
Holy fuck, do I look like shit. My hair is a tangled mess covered in dirt, my lip is swollen and split. My blood has dried on my chin, and Blondie’s bloody spit dried on the rest of my face. My blouse is dirty, bloody, and ripped and my slacks are torn. My bootie shoes are caked in god knows what and the zipper is broken.
I look around the bathroom. A pair of sweat pants and a t-shirt are sitting on the counter with a bath towel and a washcloth. The walk-in shower is massive, with multiple showerheads. I recognize the familiar green bottles of the peppermint and tea tree shampoo and conditioner. I briefly consider ignoring the order to shower, but then I realize that I would really rather feel clean again and if there are hidden cameras or whatever the hell else in here, it’s worth it to not be filthy. I can’t see how the shower would put me in a worse position than I am currently.
I strip out of my clothes and wonder if there is a biohazard bin somewhere. Or a fireplace.
This may be the best shower I’ve ever had in my life. I shampoo my hair twice, letting it soak until the peppermint starts to tingle my poor abused scalp. I slather on a thick coat of conditioner. I lather up the washcloth and scrub head to toe, twice. Then I just let the water pressure blast until my skin tingles.
Stepping out of the shower, I look around for a comb but don’t find one. I settle for running my fingers through my hair until it’s tamed and then braiding it down my back. I wash my hair tie in the sink before putting it back in my hair. The t-shirt is massive, hitting me at middle thigh.Who the hell does this belong to? Sasquatch?The sweats aren’t much better, so I tie them as tight as I can and then roll them down my hips a few times. I have no bra or underwear but decide I don’t care. I rinse my mouth with water from the tap repeatedly and then swallow several large mouthfuls. I walk out to the bedroom and stop cold.
There is a man sitting on the bed. A huge man in a fitted black suit. His dark hair is cut short, his face shaved smooth, highlighting a sharp jaw and high cheekbones. When he looks up, deep blue eyes bore into my soul. My heart hammers against my chest. Suddenly I can’t breathe. I want to run away but I’m trapped in his frozen gaze.
“My name is Sean O’Connell.” Something clicks when I hear the Irish accent.Oh, my god.
CHAPTER19
Sean
Given my conversation with Patrick, it didn’t seem like we could just isolate and scare the girl into compliance. It’s like the harder the world is on her, the more she just curls into her shell for self protection. It’s remarkable really. Just the zip ties and waking up on the basement floor would make the average man piss himself. So, I decided to try the softer approach.
Standing in front of me, wet as a drowned rat, with her bottom lip swollen and bruised, she’s beautiful. Her head is held high, and her eyes shine with determination. The warm peppermint of her shampoo drifts toward me. She’s wearing the clothes I set out for her. My clothes. For some reason, that makes me intensely pleased. Something about her is familiar, but I can’t place it.
“My name is Sean O’Connell,” I say. Something flashes in her eyes, gone so quickly I almost doubt it was there. She recognizes me.
