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He glanced at the tiny puddle and grabbed cotton swabs and cream from the pack. His rough hands were gentle as he grabbed my ankle and lifted my foot.
Too gentle for a callous bastard.
That unnerved me.
“You have blisters,” he murmured quietly, opening the cotton swabs and squeezing the cream onto one before smoothing it over the stinging ball of my foot. “This will help.”
Relief hit instantly. I gripped the edge of the counter and moaned, shuddering as pain moved through me then slowly eased.
“I have sneakers and a change of clothes in the room upstairs for you.” He eyed the sweats and red shirt I was wearing.
His brow creased as he stared at my clothing. I saw the thoughts ticking behind those guarded eyes. He wanted to ask why I wore this instead of the red lace lingerie we’d been forced to parade around in. The same lingerie the other Daughters wore when they were forced into the truck.
But he didn’t push, just smoothed the cream over the sting of each foot and picked up the pills once more. For that I was thankful.
Get her to the table.
My pulse sped at the memory. My breath was seized in my lungs, burning, searing. I closed my eyes and tried to hang on as what they’d done to me last night rose.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said carefully.
Silence.
Unmerciful, crippling silence.
I slowly opened my eyes.
“Oh yeah?” I snarled, meeting that stare. “I’ve heard those words before.”
There was a pinch at the corner of his eye, then a slow nod. He stepped away, handing me the cream. “Twice a day, the burn should be almost gone within a week. I’ll show you to your room.”
My room?
What. The. Fuck.
Just like before, he snapped the med kit closed and walked away.
The fuck he does.
“Wait a damn minute!” I shoved off the counter and hit the floor. Agony tore through my feet, making me stop and cling to the counter until the wave passed. “I said, wait!”
His heavy steps faded. I grabbed the cream and raced to catch up, climbing the black timber stairs to the first floor. The place was cool…and sleek and reeked of money. Who the fuck was this guy?
I followed him to a room, hovering at the doorway before I saw the piles of clothes, boots, and sneakers on the bed. I took a step and turned to him. “So, what, now I’m your prisoner?”
He froze, then turned and gave me his undivided attention.
“No, Helene.” His voice deepened to a growl. “You’re no one’s prisoner, not anymore.”
“Then what are you doing?” I glanced at the clothes that looked hand-picked, then back to him. “Why. Am. I. Here?”
“I’m protecting you.”
But it wasn’t the gruesome skull-faced balaclava I saw, or his intimidating as fuck size. It was him…the one called Hunter. Fractured memories pushed in, flickers of moments in that hell I’d endured.
It was Riven’s voice I heard, coming through loud and clear.
Hunter will know what to do.
