AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Maybe this stranger’s intervention is the answer to my prayers. I pray harder, pleading for mercy. Begging for him to get Damon to release me. There has to be another way for me to earn my freedom, but I don’t know anyone who could stand against Damon Savada. He’s rich, powerful, and scary as hell.
I should’ve listened to my instincts that first day when I met him. One of the women at the shelter told me about how he helps people like me. Women who need to disappear. Women who need a new identity. He helps women who are desperate… for a price. Only, Damon doesn’t want money—not that women like me have any—he wants us for six months.
Six months of servitude. Freedom for the rest of my life in exchange for six months of handing over complete control of my body seemed like a small price to pay. I’ve been paying that price for years on end already. What’s six more months?
I’m snapped back to the present when Damon shoves me forward. I feel myself falling I mentally brace myself for impact, but just keep falling. I realize that he didn’t just push me to the ground, he actually tossed me off the stage. Even though I tell my limbs to move, my brain can’t make my body listen. I’m going to collide with the ground, and there is nothing I can do to protect myself. Everything seems to move in slow motion while I wait for impact, knowing it’s going to hurt badly.
Time speeds back up as I finally come crashing down, but instead of the hard ground, a set of strong arms catches me. Honestly, I don’t know what would have hurt worse, the ground or the muscular arms. I can’t hold back the screams that tear through my tortured throat as my body convulses in agony. He murmurs quiet apologies, and I can tell he’s trying to be gentle, but it’s useless. Every inch of my body is in agony. All I can do is whimper and cry as he cradles me to his muscled chest.
“Shhhh, it’s okay, I’ve got you.” His voice is rough with an emotion I can’t quite place, but it doesn’t matter because he’s carrying me away from my nightmare. I let myself drift as my hero carries me off. I should be worried about being carried off by some strange man, but anything is better than being left to Damon’s tender mercies. I try to stay awake, but the darkness is too tempting. It promises me relief from the pain.
For now, I’m safe in the arms of a stranger. I let go of the worry and fall headfirst into unconsciousness.
* * *
Slowly, bit by bit, my senses come back. There’s a hushed conversation off to one side of me. The room has a harsh chemical smell to it, almost like a hospital or doctor’s office, but under that is the scent of blood. I shudder at what that could mean, instantly regretting the unconscious movement as pain radiates down my back all the way to the bottoms of my feet.
My breath hisses out from my clenched teeth. Holy shit, that hurts! Footsteps rush over to where I’m lying, and gentle fingers smooth my hair away from my face. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” I can’t place who the voice belongs to, but it makes my heart skip a beat. His fingers tenderly run over my forehead and cheek, stroking me slowly and softly, soothing me back into the darkness.
The next time I wake up, the pain hits me immediately. The horrors of what Damon did to me come flooding back. Opening my eyes, I have to blink several times for the blurriness to fade so I can take in my surroundings. The room looks like a cross between a luxury hotel suite and a hospital room. The bed I’m on is much more comfortable than any hospital bed I’ve ever seen.
There are several seating areas around the room, no hard-plastic chairs, or uncomfortable chair-bed contraptions like you see in hospitals. These are all extremely plush and would look right at home in someone’s living room. There’s a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall at the foot of the bed. From the angle I’m laying at, I can only make out the bottom corner of the screen. I don’t dare move to try to see it any further.
Slowly, I turn my head to face the other side of the room and notice this side looks a lot more like a hospital room. There’s a step pedal sink and glass front cabinets showing all types of medical equipment and supplies. There are larger machines attached to the wall beside my bed. A heart monitor and some other fancy equipment that I have no clue what their purpose could be. While I’m trying to puzzle out what they could be for, I notice the IV drip bag hanging from a hook. Taking a deep breath, I follow the line it’s attached to with my eyes. By the time I get to the back of my hand, I’m practically hyperventilating.
There is a needle in my hand.
A Fucking. Needle. In. My. Hand.
Oh, God, I’m going to be sick. I’m shouting in my head as I feel the bile tickling the back of my throat. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. I calmly chant to myself. Puking means moving and heaving, and that seems like a really bad idea if the pain radiating from my body is any indication. I try to tear my eyes away from my hand, but I can’t quit staring at the offense piece of plastic that’s buried under my skin.
I’m so distracted by the fact that there is a needle in my hand, that I nearly scream when someone lightly squeezes the same hand that I am obsessing over. I hadn’t even noticed someone holding my hand. The hand in mine is large and warm, whoever owns this hand is running his thumb gently over my knuckles back and forth. The soothing touch completely distracts me from my mounting anxiety.
I flick my eyes toward the owner of the hand who has squelched my anxiety so quickly and thoroughly. My breath catches when I take him in for the first time. He is glorious. I know how that sounds, but there isn’t any other word coming to mind at the moment. He has the chair turned slightly so that he can stretch his legs out and still hold onto my hand. His head is tilted to the side, resting on the back of the chair, and his eyes are closed. He appears to be sleeping, but his thumb caressing my knuckles tells me differently.
Taking a few moments, I study him a little closer. His hair is either the darkest brown I’ve ever seen or black, I can’t tell in the dim light. His jaw looks like it’s been chiseled from granite and is covered with a little more than a five o’clock shadow, adding to his rugged good looks. His nose is perfect, and his lips are full and kissable.
I should let him know I’m conscious. Whoever this is has obviously been waiting for me to wake up. Opening my mouth to speak, I realize how very dry and sore my throat is. My voice is somewhere between a whisper and a croak. “Wh—” I start, but my voice cracks.
Just that half-formed word is enough that he instantly becomes alert. Expressive midnight blue eyes are trained on me. I swallow the tiny amount of saliva I’m able to will into existence and try speaking again, thankful my words come out a little more clearly. “Where am I?”
Not letting go of my hand, he sits up taller in the chair and brushes the hair from my forehead with his free hand. I vaguely remember someone—him, I assume—doing that the last time I woke up in agony. It’s very soothing to have my hair and face caressed like that.
It’s something my mom used to do when I was sick. The memory of my mother makes my breath catch, and I push back the emotional pain. I can’t handle it on top of the physical pain I’m feeling now. Hell, if I’m honest, I can’t handle it when I’m not in physical pain. I’ve been burying my grief for so long it’s second nature by now. He gently rubs the space between my eyebrows, smoothing out the stress lines that my memory has put there.
“You’re at the club in a recovery suite,” his voice is like warm molasses, “I brought you here after Damon threw you off the stage.” He says Damon’s name like a curse.
Without being asked, he reaches for a plastic cup from the table just beside him. He presses the bendy straw to my lips, and I take a tentative sip. The cool water is like a balm to my aching throat, and I greedily drink it down.
“Slow down, love,” he cautions. Once I’ve had my fill, he sets the cup aside. “Are you in much pain?”
My snort of laughter surprises him. “Pain doesn’t even describe what I am feeling, try agony. I think if I were to do much more than blink, I would pass out from how bad it hurts.”
Only one other time in my life have I hurt this bad, and it wasn’t my body that hurt. It was my heart. Grief bubbles up to the surfaces, and I push it back. I’m not going there. Those thoughts are even more taboo than the ones of my mother.
“I’ll get the doctor. She couldn’t give you any pain medication since we had no way to know if you were allergic or not. I’m afraid other than the salve, we haven’t been able to do much except keep you hydrated.” I cringe as I’m reminded of the IV in my hand. “Be right back,” he says before raising from the chair and striding out of the room.
CHAPTER FIVE
