I lifted my hands in supplication, noting the determined look on the woman’s face. Her hand trembled slightly, but she was focused.
“Put down the gun, sweetheart.”
She swallowed, the motion bringing my eyes to her throat. It was dark and ringed with marks from a rope and other bruises. She had to be in pain. I was certain she felt a great deal of discomfort all over her body.
“Who-who are you?” she demanded, her voice barely a whisper.
“Marcus,” I said simply.
“Where-where am I?”
I angled my head, smiling, hoping to distract her. “At the moment, you’re in my bed in my apartment.”
She frowned, her gaze flitting around the room, the quiver in her hand becoming more pronounced. She was already tiring.
“Are you the man they were saving me for?”
“What? No. We—my team and I—rescued everyone. I found you in the cage behind the wall. Remember?”
She furrowed her brow, still confused.
“Put down the gun,” I repeated. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Where am I?” she asked again. “What city?”
I frowned. “Toronto.”
She was so startled by my answer, she lost focus. The gun dipped slightly, and she gaped at me.
“Canada?”
I took advantage of her shock and began to rise from the chair. She recovered fast, pointing the gun back at me, but now using two hands to hold it. “Stop. I’ll use it,” she threatened.
Jesus, she was strong. Determined. But she was waning, far too exhausted and weak to be expelling the energy this little standoff was costing her.
“You can’t,” I said.
“I assure you I can,” she replied.
I bit back my smile. “Well, you can try, but it’s not loaded, sweetheart. It won’t do you much good.”
Her focus shifted for one instant, her gaze drifting to the gun in her hands. That was all I needed. I was out of the chair and had the gun back in seconds.
I smirked at her.
“Or maybe it would have.”
Melissa
The bastard had the nerve to smirk at me as he flipped open the chamber of the gun, showing me it was, indeed, loaded. Then he slid it back into the drawer and touched something. I heard the sound of a lock engaging, and I knew I had blown my best chance at escape.
I’d known it was loaded from the weight of it in my hand. My head was so messed up, his simple statement caused me to question my own judgment.
And now I would suffer for it.
I waited, wondering what new level of hell I was about to enter. I was shocked when the man who called himself Marcus sat back down and crossed his legs.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he inquired, not at all concerned about the fact that I had pulled a gun on him.
I didn’t respond, unable to wrap my head around what was happening.
“Do you need more pain pills? I would rather you ate something if you could first.”
“I don’t understand,” I managed to get out, my throat sore, my voice raspy.
“I’m not surprised. You’ve been through a lot of shit, I think.” He leaned forward, handing me a glass. “Have some juice. It’ll make your throat feel better.”
I eyed it with suspicion. He took a sip, then offered it to me. “Nothing’s been added.”
I accepted the glass and drank it. The dark liquid was sweet and tart and tasted like heaven. Even only semi-cool, it felt good on my throat. I drained the glass, disappointed when it was empty.
“Cran-grape,” he informed me. “My favorite. I’ll get you more.”
I fingered the soft sheets, looking around the room.
“How did I get here?”
“You don’t remember?”
I frowned as I struggled to recall much of the past while. Flashes, images, the feeling of pain drifted through my brain. The sensation of being held, a low, rich voice telling me I was safe. Feeling something around me I disliked. Struggling. Then the awareness of warmth, security, and relief. Of being saved. Memories of intense, dark eyes that watched and strong arms that cradled joined other fractured memories in my head.
“You were there.”
He grimaced. “I was.”
Tremors began in my feet, moving up through my body. “You took me out of that—” the juice I had just drunk threatened to come back up, and I swallowed repeatedly “—that cage.”
“Yes.”
My voice became thick, and the image of him in front of me became blurry and distorted. “You held me.”
Suddenly, I was in his arms again. He sat on the edge of the bed, gently tugging me to his chest. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now, and we’re going to figure everything out.”
For a moment, I let him hold me. I inhaled his appealing scent. Cedar, fresh air, and citrus. It was warm and rich. Clean. Nothing like—
I jerked up my head. “You wrapped me in a blanket.”
He nodded. “You didn’t like it.”
My breathing became uneven as memories began to burst through my hazy brain. “It smelled like him—the one who took me, who locked me in that cage. Overpowering, like cloves and heavy oil… I couldn’t breathe. I-I…”
He held me closer. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he repeated. “He’s dead. He won’t hurt you again. No one will hurt you again.”
I couldn’t stop. “You put me in your coat. You brought me here. There was a woman—”
He interrupted me, holding my face, his so close I could feel his breath drift over my skin. “Sofia is a doctor. She examined you. I put you in the shower and then to bed.”
I remembered the shower. The beautiful feeling of the dirt and smell washing off my skin. Even as painful as the water had felt on my sensitive skin and bruises, I had welcomed it. Sobbed under the spray in relief and agony. Offered thanks to whatever intervention had brought the man who placed me in that shower into my path.
I met his eyes. Deep, rich, the color of espresso, with glimmers of gold around his pupils, they were captivating. They had a fire inside them, unlike the cold, empty, dark glares I had been staring at the past while.
Panic began to overtake me, and I struggled not to break. Not to show my weakness. I couldn’t allow the horrors and pain I had gone through to end me. If I succumbed, I would never recover.
“H-help me,” I pleaded.
His embrace tightened, and he gently pressed my head to his chest. His heartbeat was steady, strong, and, somehow, soothing. I shouldn’t trust this man; I didn’t know him. Right now, I didn’t know anything—I couldn’t be sure of anything.
Yet somehow, I did trust him.
“I have you, sweetheart. Whatever you need.”
Against my will, my body shook like a leaf. Terror bled into my chest as the reality of what I had been through soaked into my mind. I began to sob—loud, body-racking, horrified gasps of pain I couldn’t control.
“Let it out,” he murmured. “Let it out, and then you can go forward. I have you.” He pressed his lips to my head. “I have you,” he repeated.
Somehow, those words meant more than anything else.