I’m out of my chair, balancing on my crutches and one good―hah! That’s a joke!―leg, and start to get into the rhythm my physio taught me. By the time I get to the door of the lounge, I realise I shouldn’t have even tried this. The muscles in my arms are trembling as the weakness and pain in my remaining wasted leg stops me from putting much weight on it. But the awareness I shouldn’t have tried this comes far too late. One of my crutches catches on the threshold bar joining the carpets by the door and I can do nothing to stop myself from falling, crashing into the hall table and sending it and everything on it toppling to the floor. Fuck! Yes, I’ve hurt myself, but the scream I emit is as much frustration as it’s from pain. I can’t even do something as simple as opening the bloody door!
Within seconds, there’s a tremendous splintering sound, and my eyes widen in disbelief at the sight of my front door swinging from its hinges and looming in the now open gap is one of the largest men I’ve ever seen in my life. Gazing up at his face, standing what must be at least six feet above me, I shake my head in disbelief. As well as his huge size, I can’t help but notice a rugged but handsome-enough face surrounded by dark hair, and in one ear glints a golden earring. I don’t know him from the proverbial Adam.
Lying prone on the floor with no dignity-saving way of getting myself up, I feel a flicker of fear as I study him more carefully. Who is he? And why is he here?
Dressed in a black leather jacket, wearing dark denim jeans, he’s holding a motorcycle helmet in one hand and is rapidly taking off his gloves as he walks toward me, his dark eyes narrowed as he takes in my plight, immediately crouching down in front of me, assessing. Though a scar across the lower part of his face suggests he’s no stranger to violence, he looks concerned rather than threatening.
That he’s worried is confirmed when he opens his mouth. “Are you alright? Where are you hurt?” No introductions, he just gets straight to the point, asking his short, urgent questions in a deep, gruff voice.
Deciding he’s not asking for a catalogue of my injuries from my original accident, I don’t answer for a moment, and instead test my arms and leg, and decide though I’ll probably have a few bruises later, I haven’t done any permanent harm. Well, nothing more than I’ve already got, and yet another dent to my self-respect, so I tell him, “I’ll live.” Then after a moment’s thought, I swallow down my pride and add, “But I’d appreciate you giving me a hand up. Then you can explain what the fuck you’re doing in my house!” He could be here to burgle or murder me for all I know, and here I am, relying on a stranger for assistance. Well, it’s either that or perform a degrading crawl back to my chair.
To my surprise, he doesn’t offer me his hand to help me to my one remaining foot, but simply gathers me into his strong muscular arms and picks me up as if I weigh nothing at all.
“Where to?” His voice is rough and gravelly, but not at all unpleasant.
Gobsmacked I’m being held by an unfamiliar man, I wave back into the room I’ve just struggled from, and when he steps over the threshold, I point to the couch. With a gentleness I don’t expect, he sets me down, and once again crouches down in front of me.
“Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need a doctor or anything?” he queries, his voice laced with worry.
“No, I’m sure.” Yes, I hurt and I’m sure I’ll be feeling it later, but it fades into insignificance with everything else I’ve been through, so it’s nothing I can’t handle. And to be honest, I’m sick to death of being prodded and poked by anyone from the medical profession.
“I didn’t mean to make you hurry to the door.” As the corners of his mouth turn down and his gaze drops briefly to the floor, he sounds rueful.
“Well, you shouldn’t have kept bloody banging on it then!” I admonish him, probably snapping more than I should have, but fuck it, I don’t know who the hell he is, or why he’s here. “And what about my fucking door? You kicked it in!”
He has the grace to look sheepish but is unrepentant. “Yeah, but what was I supposed to do? Leave you lying on the floor? You could have hurt yourself badly for all I knew. I heard the crash and didn’t know what the hell had happened.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and his brow furrows, and he is silent for a moment before he decides on a course of action. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a friend who can come fix it. I’ll take care of that now.”
Evidently, this man doesn’t hang about once he’s got a plan. While I sit with my mouth hanging open, he gets out his phone, dials a number, and is soon telling the person on the other end of the line that there’s a broken door that needs fixing. When he’s clearly not asked for an explanation, I start to wonder whether he makes a habit of kicking doors in and calling on his friend to make good the damage. Who the hell is he?
When he ends the connection after chuckling at a joke I’m not privy to, he turns back to me. “Cut will be around in an hour.”
Slowly I move my head from side to side, my eyes wide as I try to make sense of everything. Who exactly is Cut, and what kind of name is that? Presumably he knows what he’s doing and will be able to fix my smashed-in front door. But, except for the workmen making necessary adaptations, how on earth have I gone from not having a male visitor in my house for six months, and now will be faced with two?
The stranger gives me an assessing look. “Here, do you need anything? Can I get you something? Make you a drink… Grab some painkillers for you?”
Suddenly I’ve had enough of this and sit up straight, my eyes blazing. “You can tell me who the fuck you are. And why you’re here.” My brain kicks into gear, and I need to know why a huge, scary biker is in my house in the first place. I’ve never seen him before, or anyone like him for that matter. Anger gives way as a shiver of fear runs down my spine, and I start to shake.
He stares at me for a moment, recognising beneath my bravado that I’m scared. He heaves a sigh and indicates the chair behind him, as though asking my permission to sit. My lips drawn tightly together and not completely certain I’m doing the right thing, I nod to give my consent, accepting I’m in no position to throw him out of my house. Hell, he’s so big I wouldn’t have a chance even if I had the use of my legs. At least he won’t be looming once he’s seated, and as I’ve found, it’s easier talking to someone when you’re on the same level.
My gaze glued to his, I wait for his explanation, but he seems in no hurry to enlighten me. I scowl as he removes his jacket and gets himself settled. But even though his presence is annoying, I can’t prevent myself noticing underneath all that leather is a very large, muscular body—and now they’re revealed, I can see full sleeve tattoos down each arm. He’s got that bad boy image down pat, and a physique that would have attracted me in my previous life, but now has no effect on me at all. Yeah, the old Sophie would have been all over that.
My chair groans audibly under his weight, making me hold my breath, hoping it doesn’t break. I’m convinced I see it sag, but it must be up to the job as he sits back into it, folding his arms and crossing his legs, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. After he’s made himself comfortable, I cock my head to the side in encouragement.
At last, he takes the hint and introduces himself, “My name’s Horse.”
Yup, it would be. My eyebrows rise as I question his unusual moniker, and he smirks and glances down at himself, drawing my eyes to his crotch. I give an exasperated sigh. Fucking men!
“So?” Even if his package lives up to that of the animal that’s his namesake, it’s of no interest to me. Not nowadays. “Okay, so you’re hung,” I say scathingly, deciding to be blunt. “That doesn’t tell me anything about why you’re here.” Or at least, I hope it doesn’t. No one has to spell out how vulnerable I am.
After a quickly snorted laugh at my crude comment, he sits forward, his expression quickly growing serious. “Sorry about the door, but I came over in a bit of a rush to make sure you were alright. I didn’t mean to scare you, okay?” He pauses, and the corners of his mouth turn up in a weak smi
le, then, finally, he gives me the explanation I’m looking for, “Your friend Zoe Baker sent me.”
Zoe? Zoe Baker? My friend from uni days and who I’d kept up my friendship with, meeting regularly until her bastard boyfriend put a stop to both our regular get-togethers as well as me ever walking again? Bloody hell. I hadn't heard from her for months, since the day before I had my accident! Pulling myself up straighter, I put my hands on my knees. “Zoe? How the fuck is she? Where is she? Is she alright? How do you know her?”
For an answer, he shakes his head, and the sad look on his face gives me a bad feeling about what he’s going to say next. “Tell me she’s not still with him, is she?” I don’t explain who ‘he’ is, but it seems Horse knows exactly who I mean.
“No,” he’s quick to reassure me. “She’s left St John-Davies. She got away this morning.” As he pauses, I have time to thank God for that. He draws in a deep breath and continues, “He hurt her quite badly, Sophie, but she left under her own steam, and my partner, Josh, is helping her get away as we speak.”
My hands go to my face, my palms cupping my cheeks. And though I’m pleased Zoe’s escaped, I can’t help but remember the last time she tried to get away from Ethan. I’d given her money to help her leave and paid a hefty price for it. I shudder, remembering just how much.
Horse studies me, then resumes, “Zoe’s concerned about you. She thinks St John-Davies might come after you again.”
Oh, fuck. No! I collapse back on the couch and put my head back, closing my eyes. I’d always known Ethan St John-bloody-Davies had been behind my accident, though officially there had never been anything to prove it or to link the hit-and-run driver back to him. It had been too much of a coincidence, coming a day after I’d helped Zoe escape his abusive clutches. And the conclusive evidence had come a few days later when a bouquet of flowers was delivered to my hospital bed, so beautiful all the nurses had been oohing and ahhing over them. And so did I, at first. Until I’d taken out the card that accompanied them and read, ‘Never help my woman try to leave me again.’
As soon as I was able to, I’d tried ringing Zoe, but she must have changed her phone yet again, and I couldn’t get through. I’d tried the number for the mansion but had no joy there. Of course, I’d worried about her for months, but she hadn’t made any move to contact me, and in my position, well, I couldn’t think of anything else I could do.
And that’s the point. I hadn't seen her in yonks and had nothing to do with her current escape, so I can’t understand why Zoe would think I’m in any danger now. There must be something I’m missing. “Why would Ethan be a threat to me? I’ve not heard from Zoe in ages, and how could he possibly think I could help her like this?” I wave my hand down my body to emphasise the state I’m in.
His face softens. “Zoe cares about you, Sophie, and St John-Davies knows that. She’s worried he might come after you out of spite or use you as a way to force her to return to him.”
With a quick shake of my head, I dismiss his concerns. “He can do what he likes to me. He can’t do worse than what he’s already done.”
For some reason my comment makes his face grow red as he tells me angrily, “Don’t underestimate him. He can make your life a living hell.”
“It already is,” I rasp out, my own temper flaring as I again point to my useless legs. “He’s left me nothing worth living for. If he killed me, he’d be doing me a favour.”
Horse inhales sharply, his eyes blaze. “Don’t fucking say that! You’re alive and be thankful for it!”
Taken aback by the vehemence of his tone, I push myself back into the sofa as though seeking the safety of its comfort. His fierce expression shows me he’s not a man I’d like to cross.
As quickly as his temper rose, it recedes just as fast. Horse’s stare loses its intensity and he resumes his explanation in a much calmer tone. “Zoe’s worried about you, and I promised I’d keep you safe and out of his clutches.”
I’m incredulous. “Why the fuck would you do that? And just how do you know Zoe? I didn’t know she had any friends, well, like you.” A huge tattooed biker is what I mean, but don’t say. Suddenly I’m suspicious. Ethan successfully isolated her from all her friends as I well know, and it’s inconceivable he’d let her consort with someone like him. I’m even more sceptical when he gives me an honest answer.
He shrugs. “I don’t know her at all, I only met her today.”
Then why is he here? It puts me on my guard. “And I certainly don’t know you either. You’ve delivered your message. Now please get out of my house. Thank you for your warning, I’ll be careful, and I won’t open my door to anyone I don’t know.” I think for a second. “Well, when I have a door that is.” Then I realise the flimsy barrier hadn’t stopped him.
Another shrug. “Nope, sorry, no can do. I promised your friend.” Suddenly he’s back on his feet and pacing around the room. His hands brush his long hair back over his shoulders, and then he pauses, holding the back of his neck. “You might not care what St John-Davies does to you…” His head shakes in exasperation. For some reason, my lack of an instinct of self-preservation seems to annoy him. “If you won’t think of yourself, think of your friend. Don’t you want to give her a chance to make a clean getaway? He knows how much you mean to her. If he threatens you, she’ll feel pressured to go back to him.” He breaks off, and astonishingly bright blue eyes seem to stare right through me. “If you’d seen her today, Sophie… If you’d seen what that bastard did to her. If she returns, I don’t fancy her chances.”
Tears prick at my eyes at the thought of my friend in such pain and realise I owe it to her to keep away from Ethan. But still, I’m cautious. “Look, you say you didn’t meet either of us until today? I’m having a lot of difficulty understanding why you’re so set on helping. Give me something more to help me figure out why you’re even bothering.”
“It’s simple. You’re alive and breathing, and I want to help keep it that way.” He brings his hands down in front of him and looks down at his fists, which I notice are clenched. “You were involved in a hit and run. You lost the use of your legs. But you’re still alive, Sophie. You’ve still got the chance to have a life, unlike...”
As his voice breaks off, his face tightens. It seems there’s something he’s not telling me, and that something is painful for him. Closing my eyes for a moment, I try to comprehend what could be driving this rough biker to offer me his protection and all, in order to let my friend―who by his own admission he’d only met briefly this morning―escape the clutches of the man who’s basically held her prisoner for the last eighteen months.
Oh, at first, Zoe thought she’d fallen on her feet, and I was even envious for a while. Such a prestigious man, head of ElecComs, a huge electronics company, with more than enough money to do whatever he wanted, and power that’s impossible even to imagine. But I didn’t comprehend the extent of the hold he had over Zoe, or how difficult it was for her to walk away until she came to me that morning six months ago, the last day I’d had the use of my legs. I never saw her again and could only surmise Ethan caught up with her. My assumption was confirmed four days later when I got those bloody flowers delivered to my hospital bed.
I realise I’d been lost in my thoughts when Horse asks gently, “What happened to you, babe?” He indicates my legs. “What did that fucker do to you?” His curiosity brings me back to the present, and I see he’s staring at the bottom of my jeans, and knowing exactly what he’s seeing, my spirits plunge. It’s not pretty, the material ending, but there’s no foot sticking out. In fact, my leg from below my left knee is gone.
For a moment I say nothing. I don’t want to go through it all again. Everyone always wants to know the gory stuff. Then I sigh loudly. I can show him what he’s up against. Leaning slightly forward so I can reach into my back pocket, I extract my phone, scroll to the correct item, and hand it to him. When his eyebrows go up in question, I point to the screen. “Play the video. Some ‘kind’ person hap
pened to be taking a selfie that day. Once they saw the action start, they began filming. They helpfully sent me the film in case it was useful for insurance purposes.”
His eyes sharpen with interest as he peers down at the screen. I don’t need to watch with him. As my screams start to fill the air, I know he’s at the beginning when the speeding car has just hit me for the first time, and I’m lying, broken in the road just outside the offices where I worked. Then I hear his gasp of disbelief when the car stops, then reverses and purposefully runs over my legs for the second time. The shocked shouts of the onlookers drown out my cries of pain.
“What the fuck?” He’s still staring at the screen, his eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. “That was a deliberate attempt to kill you.” The hand not holding the phone strokes over the stubble on his chin as he throws me a glance. “Babe, I don’t know what to say.” And then he has to ask the obvious, “You give this to the police?”
What type of idiot does he think I am? “Of course I did,” I snarl. “The car had no number plates and was found abandoned soon after. The sun was shining directly on the windscreen so no one could make out the driver.”
“There were loads of witnesses—”
I wave at him to stop. “And they were all looking at me, not the driver. Oh, a few tried to give descriptions, but they all conflicted with one another. Nobody actually saw anything. With nothing to go on, when I couldn’t come up with a feasible enemy, the case was dropped. Eventually deciding there wasn’t anyone to investigate, they put it down as a random act of violence or mistaken identity. Oh, and that’s the only evidence. The CCTV cameras in the area were mysteriously not working.”
“Did you point them in St John-Davies’ direction?”
Yes, I did. Much good that had done. “I told them he had a beef with me as I’d helped his girlfriend get away from him. It was then the investigation started to go very quiet.” And when I got the card with the flowers, suddenly they weren’t interested at all.
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