“Control, you call this control?” Miles snapped, gesturing towards his defiled angel, his temper bristling below the surface of his skin, making his entire body feel charged. Instead of answering, the doctor gestured towards another part of the photograph.
“The rub abrasions here were most likely caused by the collar we removed on admittance.”
“Collar?” You have got to be kidding. The hand not gently caressing Ivy’s balled into a tight fist. What kind of sick fuck did this to another person? She’d been choked to within an inch of her life, beaten until he wasn’t even sure she had any unmarked skin except for her pale face, which seemed mostly untouched but for the fading bruise at the corner of her mouth, restrained, violated, destroyed, and to top it off they’d put a collar on her? Who the fuck did that to another person?
In all his life he’d never seen injuries like these, and the fact they were a testament to what the woman he loved had endured filled him with rage, and pride. Pride because somehow she had endured it. He had no idea what it would take to survive this kind of treatment, yet here she was, alive.
“It’s in police evidence, but …” She found a picture of the inch wide metal band that had been cut in half. Miles felt the warmth of blood in his palms as his fingernails sunk deeper into his flesh and he tried to remember to breathe. “The welts are consistent with a cane or other solid object, and the scarring likely came from an alternative, they’re more consistent with the type of injury expected during a medieval flogging.”
The doctor’s voice was picking up speed now, clearly trying to hurry through her uncomfortable theories. “Her ankles, thighs, shoulders, and hips all show bruises and abrasions. I would expect to discover, given the nature of these injuries, that they were caused by some manner of rope. The cuts on her torso are mostly superficial and most shouldn’t scar, but you can see that a sharp edge, most likely from a knife or dagger.
“When she was admitted she was running a fever, the sunburn on her skin is not serious, but we have some medicine that will need to be applied to her skin to help with …” The doctor gestured over Ivy, a single sweeping movement encompassing all of her. “Well, everything. Given her state of exhaustion and the fact the people who pulled her from the water saw no evidence of any ships, we believe she may have been held on a boat, but managed to swim away.
“She was suffering from mild hypothermia, and severe dehydration. It’s anyone’s guess as to how long she was in the water for. As for the blood results—”
“When can I take her home?”
“That’s not something I can assess until she’s coherent. The police will want to talk with her, and I am hoping she will consent to a rape kit. She’s been through a very traumatic experience, and I’ll be quite honest, the best place for her might be here.”
“She won’t be safe here. Whoever did this to her is out there. They either dumped her overboard or she escaped. Either way, if they were to find out she survived, she won’t be safe.”
Whoever did this had money, that much was clear. You couldn’t just make someone disappear while leaving a trail to suggest she’d left the country without resources. There was no way her captor would risk being implicated, which meant if they had even the slightest inkling Ivy was alive, they’d do everything in their power to silence her. “She’s coming home with me. I can protect her. I will take her now, or when she wakes up. But she’s not staying here a moment longer than is necessary.”
The longer she stayed, the more risk there was of someone discovering she was here. While she was still a Jane Doe, the police now had an open file and, since the pictures made her identity clear, the file may as well have had her name on it.
Depending how far her abductor’s influence stretched, he could already know she was alive, and it wouldn’t take much to discover where she was. He’d die before he let anyone take her. She needed to be home, safe, with him, and he had enough resources of his own to make sure she had all the care she needed.
Ivy could hear a voice. It wasn’t her owner’s voice. It was someone else. Someone else was in the room with her. She felt a cold sweat break out on her skin and the presence of someone leaning over her.
She tried to make herself smaller, pressing her back into the mattress, ignoring the pain. She’d got good at that now, pushing the pain of her body aside in the name of survival. She could still feel the raw burn, the tightness of her skin, the screaming of her aching muscles, but she could think through it, move through it.
Her body spasmed involuntarily as the figure above her shifted positioned. She didn’t need to see him to know where he was. She could feel his movement in the way the mattress dipped. Wait, the mattress hadn’t screeched, her wrists weren’t bound. She could use this to her advantage.
Her hands came up the instant her eyes opened, and she struck out at the solid force before her, expecting any moment to feel him restraining her.
This couldn’t be happening. She was free, she’d been free. Swim or die. She wasn’t swimming, she hadn’t died. How had he found her?
Tears streamed down her face, tears she continually swore her owner would never see, and yet she still gave them to him. Thoughts, which should have taken minutes, raced through her mind in the few seconds before sitting up and striking out.
The last thing she remembered was the sea, the water.
Damn it, she’d been free, she’d escaped.
The ocean had stretched before her, land in sight but still so far away, the yacht an invisible speck on the horizon. So what had happened, how was she back here?
She remembered swimming, a noise getting louder. She thought it had been her heart at first, but then she remembered it could have been an engine, but it hadn’t mattered, she’d gone under, her lungs had filled with water and everything around her had faded to black.
Shit. He must have found her. The engine must have been his boat.
Her third blow landed against the firm chest, trying to shove him away from her. The figure leaning above her was out of focus, the lights so bright she wasn’t sure exactly where she was, but she continued to hit him, to push him away. Why wasn’t he fighting back, why was he just taking every weak and pathetic blow?
“Sin, it’s okay, it’s me.” The words registered at last, along with the soft tones of a familiar voice, but her arms wouldn’t stop moving, the cries wouldn’t silence. She wasn’t lying down any more, her back was pressed into something solid, a headboard. His hands were on her shoulders, holding her gently. He could grab her wrists, stop her from striking him, but he just took every pathetic and weakening blow she dealt. “I got you, you’re okay,” he soothed.
He moved closer, wrapping his arms around her, pinning her arms down. She fought, trying to break free, trying to sob, but she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think. She felt the strength of his hug, the deep firm pressure causing her injuries to explode, but there was something about the way he was holding her, with the exact pressure to make her feel safe even through the pain, that made it possible for her lungs to expand. “I got you.”
She felt herself go limp as his words finally calmed the part of her brain that had told her she needed to fight. He held her head to his chest so she could hear the strong pounding of her heart through the roar of panic that had filled her ears. He was stroking her hair, his other arm loosened, holding her so gently that she knew if she tried she could pull away, but she didn’t want to.
She pressed herself further into him, sobbing silently. “I got you,” he whispered. She felt his lips kiss the top of her head in the tender way only he did.
Tails. Tails was here. Her mind seemed to exhale this thought as a sigh of relief. She lifted her arms, their heavy weight now unresponsive. Her muscles burned with every slight movement as she forced her hands to his back, holding him tightly, crying as she balled a fistful of his shirt into her hands. She could hear his soft words, his gentle comforts as he stroked her hair, whispering promises she couldn’t quite hear. Sh
e breathed him in, savouring his scent. The scent of home.
Tails was here.
She wasn’t sure how long he had sat holding her, how long she had gripped onto him for dear life, but eventually someone else entered the room, clearing their throat as if to gain attention. She tightened her grip, realising at some point he must have moved her. She was still pressed into his chest, but he was sitting on the bed, cradling her across his lap, with his chin resting on her head. She pressed herself closer, savouring the feeling of safety.
“What?” Miles whispered, not releasing his protective embrace. His head moved slightly, as if he had lifted his gaze towards whoever was at the door.
“Now she’s awake, we have some questions, we also need consent to—”
“Not now.” His voice was low, authoritarian. Something about the tone caused her to shiver, but not with fear.
“Miss Sinclair,” the doctor began, ignoring Miles’ request. “We need your consent to perform a Sexual Assault Forensic Exam.” The woman stepped forward, the sound of her shoes on the tiles floor caused her to reflexively tense, her nails digging into Miles’ back. If it hurt him he didn’t let on, he didn’t even flinch.
Ivy shook her head, trying to find her words, to force the sound through her throat and out of her mouth to tell them no. No, she didn’t want a test. No she didn’t want to talk about what had happened. She just wanted Miles. “Miss Sinclair, it’s important for us to do this as soon as possible. I’m not sure how much DNA evidence will remain, so it’s crucial …”
She shook her head again, her lips moving to form the word that for the past three months had possessed no meaning at all.
No.
The doctor paused, studying her. “Miss Sinclair, can you tell me your first name?”
She wanted to; she wanted to tell her, but the words wouldn’t come, her lips wouldn’t even form the word. Ivy, how hard could it be? But it was like her throat had closed, like the words were trapped inside her, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t free them.
She closed her eyes, tears leaking out to be caught by Miles’ damp shirt. God, he smelled so good. She nuzzled closer, hoping he’d keep holding her, keep her in the cocoon of safety that was his arms. “It’s okay, don’t worry, I’ll come back later.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Miles helped Ivy into the pyjamas he’d sent one of the nurses to purchase at the gift shop as soon as they opened at nine. There wasn’t much to choose from, but he was taking her home whether they wanted him to or not, and he’d not been willing to leave her side.
He tried to hide how worried he was. How every time his gaze turned to her, he discovered another injury.
When she wasn’t in his arms she would just stare vacantly into space, flinching occasionally as if haunted by her memories. He’d seen it before in his squad when they’d seen horrific things. Hell, he’d experienced these waking terrors himself.
She had refused to let anyone but him touch her, not the nurses, not the doctor. Every time someone tried to get near her she’d push herself back into him, or make herself as small as possible against a corner, depending which was the closest option.
She was uncooperative to their requests, and who could blame her? Just seeing her like this had his protective nature working in overdrive.
They had poked and prodded her enough. Taken more blood than they could possibly need, and the state of her injuries weren’t going to change from one hour to the next.
Her temperature was still a little high, her blood pressure was raised, but what the hell did they expect when she was gripped by panic whenever someone entered the room? What she needed was to be left alone, which was why he was taking her home, right now.
Although she’d been awake for hours, she still hadn’t spoken a word. The doctors said it was normal after someone had been through a traumatic event, and there was no question that she had.
He’d had to wait for antibiotics and ointments, and fill in her discharge forms. He’d paid for her treatment by using several of the cashiers’ cheques his father had the foresight to send along with his driver.
He knew she had health insurance, although she had been missing there were funds in her account so they’d never cancelled her direct debits, but the moment her real name was entered into the system there was evidence of her location and he’d be damned if he was going to help anyone find her. It was bad enough the police had opened the case, but at least they were keeping its jurisdiction as Florida since that was where she’d been found.
Her knuckles had turned white as he’d placed her into the wheelchair—apparently for insurance reasons he couldn’t simply carry her out—every movement had her flinching, drawing in panicked breaths as she kept her gaze lowered to the floor.
She was frightened, shivering with fear. All he wanted to do was take her in his arms and promise her it would be okay, but he couldn’t make empty promises. Damn the bastard who’d done this to her. One thing he could promise her was, one day, when she told him who did this, he would hunt the motherfucker down and make him pay.
He knew Becca was waiting for them in his apartment. But it still took every measure of restraint, as his father’s driver drove them home, not to pick up the phone and send her away so he could just hold Ivy and be whatever she needed him to be. But Becca needed to see she was alive as much as he had.
He had sent her messages, trying to warn her of what to expect, but the moment he had carried Ivy through the door and placed her down on the sofa, wrapping her in the blanket, he saw Becca’s face drop. She’d had to turn around for a second, her hands braced against the dining table as she fought to suppress her emotions. He’d watched her shoulders rise and fall several times before she turned back towards them with a pained smile.
“How about a coffee?” she asked, tugging on the rightmost eyebrow piecing. Miles swore he felt Ivy flinch at the word, but she lowered her head, slipped from the sofa, sank to her knees and—
“Whoa, Sin. Let’s get you back on the sofa.” He tried to pretend he hadn’t just seen that. That she wasn’t going to crawl on her hands and knees across the floor to the kitchen. She was tired, that was all, she’d slipped from the sofa and … she was just tired. “Come on, rest here. We’ll look after you.” He took her hands, lifting her up, guiding her back onto the sofa, and wrapping the comforter around her as she pulled her knees to her chest.
“How you doing, Vee?” Becca’s voice was soft as she returned from the kitchen to place the mugs on the small coffee table. Ivy flinched at the sound of each one being set down causing a deep anger to burn in Miles’ gut.
Becca had chosen one of her more conservative wigs today, a shoulder length, wavy black number, and for the first time in years it seemed she’d forgone her normal makeup, and had to be feeling almost naked with only her long false eyelashes and bars through just a few of her facial piercings.
Becca loved expressing herself through her clothes and make-up. You could read her mood on how she applied her mask, and Miles knew exactly what this nakedness said, like him, she was feeling raw. She placed her arms around Ivy so gently it was as if she feared even the slightest touch would break her.
She glanced over to Miles questioningly as she held her friend. He did the only thing he could and mouthed the word, ‘Later.’ They’d talk about what he knew later. It wasn’t a conversation they could have had by text, although many of Ivy’s injuries spoke for themselves.
“Sin, Bex has been going on and on about how she wants to tell you her big news.” Miles gestured towards her, pleadingly. She glared at him, but nodded.
“I found my shop, Vee,” she started awkwardly. “It’s not far from here. When you’re feeling better, I’d love to show you what I’ve done with the place. I had the whole thing strip—reorganised. I’ve been working on a new steampunk line.” Miles excused himself to the kitchen with a pained sigh as Becca continued to talk to Ivy, telling her all about the new clothes.
He balled his hands into fists. Anger was not what he needed to be feeling right now. Ivy was home, she was safe, and yet he was flooded with an uncontrollable rage, the desire to hunt down and destroy whoever had taken the light of his life and extinguished her spark. Ivy was hurting. She looked empty, broken, and he didn’t know what he could do to fix it. The realisation made it difficult for him to swallow, let alone breathe through the constriction of his throat.
He glanced through the serving hatch, watching Becca talk with wildly animated gestures as she explained the layout of her shop. All the while Ivy sat statue still. He wondered if she was even aware of what her best friend was saying.
He had no idea how he was going to do this. How he could hold it together for her when all he could think about every time he looked at her was about hunting down the monster who’d done this to her and making them suffer for every bruise and every tear. But he needed to focus on her, on what he could do to make this alright but, of course, he knew nothing would make this right, just like nothing would erase his memories of war, nothing would erase her trauma.
All he could do was be there for her, and right now, his angry face was the last thing she needed to see.
“Pull it together, Tails,” he growled at himself, slapping his cheeks between his hands.
“Tails?” Becca was at the kitchen door, a stricken look on her face. She didn’t need to say anything more. He was feeling the same way.
“I know, Bex. Give her time. The doctor said this withdrawal is normal, that we should keep trying to engage her.” He looked at the kitchen counter, spinning a stray takeaway leaflet around in circles with his fingers.
“Do you want me to stay?” Her hand on his shoulder made him feel every ounce of the tension he had running through them.
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