by Eden Summers
He pushes to his feet, all tall, broad and handsome, his black suit tailored to perfection. “Are you ready to leave?” He stops before me, his lingering gaze intense, yet somehow kind.
“Yes. I just need—”
A burst of noise assaults my ears. Glass rains to the floor from the French doors across the other side of the room.
Luca’s smile vanishes. His body jolts in slow motion.
Everything slows—my mind, my movements, and my comprehension. What’s happening?
“Luca?” I reach for him and that’s when I see it—the blood. The approaching death.
A lake of deep crimson seeps out from beneath his jacket, the crisp white of his shirt transforming before my eyes.
Snapshots of a similar injury assail me.
Chloe was shot like this. Exactly like this. One minute, she was alive. The next, she was dead.
Please, no. Not again.
The world snaps back to match the hammering pace of my heart. “Tell me what to do.”
Blood splutters from his lips as he stands immobile, his eyes blinking without focus.
Fear consumes me, pummeling me with sickening heartache. I grasp his arm, clutching tight, but he doesn’t respond. “Luca.”
I don’t know what to do. I’m lost. Helpless.
Those demons usually kept at bay rush back to attack me. They taunt me about losing my protector. They cackle about my approaching demise.
I’m nothing without him. I won’t survive. I don’t want to.
“Luca, please.”
He slips from my grip, falling to the tile, his head hitting with a reverberating thwack.
“Oh, God, no.” I collapse beside him, smothering his wound, trying to stem the blood even though it gushes through my fingers. “Don’t leave me.”
He stares at me. Gurgles. Chokes.
“No.” I beg. “Don’t do this. Stay with me.”
“There’s no use.”
I freeze at the familiar voice coming from the other side of the room. The icy chill of horror slithers through my veins. I don’t want to raise my eyes, but there he is, standing before the French doors.
Robert—the man I was promised to like an object, and now he’s here to claim me.
But it can’t be real.
He’s meant to be dead.
I scamper to my feet, blood dripping from my fingers, bile rising up my throat. “No.”
“Penny.” He starts toward me, one slow step after another, his voice getting louder and louder. “Penny.”
“No.” I prepare to run toward him. To kill him with my bare hands for taking Luca from me. But my legs won’t move. “You should’ve shot me,” I scream. “Why didn’t you shoot me?”
He smirks, chilling my veins. “Penny.”
I startle and shoot upright in bed. I gasp for breath, as I cling to the soft sheets, my body coated in a sticky layer of sweat.
Every night, it’s the same. One nightmare after another. One death that follows the next.
It’s either my brother, Sebastian, my protector, Luca, my parents, or one of the many women I lost while living beneath the roof of a sex traffickers’ mansion.
I’ve witnessed everyone I care about being taken from me. Always by the same man. The same ghost.
Yet, I’m never the one to die.
I know why, too.
It’s because I don’t fear death. If anything, I continue to crave it.
What frightens me is the loss of those I care about. That’s the true taunt of the nightly demons. I’m constantly reminded I still have so much to lose. That this freedom is only a mirage.
I shudder out a shaky breath and wipe my hands down my face.
I hate this.
Every day starts with horror, and every night begins with dread. There’s no escape.
I’ve been safe for days now, cocooned in the protection of Luca’s inner suburban home in Portland.
I suck in a deep breath, forcing calm, and let it out slowly. Sunlight bathes the room, letting me know it’s morning and I no longer need to battle for rest.
Because that’s all I’ve been doing. Battling.
I fight to pretend I’m doing okay. I scramble to create some kind of normalcy in a world entirely unfamiliar to me. It’s like I’ve been thrown into a melee of mental torment. My thoughts are my shackles now. This head of mine is a prison.
I never imagined freedom would be like this.
Painful.
Suffocating.
Now I know better.
I slide from the bed, drag my feet to the adjoining bathroom to take a shower, then dress and make my way through the house.
The hall is exactly like it was in my dream. Shadowed and empty. The living room is a carbon copy, too, those French doors tormenting me from my peripheral vision.
I attempt to distract myself by pulling pans from drawers and food from the fridge, like I have every morning since I’ve been in this sanctuary.
I cook. I eat. I clean.
And when Luca walks into the open living area, his hair mussed from sleep, his hazel eyes lazily blinking, I breathe a sigh of relief at the visual confirmation that my nightmare was nothing more than a cruel joke of my subconscious.
There’s no suit this time. Only a black T-shirt and stone-washed jeans, the casual attire suiting him perfectly.
“Morning.” He rakes a hand over his skull and winces when his fingers brush the slowly healing injury above his ear. He’d been shot while saving me, the bullet grazing his head, and there’s not a moment when I’m not entirely aware of what he could’ve lost.
“Morning.” I turn to the far wall of the kitchen and flick on the coffee machine. “I only finished cooking breakfast a little while ago. Your omelet should still be warm, but you might want to give it a few seconds in the microwave.”
“I’m sure it’s fine.”
There’s the slide of a plate behind me. The clink of cutlery. Then the low grumble of a man who appreciates a home-cooked meal. “This is good.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I pull two mugs from a head-high cupboard. “Strong coffee this morning?”
“Always.”
I press buttons on the coffee machine, the tingle of his attention resting at the back of my neck as the sweet gurgle of liquid heaven fills the silence.
“What are your plans for today?” he asks.
I stiffen, hating this rerun conversation. “The same as yesterday, I guess.”
“You should go out. Get some fresh air. We could even catch a movie.”
I shake my head and pull the filled mugs from the machine. “Not today.”
As much as it pains me to trap him here when he refuses to leave the house without me, I’m simply not ready to face the outside world. I don’t want to be in the open, waiting to be found. Not by the police, my family, or Luther Torian’s men. Right here is where I want to stay until I can figure out an alternative.
“You should leave, though.” I turn and slide his mug toward him, seated at the opposite side of the island counter. “I can stay on my own.”
He forks a mouthful of egg into his mouth, his reprimanding eyes holding mine as he chews. “No.”
“You’ve shown me how safe the house is.” The security system is state of the art. Video cameras. Door and window alarms.
“I’m not leaving you.” His tone is final. Lethal. I wish I wasn’t comforted by his stringent protection. “If you’re adamant about staying, at least let me set up the phone so you can call your friends. You haven’t spoken to them since Greece.”
I disguise the pang of guilt with a fake smile. “Not today. They need more time to focus on getting their story straight so they can return home.”
“Penny.” My name is a warning. A barely growled admonishment as his jaw ticks. “One phone call—”
“Not today, Luca.”
I hate his disappointment. It tears at me. But I’m not ready to speak to my sisters. I know it’s hard for him to understand
. Hell, it’s hard for me to understand. This time last week, those women were my life. My everything. Along with Tobias—my captor’s son. The little boy I helped raise.
It’s clear, though, that I need to keep my distance. The only thing I can bring to their lives at the moment is negativity. And I won’t risk my bad attitude rubbing off on them.
“Fine. Have it your way.” He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, brushing away any stray remains of his breakfast. “I guess staying home and chilling out is at the top of our agenda.”
“Chilling out?” I scoff. “Do you even know how? You spend hours in your exercise room punishing your body as if you’re preparing for Armageddon.”
“Like you can talk. You flitter around the house all day, cooking, cleaning, doing laundry. It’s like you’re my fucking slav—” He stops mid-sentence, his chin hitching. “Shit.”
A slow burn creeps up my neck, my shame undoubtedly visible in the color of my skin. It’s not the word that bothers me. I’ve been called a slave more times than anyone could count. What hurts is his reaction. His embarrassment. Over me.
He cringes. “I didn’t mean—”
“Forget it.” I fight harder to keep my smile in place. “You know it doesn’t bother me.”
He sighs and glides a rough hand over his forehead. “I need more fucking sleep.”
“Yeah.” I grab a cloth from the sink and begin wiping down the counter. “I agree. You go to bed too late.”
He huffs out a faint chuckle. “Again, you’re not the best point of reference. I’m pretty sure you get less sleep than I do.”
I keep wiping, determined to remain busy as he continues to eye me like a bug under a microscope. He knows too much about me. Horrific details. Lies, too. He was told I enjoyed the torture Luther put me through. That I loved everything those monsters inflicted.
I hate him having that information. I hate even more that he might believe the slander.
“You’re having nightmares, aren’t you?” he asks.
“No.” The denial slips out easily. “I’m getting a lot of sleep. I’m doing really well.”
I don’t want him wasting his time worrying about me. Not when I’m already a grade-A burden. He was never meant to bring me back to the States. He wanted to stay in the Greek Islands and help take down the sex trafficking operation.
Instead, he’s here. Stuck with me, while doing his best not to show his resentment.
That’s why I cook. Why I clean. Why I paste on a smile whenever he’s around and pretend I’m climbing back on my feet.
I won’t cause any more trouble than I already have.
“Sure you are.” He forks another mouthful and scrutinizes me as he chews. I’m sure he sees through my fake facade, but until he calls me on it, I’ll maintain this charade.
I’m content in his sanctuary even though the irony hasn’t been lost on me.
I fought so hard to escape Luther’s house only to mentally trap myself within another. I spent years trying to liberate myself from one man—now I’m racked with fear that the guy before me will cut me loose at any given moment.
It’s a complete shift in situation. Yet the sense of being trapped is the same.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I place down the cloth and reach for my coffee, attempting to shield my face. “I swear you keep scrutinizing me, hoping to find some hidden issue that isn’t there.”
“Penny, you know I—”
The doorbell rings, startling me. The jostle of my arms sends a splash of coffee over the lip of my mug.
“Don’t panic.” He places his fork on the counter. “I’m expecting someone.”
My heart sinks, the painfully squeezing organ dropping to my stomach as I wipe up the liquid spill.
“Is it that woman again?” The question flies from my lips unbidden.
I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve deliberately kept my curiosity to myself, not wanting to pry. Yet the lack of knowledge has plagued me.
“Yes.” He glides off the stool and when I raise my gaze to his, those eyes have gentled, as if he’s trying to soften a blow. “Do you want to meet her?”
“No.”
She’s come here every day for the past three days. They talk for hours, murmuring in low tones over unending cups of coffee. It’s clear they’re close. Or at least, they want to be. I’m certain my lingering company is the only thing keeping them apart.
That’s one of the reasons I hide when she arrives. I haven’t even met her, choosing instead to remain in my room, or in the secluded spot I’ve claimed on the back deck.
I’ve tried hard not to pry about the woman who keeps him company even though I get a sinking sensation whenever she arrives.
“I’ll leave you in privacy.” I keep clinging to my mug as I walk around the counter. “I’ll be in the backyard.”
I wish I could remain by his side. That I was whole enough to be a normal person, conversing and laughing whenever company arrived. Once, I even tried to imagine what it would be like to live here long-term. Like a wife. Just me and Luca. No outside world. No fears.
But those fantasies are for normal people. Unbroken women.
I’m nothing if not entirely damaged.
My only choice is to tread lightly and lessen the burden on a man who never wanted me here. I need to pretend I’m invisible and make sure I don’t provoke any unwanted reactions.
Just like I did when I was a slave.
2
Luca
The doorbell rings again as Penny creeps onto the back deck, closing the door gently behind her.
“Fuck.” I wipe a rough hand over the back of my neck, entirely out of my element. I don’t know what I’m meant to do with her. I’ve given her space. I haven’t pushed. But, goddamnit, all I’ve wanted to do is shove her into facing reality. She can’t heal when she continues to ignore her past.
“Luca,” Sarah shouts from the front yard. “Are you home?”
“I’m coming.” I stalk down the hall and yank open the front door to find her scowling, a clump of filled shopping bags hanging from her hands.
“What the hell took so long?” She slams her haul at my chest, making me struggle to grasp the bags as she maneuvers around me to enter the house. “The least you could do is open the damn door when you’re treating me like your little errand bitch.”
I wrangle the straps of the bags into one hand and kick the door closed. “And the least you could do is have some fucking patience when it’s barely nine o’clock.”
I follow after her, but continue down the hall when she diverts to the open living area. I take the bags to my room, doing a quick search of the contents after I dump them on the bed. The self-help books I asked her to pick up are all there. The titles on trauma and PTSD wait for a time when Penny will be ready to read them. There’re more clothes in there, too.
I keep buying shit in an attempt to help her… then can’t bring myself to hand them over.
She’s not ready for my input.
She has a process for dealing with her pain, and I have no right to mess with it.
I’ve gotta be patient—a fucking saint—while I watch her suffer.
I leave the bags in a pile on the mattress and return to Sarah in the kitchen, her hands already clasping a filled coffee mug.
My filled coffee mug.
“You know that’s mine, right?” I stalk for the cupboards to retrieve another mug.
She shrugs. “Yeah, I know. But things always taste better when they’re taken from someone you don’t like.”
Great. She’s in one of those moods. The combative, poking, prodding type which does my head in.
“So, how is she today?” She cocks her hip against the counter. “Any change?”
“Nope.” I play with the coffee machine, pressing buttons until it grumbles to life. “She’s exactly the same, pretending life is peachy when clearly it isn’t.”
“Have you given her any of the things I’ve brought over?
The clothes? The books?”
“I gave her the cell.” I wait until my mug is filled, then walk around the island counter to reclaim my stool. “She didn’t even bother to open the box. It’s still sitting there. Untouched.” I jerk my head toward the plastic-wrapped package on the dining table. “Every day I offer to set the phone up for her, but she doesn’t want it. She has no interest in speaking to her friends. She says she’s not ready. Which might be a good thing seeing as though I’m struggling to get in contact with Benji.”
My brother was left in charge of taking care of the other women rescued from Luther’s mansion. The three of them—Abi, Lilly and Nina—will remain with him until he’s certain they’ve got their stories straight. Unfortunately, their freedom comes with a price. None of them can breathe a word about their time held captive.
“He’s out of range.” Sarah speaks through a slurp of my dregs. “Apparently, he’s taken them to a cabin away from civilization.”
“Says who?” I’ve been kept in the dark since returning to Portland—the isolation being partly my fault because I’m still pissed off at Torian for sending me home. But mainly because I want to keep Penny away from any unwanted external triggers.
“Layla. She said she spoke to her husband a few days ago and that he’s trying not to pull his hair out. According to him, all the women do is cry.”
Yeah, that sounds like my brother. Benji wasn’t born with patience. Or common sense.
“Well, if you speak to her again, can you tell her I want him to call me? Even though Penny says she’s not ready to talk, I want the information on hand in case she changes her mind.”
“Sure. But have you actually asked her why she doesn’t want to get in contact?” Sarah takes another gulp from her mug, then places it in the sink. “It could be something simple.”
“I’m not pushing her.” It’s not my place even though I have to battle my instincts to do the opposite on the daily. “She speaks to the kid occasionally. Whenever he calls my phone, she picks up. But the conversations are brief. From what I’ve overheard, she stays on the line long enough to determine he’s doing okay. Then she makes an excuse to end the chat. And she never asks to call him in return.”