by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin
“Step. Back.”
Maybe bond was too strong of a word, but she could’ve ducked out from beneath his arms. Instead, she stared up at him with an unfathomable mien on her face. Something was hidden there, an expression, a truth, etched in the delicate creases around her mouth. Her lips parted and pressed together, bending the scar that mapped the struggles in her life, the ones he suspected she fought alone.
Then it clicked. “I know that song you were singing. Isn’t it about loyalty and friendship and—”
“Team.” Her eyes were wide, watchful, and maybe a little skittish.
“That’s right. ‘Team’ by Lorde.” He wanted to ask what the song meant to her, but she wouldn’t have answered. Didn’t matter. He could guess its significance, knew it had to do with why she slept where her prisoner slept, confining herself with him for five days, only leaving to fetch food. “Better to be enchained with someone on your side than to be alone with a false sense of freedom.”
The expression on her face transformed from that of captor to equal. Her posture loosened, her features gentled, the phone forgotten in her hand. She stared into his eyes, blinking, nodding slowly, subtly. It was a poignant moment of connection, the opening he’d been searching for.
He touched his forehead to hers, his chains rattling above her head, and waited for the punishment that never came. “We may not be trapped for the same reason, but we’re looking in the same direction, reaching beyond these walls together. Tell me what we’re up against.”
A low-pitched noise groaned in her throat, and her head relaxed against his. He kept his shackled arms balanced on the door, afraid the smallest movement might spook her.
Was she considering his words or formulating a safe response? Maybe she was worried about Van hitting her again. Or raping her. His throat hurt as he replayed Van’s groaning thrusts and the pain in her eyes. The two times he’d asked her to talk about it, she’d whipped him for speaking without permission.
Too soon, she straightened, breaking the point of contact. She took her time meeting his eyes, and when she did, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, her chin slowly moving left to right. “I give you an inch—”
“And I’d be six-foot-three.” He lowered his arms, nudging her chin with his bound hands. “I love your smile.”
Her lips trembled and stilled. The smile remained, but her eyes dulled. “You’ve got balls, distracting me despite the consequences.”
He blew out a breath and retracted his arms to his waist. “So you’re tallying my infractions?” He dreaded what those consequences might be and tried for a light tone. “When do I get my spanking?”
Her fingers touched his navel, sending a quiver through him. She traced the dusky trail to his groin and coiled a finger tightly through the thatch of hair. “Spankings aren’t effective. You’re a pain slut.” She tugged, sparking a twinge of discomfort over the sensitive skin there.
A half-laugh, half-groan escaped with his exhale. “I am not a pain slut, whatever that is.”
“Oh please. Five welts and you fall into a hypnotic trance.”
Okay, maybe he felt some out-of-body weirdness. Wasn’t that normal in adrenaline-charged situations?
She glanced at her phone, and a sharp line rutted between her eyebrows. Her anxiousness was bleeding onto him.
“What is it?”
She angled the phone long enough for him to glimpse the text.
Unknown number: Open the door.
An unnerving metamorphosis washed over her, stripping the emotion from her eyes, smoothing out her breathing, and hardening her body into an armored shell. “You want to be on the same team?” Her voice was cold and terse. “You want to save me?”
He nodded, hoping it wasn’t a trick. Her sudden change in demeanor tightened the muscles in his jaw.
She dropped a hand to her side, snapped her fingers, and pointed at the floor beside her feet, an unmistakable order to kneel. “Then don’t fuck this up.”
Whatever was about to happen, it was evident that her bearing, as well as his, needed to broadcast that she had the upper hand. He knelt at her side, holding her gaze as he lowered. Sure, she appeared dispassionate at a glance, but the hand at her side trembled.
As she entered the code in the keypad—too quickly for him to catch the pattern—he gripped the fingers digging into her thigh. The door clicked open, and she pulled her hand away but not before giving him a tentative squeeze in return.
He kept his eyes on the floor, taking in the scuffed black boots that entered first, followed by Van’s sneakers. The door shut, imprisoning the room with silence.
He’d expected trousers, paired with an expensive suit, a wardrobe that signified wealth and power. Instead, black cotton work pants gathered over the dusty boots. The mystery surrounding Mr. E compounded, surging dread through his veins.
“Raise your head, boy.” Her voice was so detached, even its iciness was absent.
His breath caught as he lifted his eyes and met the drab material of a cotton jumpsuit. The kind one would zip over regular clothes to change a tire or carry out an activity that might be messy. He stopped breathing altogether when his gaze reached the man’s head.
It was wrapped in a potato sack hood, cinched at the neck, with two crudely cut eyeholes and vertical stitching where the mouth should be. Rough-hewed seams rounded the skull, pulling the material taut to maintain the curvature. Then it spoke.
“Stand, slave.” The mouth, stitched as it was, didn’t move. The voice was soft and masculine and cruelly calm.
Van leaned against the door in a display of arrogant composure. Liv stared at her feet, frozen and pale, as if the masked man had chased her into some unseen recess of her mind.
Don’t fuck this up.
Josh climbed to his feet and let his bound wrists loll over his groin. At his full height, he stood four or more inches taller than Mr. E.
“You’ll address me as Sir.” Mr. E glanced at Liv and back to Josh. “Did you give her the black eye?”
His shoulders tensed. “No—”
“That was me, sir.” Van’s smirk oiled the tension in the air.
“Ah.” A chuckle rustled through the canvas mask. Mr. E reached a gloved hand to Van’s jaw and patted it. “I suppose you can’t fuck up her face worse than it already is.”
“Nope.” Van popped the P with a smarmy exhale and slid a toothpick between his curved lips.
A storm of rage boiled Josh’s blood, twisting and shaking his insides. She should’ve been defending herself. And what compelled Van to be at such ease with a man who hid behind a potato sack? The man who, Josh suspected, had given them their matching scars.
The whites of Mr. E’s eyes shifted inside the depths of the eyeholes and settled on Liv. Under the decomposing scrutiny, her shoulders curled forward, her gaze fixed downward.
It was in that moment that his assumptions about her place in the hierarchy were confirmed. Just because she wasn’t a slave didn’t mean she wasn’t viewed as property and used as such. They seemed to think of her as scarred and ruined, and she certainly wasn’t sexually innocent. Her usefulness to them was limited to her proficiency in training slaves. A replaceable skill. Was Van’s apparent ownership of her the only thing that held her there?
There was so much obscurity surrounding the operation, and seeing her like this shook the hell out of Josh’s hope. He bit down on his cheek, checking the turbulence of his emotions, and put on his own phlegmatic expression.
“Have you fucked him yet?” The potato sack cocked toward Van, and Josh balled his fists.
The silver cut of Van’s eyes sliced through Josh, but it was Liv who answered. “He’s not ready.”
Mr. E’s stillness was deafening, cranking the room’s temperature to scorching. Then those elusive eyeholes shifted to him. “Let’s see how well he kisses.” He curled a gloved finger. “Van.”
Josh fought the heart-pounding urge to swing his bound arms into that stupid mask and stared
directly into the soulless eyes. “I will not kiss that man.”
Liv’s finger twitched against her thigh, but she was otherwise unresponsive.
“I see.” Mr. E clasped his hands behind him and spent an eternal moment moving through the room, testing the strength of a dangling chain, nudging the mattress with his boot, and building a terrible anticipation. He returned to Van’s side. “She still sleeps in here.”
A muscle jumped in Van’s jaw. “Yes, sir.”
“You haven’t won her over yet.”
“She’s mine.”
“I’m not arguing that.”
Josh felt like he’d fallen into a state of surrealism, where crap that should never ever make sense was sickeningly transparent. They talked about her like she wasn’t standing right there while ignoring the fact that Josh refused to kiss Van. It was a game, a tactic to mess with his head, and maybe hers, too.
Mr. E snapped his gloved fingers under Liv’s bowed head. “Get his clothes.”
Her stillness unfurled into a steady, flowing stride to the trunk by her mattress. She placed her phone on the bed and returned with the jeans, t-shirt, and boots he’d arrived in. They were just things, inconsequential possessions, yet the sight of them made his heart race.
Mr. E scratched his chin through the mask. “I’m a huge Baylor Bears fan. The news reporters are saying you’re the best linebacker in college football.”
His shoulders curled in. How much was the news covering his disappearance? Would they be camped out on the farm, shoving cameras in Mom and Dad’s faces, and magnifying their grief?
“Get dressed.” Mr. E pointed at the clothes.
The taunt of freedom thrilled in his chest as she removed the padlock on his wrists and unbuckled the cuffs. He massaged the skin that had been rubbed raw by metal for a week. Were they letting him go? “What is this?”
“Too many people are searching for you.” Mr. E angled his mask toward Liv. “She picked the wrong boy and has made no progress in your training. You’re a liability.” He placed a hand on Josh’s shoulder and squeezed. “Besides, the Bears are getting crushed. They need you.”
What? No. This was crazy.
Mr. E laughed. “I was kidding about the last part. Seriously though, you’re a risk I can’t afford.” The hand on his shoulder shifted to his throat, gripping his jaw to tilt back his head. “I’ll drop you in the middle of nowhere. By the time you find your way to a phone, we’ll be gone from this house.”
Letting him go home was a risk. Even if they fled, he could identify Liv and Van. There were no suspicious bulges on the men, but Liv had proven how easily a weapon could be concealed. He imagined a gun trained on his head as they pushed him from their car. Boom! Body dumped, never to be traced backed to their operation. His chest hitched. “You’ll kill me before you’ll let me go.”
The grip on his throat released. “Been doing this a long time, boy. Never killed no one. And this is the first time I’ve offered freedom.”
He could taste the promise of it, felt it awakening every cell in his body. Liv pressed his clothes to his chest. He stared into her eyes, searched for the truth, and found an expression as lifeless as Mr. E’s mask. Even Van was gazing at his feet. “What about Liv and Kate?”
“Not your concern.” Mr. E waved a dismissive hand. “Take the offer, boy.”
It would be so much easier to help the girls if he were free. Even if the operation vanished, detectives could track it.
Why was he even debating this? Would he seriously choose the woman who’d been beating him over his parents’ happiness?
But he couldn’t protect Liv if he left. She was as much a victim as he was. His head swam. He couldn’t protect her in chains, either.
He dressed, and with each piece of clothing covering his skin, he felt more hopeful, more anxious. He watched her expression as he tied his boots, wishing she’d look at him and give him some sign she understood. He wasn’t abandoning her. He was going to get help. He was going to save her, dammit.
Clothed and trembling, he waited at her side while she punched in the code. Was this really happening? He was wearing his clothes. They were letting him go home. Mom and Dad’s joyous faces filled his vision and spread through his chest. He was going home.
The door opened. Mr. E and Van exited first. When Liv stepped through to follow, Mr. E pivoted, grabbed her throat with two hands, and shoved her back against the door jamb. Her mouth gaped, gulping without sound, hands clawing at the ones on her neck.
Josh leapt forward, pulse racing, a roar bellowing from his chest. “You’re choking her.” He tried to break the grip, yanking on unmovable wrists.
The barrel of a gun moved into his vision. Van jerked it at his face. “Move back. All the way into the room.”
Liv stretched her jaw, her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking down her red face.
“Let her go.” Josh’s heart thundered, his voice thick with spit. “You’re going to kill her.”
“Step. Back.” Van’s tone was steady, but his eyes shifted rapidly between Mr. E and Liv, as if warring with whose side he was on.
Oh God, she couldn’t breathe. He was going to choke her to death. Josh shuffled back, hands in the air.
With a violent heave, Mr. E slammed her head into the jamb and tossed her limp body onto the floor at Josh’s feet.
Josh dropped to his knees and put his ear over her chest, then her mouth. Unconscious, she lay listless, her breaths labored. He didn’t know CPR, had no medical training. What was he supposed to do?
Van lowered the gun, his muscles flexing, his teeth bared, but he made no move to help.
“You’re not going home, boy.” Mr. E clutched the door handle. “You were never going home.”
Deep down, he knew it. Didn’t stop the pain from splintering his chest. He turned her head and followed the river of blood to the cut on her scalp. Head wounds bled a lot, right? Did she need stitches? “She needs a doctor.”
“She needs to do her job. You meet your future Master in two days. If you want her to live, you’ll kiss him with ardor and skill. You’ll grab your ankles if he wants to test drive your ass. You’ll be fucking willing and obedient.”
The door slammed shut, shaking loose the last forgiving piece of Josh’s heart and replacing it with a sharp-edged thirst for blood. Mr. E and Van seemed to be using her in the most vicious way. Maybe she could outsmart them, but she wouldn’t need to do it alone.
As he carried her to the vanity to search for a medical kit, he glared at the door. God was neither hot tempered nor did He rush to judgment. Josh could be patient, but when the time came and God delivered those bastards before him, he would defeat them. He would utterly destroy them.
Chapter Twenty-One
Something warm and hard and decidedly alive lay beneath Liv’s body, coaxing her awake. Her throat throbbed, and a pounding ache fired through her skull. She was face down with her cheek on a brick chest of muscle, which could only belong to the boy. She tried moving her arms, dragging them along with her thoughts from the comfort of oblivion.
Mr. E’s hands on her throat. The impending meeting with the buyer. Her phone.
She snapped her eyes open and met the fathomless green of the boy’s gaze.
His hands skimmed heat along her back beneath the blanket, his thumb tracing the length of her spine. “Good morning.” His voice was raspy, relaxed. “Or afternoon. Or whenever it is.”
Her stomach told her it was afternoon. She pushed against the cotton covering his shoulders. He was dressed, and by the scratchy feel of her skin against his jeans, she wasn’t wearing a damned thing.
He watched her closely, his hypnotic eyes and sensual mouth producing a tremor through her aching body. She struggled to drag her attention away from the masculine lines of his chiseled face, the thick mess of black hair, the defined cheekbones. The sudden and intense longing to be cared for by him filled her with dangerous hope. She would address that—all of that—as soon as she gathere
d her strength.
She pushed again to sit, but the hands on her back held her in place with gentle determination.
“Easy. How are you feeling?”
Her whole fucking body hammered like the aftermath of one of Van’s training sessions when she was a slave.
She reached up, flinching as her fingers met the lump beneath her hair. “Let me go.” Her command came out hoarse and thready, blazing more pain through her throat.
“Nope.” Holding her with an unyielding arm, he reached to the floor and lifted a glass of water to her mouth.
He let her arch up enough to tilt her head back. The first gulp over-flexed the bruised muscles in her throat, reigniting the burn. She continued to drink, scanning the room. “Where’s my phone?”
He studied her, eyebrows shifting downward. “Why?”
Mom and Mattie. If Mr. E wanted to further punish her for the previous night, he’d give her the news in a text. A sinking feeling pulled on her insides. “My phone. Please.” His gaze narrowed. Yeah, her tone was desperate. She was begging. “Please?”
He set the glass on the floor, and his hand returned with the phone. He held it out of reach, watching her with those compelling pale-green eyes. “If I give this to you, will you talk with me? Let me help you?”
If he intended to take advantage of her vulnerable state and force her to talk, he would likely succeed. But there was no manipulation in the wrinkles that worried his chiseled face. His drawn eyebrows and the supportive way his arm rested against her back wasn’t rooted in coercion. He seemed content with simply comforting her.
Her heart contracted, massaging an unfamiliar sensation through her chest. For the first time in seven years, someone held her in a nonsexual way. She didn’t know what to do with that, so she nodded, unbalanced.
The phone dropped into her outstretched hand. He could pluck it away as soon as she unlocked it. And why wouldn’t he?