by L. S. O'Dea
“You...will...not...question...me,” yelled Benedictine as he struck again and again. “You...are...nothing.”
The last blow slipped past his arm, catching him on the side of the head. The room swayed before his eyes. This had to end now. He wouldn’t survive much more. A low growl rumbled deep in his chest.
Benedictine paused for a second and then began hitting him harder and faster. “How...dare...you...growl...at...me.” The Almighty raised his arm high to strike again. “I am your master,” he spat as he brought the paperweight down.
Jackson was seeing double and his knee gave out. He fell forward. The last blow grazed his temple. He froze. If he hadn’t fallen, it would have killed him. He was not going to die like this, cowering on the floor. He sprung up, knocking Benedictine’s arm. The paperweight flew across the room. He could tear the Almighty apart, but a Guard did not attack his master. His muscles trembled as he stood panting, chest-to-chest with Benedictine, whose expression quickly changed from shock to hatred. They glared at each other but neither moved nor looked away.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Daddy? Jackson? Is everything alright?” asked Kim.
He stepped back, steadying his breathing. “I will have someone deliver your message.”
He opened the door and pushed past Kim. Her face was pale and her hands were shaking. She must have heard. He quickened his pace and left the house. The adrenaline was wearing off. The pain from the blows throbbed through his body like tidal waves. In a few minutes it would be worse. Blood dripped into his eye, obscuring his vision.
“Jackson, wait,” called out Kim.
He ignored her and walked faster. He had to lie down before he passed out. She caught up to him at the door, grabbing his arm. He flinched. She dropped her hold, staring at the blood on her hand.
“Go away.” He staggered into the barn.
The six Guards who were not presently guarding the Producer lounged about eating and playing cards. They looked up when he entered with first shock and then pity on their faces.
“Carla and Casper, I need you to deliver a message to Professor Conguise.” He always sent his Guards out in pairs. It was dangerous out there with stray Guards and feral House Servants. He pulled the letter from his ruined jacket, the pristine white of the envelope speckled with his blood. He tried to wipe it off but only succeeded in smearing it. He gave up and handed it to Casper.
The old Guard stared at something behind Jackson. He turned. Kim stood in the doorway, wringing her hands.
“Go away,” he ordered.
She shook her head. “You’re hurt.”
No shit. He walked over to her. “I’ll be fine.” He took her arm and tried to escort her out the door.
“I’m not leaving until I see to your injuries.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
He glanced back at the Guards. They were all watching. When Kim had been a child she’d often tended to their many wounds, but since she’d grown her father no longer allowed her inside the barn.
“You will get me killed,” he said quietly.
“Then meet me somewhere. I’m not going to leave you hurt and untended.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“I’ll take care of my wounds myself,” he said harshly.
She tapped her foot, that mulish expression he knew too well taking over her face.
“I’ll meet you in the shed in a half hour.” The pain had arrived full force. His face throbbed and it hurt to breathe. The sooner he appeased her, the sooner he could get some rest.
Her face wrinkled in disgust. “The shed is filthy. You’ll get an infection just walking in there. Meet me behind the house in ten minutes.”
“What are you going to do behind the house?” They’d be out in the open and Benedictine would not appreciate his daughter touching a full grown male Guard.
“Just meet me.” She turned and left.
The room began to spin. He swayed. Casper jogged over and helped him into the sleeping quarters, laying him on a pallet on the floor. The old Guard then brought in water and towels.
“Do you want help?” asked Casper.
“No. Just need rest.” The dizziness had passed. That was a good sign.
“Holler, if you need anything,” said Casper, shutting the door behind him.
He waited about five minutes. By now, the Guards should be playing cards again. A beating from Benedictine was not a rare occurrence, although this one had been severely savage. He sat up, stifling a groan. All he wanted to do was sleep, but he had to meet Kim or she’d come looking for him. If she did that, and her father found out...well, he didn’t want to think about what Benedictine would do to him then. He stood and steadied himself against the wall, breathing deeply for several moments to combat the nausea. Then he stumbled to the back door. He unlatched it and stepped outside. The sunlight hit him in the face and he flinched, grimacing from the pain.
“Stupid, bossy female,” he muttered as he checked to make sure no one was watching. He moved as quickly as he could to the back of the house.
“Psst, over here.” Kim stood between two carriages.
He walked over, trying not to pass out. One day, he wouldn’t mind dropping to his knees in front of her but not falling to his face.
“Jackson, I’m so sorry.” She bit her lip as he approached.
“Sleep. I just need sleep.”
She gently took hold of his uninjured arm and led him to her carriage. The door was open. She gave him a little shove. “Get in.”
“What? No.” He could not get in her carriage. That would be worse than her being in the barn. At least in the barn they were around other Guards.
“Yes.” She shoved him again, not so gently this time.
He stumbled, falling into the carriage onto his injured side. He shoved his fist in his mouth to stop from crying out.
“Get in,” she repeated as she placed her hands on his butt and pushed.
He tried to get up, but the pain from the fall was shooting through his body. She grabbed one of his thighs and struggled to lift him. Her breasts pressed against his backside, and her hand was sliding up his leg, getting closer to his groin with each moment. He scooted forward away from her touch and into the carriage.
She leaned in the doorway, grabbed his feet and shoved them back, bending his knees. She crawled over him onto the seat, shutting the door behind her. “Don’t sit on the floor. Get up here.” She patted the seat next to her. When he didn’t move, she leaned down and tugged on his uninjured arm.
He pulled away and leaned against the opposite wall of the carriage, facing her. It was not his place to sit by her. He shouldn’t even be in here with her, let alone remembering where her hand had almost traveled.
She frowned and then tapped loudly on the roof. “Home,” she ordered the Grunts.
“No!” If he were caught at her house, his life was over.
He started to stand but the carriage hit a bump and he fell back onto the floor, pain slicing through him. He shut his eyes. He was as good as dead. “Please, don’t do this. Take me back.”
“No. My father...no, you’re not going back there. Ever.”
He opened one eye and stared at her. She didn’t understand. Benedictine owned him.
“I don’t know why you stay. Leave him,” she pleaded.
Every bump in the road jarred his body. He wanted to weep, but refused to in front of her. “Your father is going to kill me when he finds out about this.”
“He won’t find out.”
“Right.” He closed his eye.
They rode in silence for the remainder of the trip. When they arrived at her house she stepped out of the carriage and held the door for him.
“Do you need help?” she asked.
He stood, swaying slightly. His muscles had stiffened. He shook his head and regretted it. Pain blurred his vision. He leaned against the door frame and lowered himself out of the carriage, using his good arm to balance. He stumbled and she
grabbed him around the waist, her small, soft frame surprisingly strong. He tried to pull away but she wouldn’t let go. The scent of her shampoo, of her, washed over him. He inhaled deeply. He might as well enjoy this. It would be the only time she’d be this close. They staggered into the house.
It was a small, comfortable home. The living room furniture was mismatched and well used. He could be happy here. Don’t even think like that.
She led him through the living room. They stopped in the doorway to another room. It was painted a light green and there was a large bed covered with a thick, white blanket. Some clothes hung off the back of a chair. Her clothes. This was her room. Her bedroom. He pulled away and stumbled back into the living room. He flopped down on the couch, his legs hanging off the side.
“You’d be more comfortable in here,” she said, her voice testy.
In your bed, yeah right. He draped his uninjured arm over his eyes and gave a small snort. “No. Believe me, I wouldn’t.”
“You need to rest. It’ll be quieter in my room. Viola is staying here—”
“Why is she here?” He really didn’t care but it was something to get his mind off the image of her bed. Him in her bed. Her joining him in her bed.
She lifted his legs and dropped them on the couch.
“My shoes are dirty.”
“So what,” she said.
“Can’t get your furniture dirty.” He pushed his feet off the couch.
“Of all the stupid...” She began tugging on his shoes.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking off your dirty shoes.” She pulled one off and started on the other.
She was undressing him. He should stop her, but he didn’t have the strength and honestly, he didn’t want her to stop. She removed his other shoe and then placed his legs on the couch. The sofa dipped slightly as she sat next to him.
“Viola and Hugh had a fight. She’s staying with me for a couple of days.” She gently tugged on his uninjured arm. “You need to rest in a bedroom, on a bed, not on the couch where we’ll disturb you. Come on.” She tugged again.
He opened his good eye. The other was crusted shut, but at least it had stopped bleeding. “I’m not staying. I’m going to rest for a moment and then I’m going back to your father’s.”
“You’re staying.” She left the room.
No, he was leaving. He tried to sit up but the room started to spin so he dropped back down. He stared at the ceiling. The sound of running water trickled out from the kitchen, followed by the slam of cabinet doors. She must be gathering the supplies to stitch him up. He cringed. This was not going to be pleasant.
She walked into the living room and set a bowl of water, needle, thread, and some towels on the table near the couch and then left again. This time when she came back she had a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
“Sit up,” she said as she filled the glass a quarter full.
He struggled to do as she ordered. She set the whiskey and glass on the table and wrapped her arms around his torso, accidentally rubbing his injured side. He groaned, not sure if it was from the pain or the feel of her breasts against his chest.
“Sorry,” she said into his shoulder.
They managed to get him to a half sitting position. She handed him the whiskey. He gulped it down, coughing when he finished. It left a burning trail from his throat to his chest. He held the glass out to her.
“More,” he gasped.
She refilled it.
He took a deep breath and swallowed. He handed her the glass and leaned his head against the arm of the couch. “Now, we wait.”
She sat by his side. She soaked a towel in the water and wrung it out. She gently pressed a corner of it against his cheek.
He flinched a bit. “I thought we were going to wait.”
“I’m just wiping the blood off. Don’t be such a baby.”
“A baby?” That was great. Not only was he a Guard, not a fit mate for her, but she thought he was a child.
She whispered in his ear. “I’m teasing.” She shifted away, rinsing out the towel and then gently pressing it to his cheek again.
As she continued the process, the whiskey started to take effect. It no longer hurt as she wiped the cloth along his face. The scent of soap and Kim washed over him. He’d missed this. The closeness that they’d shared as children had grown into constant fighting and bickering. He couldn’t stand to be around her and not touch her and she seemed to do everything in her power to irritate him. There was a splash from the rag being dropped into the water.
“There. All done,” she said.
She couldn’t be done, yet. She didn’t move away. Maybe, she’d stay. Maybe, she’d take off his clothes and lay down by him.
“I need to remove your jacket and shirt,” she said.
She was reading his mind. He didn’t know Almightys could do that. She put her hands around his back and he helped her to move him forward. There was a slight twinge of pain when she pulled off his jacket and then his shirt, but it was worth it as her cool hands brushed along his bare skin.
“That bastard,” she exclaimed as her hands gently examined his wounds.
Her sharp tone shook him out of his drunken haze. She shouldn’t be touching him. He shouldn’t be undressed around her.
“Sorry,” he mumbled as he grabbed his shirt off the couch.
She yanked it away from him. “What are you sorry for? I could kill my father. Look what he did to you.”
His arm and the one side of his chest were blue and red. The purples and yellows would come soon. There were long gashes in his skin where the paper weight had split him open.
“It looks worse than it is,” he mumbled, his tongue thick from the drink.
“I’m going to need clean water.” She grabbed the bowl and left the room.
He shut his eyes. The scent of her fragrance lingered near his side. He’d gone to heaven. Except for the dull ache in his head and body, he could stay like this forever, with her near him, touching him. No, she shouldn’t touch him, but he couldn’t remember exactly why. Right now, it seemed like the best thing in the world. Actually, it would be better if she were lying next to him on the couch when she touched him. Yes, that would be better. Maybe, she would let him touch her, but not if it made her cry. She should never cry.
He opened his eyes. He was alone. There was water running in the kitchen, but under that noise was the soft sound of weeping. Suddenly, he was completely awake. His heart ached. He wanted to comfort her, but it wasn’t his place. She was not for him.
The crying stopped and then a few seconds later the water was turned off. She came back into the living room and sat down.
“Why were you crying?”
“I wasn’t,” she said.
He touched her cheek. It was damp. “Liar.”
She turned and took the towel out of the bowl, wringing out the excess water. She began gently cleaning his chest and arm. As she focused on his wounds, her face was beautiful, but sad. She shouldn’t be sad. Not ever. He’d make sure that she was never unhappy again. He mentally shook his head. The alcohol was turning his brain fuzzy. He couldn’t make sure of anything with her, except to keep her safe. That he could do.
“I’m getting the doctor.” She started to stand.
He grabbed her arm. “No one can know I’m here.”
“Jackson, you may have internal injuries. He hurt you bad this time.” Her voice cracked.
“I’m fine.” He began to sit up.
She gently pushed him back down. Her white hand was fine boned and delicate, resting against the tan skin of his chest. It was cool on his warm flesh. He forced his eyes back to her face. She was staring at where they touched. She slowly raised her eyes to his mouth. She bit her lip. He groaned and moved toward her until his mouth was only a breath away from hers.
“Stop me,” he whispered.
She moved closer, her eyes closing. Their lips touched. Hers were soft and warm. He pressed forward to deepen
the kiss.
“Kim,” Viola called out, slamming the front door.
Kim quickly moved away and he flopped back down, his head resting on the arm of the couch, watching her with half closed eyes. The contact had been too brief, but it was more than he deserved.
“In here,” yelled Kim as she pulled the cloth out of the bowl and nervously dropped it on the floor. As she bent to pick it up, her shirt pulled up a little in the back, revealing smooth white skin.
He longed to trace it with his fingers. Was it cool like her hands? Did her fragrance linger there? If only he could kiss her and find out. She sat up with the towel, her shirt sliding back down.
“How do I look? I’m going to go see Hugh,” said Viola as she walked into the living room. “Holy shit! What happened to him?”
“My father,” said Kim angrily.
Viola walked over to the couch to scrutinize his injuries. “Shouldn’t you send for a doctor?”
“No,” he said firmly.
“He doesn’t want one.” Kim shot him an exasperated look. “He says he’ll be fine.”
“I don’t know about that. He could have internal injuries.” Viola wrinkled her nose.
“I don’t have internal injuries,” he snapped as he sat up, swaying a little.
“See, you’re weak,” said Kim.
“I’m not weak. I’m drunk. You gave me too much whiskey.” He was being grouchy but having these two fussing over him was getting on his nerves. It had nothing to do with the interrupted kiss.
“You asked for it,” argued Kim.
“Are you going to stitch him?” asked Viola.
“If he won’t let me send for a doctor, then yes, I’ll have to do it myself.” She brushed a lock of hair away from his injured eye, her fingers lingering for a moment on his scar. “I’ve done it before.”
His eyes met hers and held. They’d been children then. He’d allowed her to climb a tree and her father had found out. This had been after Jethro’s injury. Benedictine had lashed out at him, slicing his face open with a knife. He’d been lucky that he hadn’t been blinded. She’d insisted on stitching him when her father had refused to send for a doctor.