by Joan Swan
He pushed Alyssa forward as the men crowded into the tiny space. Within sixty seconds she’d be alone with Creek. No one came down this hallway but prisoners and guards, and look how well that had worked out.
Creek’s grip shifted and the chain loosened, offering instant relief, but her skin still simmered as if it had been fried in oil. “Oh, my God. What’s on that chain? You burned me.”
His arm came up and across her throat. “One twist, and I’ll break your neck. Then you’ll forget all about the burn. You’re no safer now than you were a second ago, so don’t get cocky.”
Fear and betrayal mingled with confusion and exhaustion, resulting in white-hot anger. “I’m not cocky, I’m pissed off. If you want to screw up your own life, go right ahead, but I can screw up my own just fine.”
His chin scraped her temple when he looked down at her.
“You won’t make it past the others,” Farmboy said.
“Others?” Creek’s voice lightened with sarcasm and victory, yet still sounded starkly powerful and authoritative in comparison to the guard’s. “I happen to know there’s only one other. And I’d tell you to watch me, but the first one who sticks his head out that door will get a bullet to the brain.
“Close the door,” he ordered in Alyssa’s ear, “and put that chair under the knob.”
She did as she was told, trying to do the lousiest job possible. Not hard considering she had a two-hundred-pound—burning—proverbial monkey on her back.
“Do it right,” Creek said. “Or you’ll be responsible for getting their heads blown off.”
Just what she needed—a guilt trip. She wedged the chair’s metal bar beneath the knob. With the cabinets securing the chair’s feet, those guards wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
“Good girl. Stay that way and you’ll be fine.” Creek walked her backwards, pausing at the desk. “Pick them up.”
Gladly. Alyssa wedged the individual keys between her fingers like claws.
“And put them in your pocket,” he said.
Dammit. “I don’t have pockets.”
Creek tightened his arm on her throat. “You have pockets.”
She couldn’t swallow. Could barely breathe. And, damn, her neck hurt. Alyssa shoved the keys into the breast pocket of her scrubs.
“Good girl.” Creek loosened his hold and dragged her toward the door. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. Got me?”
“You’ve already hurt me.” Alyssa took deep, quick breaths, savoring the oxygen. “It would be smarter to let me go and get the hell out of here as fast as you can. I’ll only slow you down.”
He didn’t respond. He was busy perusing the length of the hallway, empty now at nearly six o’clock. The side doors, where all prisoners entered and exited the hospital, were just twenty feet away. Twenty feet. Surely, he’d release her when he hit the exit. She couldn’t consider any other outcome.
And just to push her own desired outcome forward, she kept talking. What man in his right mind would want a pissy, ranting female along for the ride? “Look, I really don’t have time for this. I’ve got critical patients in the ICU who could die if I don’t get PICC lines in them A.S.A.P.”
It was true they could die, just not from the lack of a PICC line. But he didn’t know that.
“Not my problem. And stop talking in acronyms. It’s annoying as hell.”
“I’d be a lot less annoying if you let me go.”
“I can see you’re going to have to learn to keep your mouth shut. That’s not what I expected from you.”
“From me? What does that mean?”
He didn’t answer as they approached the exit, where late fall sunlight filtered through the glass. Screw whatever he might have meant. Freedom inched closer with every step. That’s what she had to focus on: reaching that door.
But Creek stopped too soon.
At a doorway leading into a holding area, he tapped the fake paneling with the muzzle of the guard’s gun in some cryptic Morse code-type pattern. The door burst open with such force, Creek jerked Alyssa back and twisted, putting his body between her and whoever or whatever was in that room. In that moment, his massive body engulfed hers giving her a flickering sense of complete protection.
“Hey, man.” A rough voice, filled with almost boyish glee, sounded on the other side of Creek. “You gotta see this.”
He straightened and turned them both back around. Another prisoner stood at the door, no cuffs, no leg irons. He had a gun stuffed in the waistband of his navy prison sweatpants, and the grin on his unshaven face matched the mischief in his tone. But his eyes ... There was definitely something wrong in the brain behind those eyes. Alyssa had worked with too many mentally deficient patients to miss it.
Reflexively, she pressed back against Creek as Psycho Prisoner eyed her up and down, too thoroughly, too slowly. She caught a whimper in her throat before it escaped.
His lips lifted in more of a sneer than a smile. “Would have preferred a purebred, but she’ll do.” He squinted at her throat. “What’d you do to her? That’s wicked cool, man.”
Creek took a step and nudged her forward. Alyssa pushed back. He shoved again, harder. A frantic edge cut at her belly. Bile lunged up her chest, burning the back of her throat.
“Look at them.” Psycho tossed a hand toward the back of the holding area, filled with empty gurneys and chairs. Another officer sat in the corner, his hands, feet and mouth bound with compression tape. “Stupid sonofabitch. He was so easy it wasn’t even fun.” He pulled a pair of handcuffs from his sweats. “Got some toys, too.”
“Great.” Creek’s gaze darted toward the hall, the exit, then back. “Let’s get out of here.”
Yes! Alyssa almost yelled the word. Relief and hope broke through the fear. She was almost free. This time, when Creek pushed her, she moved. Five more steps ... four ... three ...
They stopped just inside the doorway. This was it. As soon as these jerks were gone, she’d hit the bathroom, clean herself up, grab some burn gel from the E.R. and call one of the radiologists from their partner clinic across the street to cover for the night. Then, she’d head to the nearest bar and drink this whole nightmare away.
“Get these off of me.” Creek’s voice interrupted Alyssa’s fantasy. He extended his hands in front of her face. “Keys are in her pocket.”
Psycho scanned Alyssa’s shirt, a lewd grin on his face. “My pleasure.”
He pushed his hand into her pocket and grabbed her breast. Disgust twisted Alyssa’s throat closed. She knocked his arm up and away. The knit of keys flew out of his hand and across the room.
The pupils of Psycho’s eyes expanded, turning his muddy hazel irises nearly black with rage. Alyssa identified with the emotion. She’d been attacked by someone she’d been trying to help, abandoned by someone who should have helped her, and now, she’d been molested by scum living off her tax dollars. Rage? Yeah. She definitely identified.
“Don’t touch me, you—”
Creek turned, pulling Alyssa with him. “Stop fucking around, Taz.”
Psycho whipped another key from his own front chest pocket, but his cold, cutting eyes stayed on Alyssa. He slipped the key into the cuffs, and with a click, Creek was free.
An instant later, Creek had his big hand around her wrist. The cuffs were so warm she didn’t feel them close. By the time her reflexes kicked in, she was captive. She stared at the contrast of her fine fingers and slender wrists against the thick metal cuffs. Hands her mother forever insisted were made for dishes and diapers. Hands Alyssa eternally argued were destined for helping and healing.
Surreal. Absurd. Fallacious.
This isn’t happening.
Creek put one hand in the middle of her back, pushed her into the hall and turned her toward the exit door.
This is happening.
Her stomach lifted, then dropped, then went queasy, like it did when she rode a roller coaster.
Alyssa planted her feet and leaned
back. “I’m not going out there.”
He fisted the back of her scrub top and used the bulk of his body to force her through the doorway.
Alyssa twisted, grabbed the metal frame with both hands. “I’m not going.”
“Oh, yes, you are.”
“No!” Alyssa held on with every last muscle fiber in her fingers. “You got what you wanted. Leave me here.”
Psycho elbowed his way out the door. “There’s the car. I told you it’d be here. Let’s go.”
“Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” Creek’s tense voice ground in her ear. “Let go of the door before I break your arm.”
“No.” Her feet skidded forward as he pushed harder. Her wrists ached from the bite of the cuffs. Her fingers burned from grasping the metal. “No! I’m not go—”
Psycho’s hand blurred in front of her eyes a split second before her head snapped sideways. Fire erupted in her cheek, spread through her face. Blood seeped onto her tongue, the metallic bitterness adding another level of realism to this nightmare.
Taz gripped her face in one meaty hand and jerked her toward him. “Shut the fuck up, you goddamned gook.” He smacked a piece of tape over her mouth. “You fuck this up for us and I’ll gut you.”
Creek yanked her out of Psycho’s reach, and closed that big body around hers again. “Chill, Taz. The only person who’s going to fuck this up for us is you. Get the car.”
Alyssa let her eyes close. Pain buzzed across her face. Shock numbed her brain. At some point, she’d started to shake, and couldn’t control it. She’d never been hit before. Not by any man she’d ever dated, even in the most heated argument. Not by any one of her four older brothers, even during a tussle. Not even so much as a spanking as a child, even though she’d given her parents plenty of cause. She’d spent the entire twenty-eight years of her life abuse free. Until now.
She’d also never been taunted with racial slurs, probably because she looked more Caucasian than Asian. The combination of violence and racism shook her solid foundation.
“Don’t fuck with him.” Creek’s hold loosened. “The quieter you are, the less trouble you cause, the better this will go.”
She opened her eyes and looked at him. His gaze darted to her cheek, then away, scanning the parking lot, as if her suffering meant absolutely nothing to him.
Primal anger sank deep and overlaid the fear. She’d be quiet all right. And in the silence, she’d watch. And wait. And plan.
TWO
With a solid grasp on the girl’s upper arm, Teague dragged her into the shadows of an overhang outside the hospital. The chilled air bathed his burning skin. Inwardly, he took a moment to appreciate the sensation, grateful for the city’s distinctive evening mist.
He pressed his back against the cool brick building and pulled her in front of him for cover, focusing his mind to control the body heat that had winged out of his control. Not a great start. His heart knocked so hard and high in his chest, he thought it would choke him. If he didn’t slow his breathing, he’d hyperventilate.
Luckily, hardly anyone ventured to this side of the hospital but prison guards and inmates, and he and Taz were the last trip of the day. Teague had pulled every last favor he’d accumulated in prison to get right here, right now.
It amazed him how a city the size of San Francisco could have so many dead spaces where few people ever tread. But when he’d started looking for them months ago during other outings, he’d been surprised to find them everywhere—walkways, alcoves, or alleys between soaring buildings, like the one they were in now.
In a side parking lot, the GTO’s engine rumbled to life. Tires squealed.
“Idiot,” Teague mumbled. “Let’s just fucking advertise.”
The adrenaline raging through his body made him nauseous. Or maybe it was the welt on the girl’s face that made him sick to his stomach. Or the burns on her neck. Or the blood trail.
He couldn’t even remember her damn name. Emma? Anna? Something sweet and passive, just the kind of woman Luke always seduced. Only this woman was neither sweet nor passive, although she was a beauty. A goddamned, exotic Barbie-doll, wet-dream beauty. At least that part of Luke’s criteria hadn’t changed while Teague had been rotting in prison the last three years.
The bright red, chain-shaped scars on her smooth, sun-kissed skin looked like a twisted S&M necklace. He couldn’t stand the sight.
You’re burning me. The memory of the pain in her voice nagged. None of this was her fault, other than her lousy taste in boyfriends.
Teague flexed the fingers of his free hand, took a slow, deep breath and focused. He settled his fingertips over the burns at one side of her neck and slid them slowly across her fried skin. She stiffened at his touch and strained against his hold.
A sizzling current of mellow heat ebbed from his fingertips and melted into her flesh. He knew the instant the relief registered by the way her spine softened and her eyelids drifted closed. Her spidery black lashes curved against cheeks flushed bright and hot. Teague had the deepest urge to press his mouth to the corner of one eye and let her skin sizzle across his lips.
He repressed the random thought just as he had all such longings that surfaced during his years in prison. The progression of his fingers transitioned the burnt tissues from chafed, angry red to plump, irritated pink.
So soft. Even damaged, her skin was so incredibly soft. How long had it been since he’d felt a woman’s skin against his? Three years? Four? He’d lost count. Something about touching her made his mind haze in a very dangerous way under the circumstances. With her, under any circumstances.
Sensations seemed to boomerang back at him. Enticing currents drifted down his arm, through his chest and straight to his groin, pumping blood to a part of his body that had no business being aroused.
He steered his mind toward curling his fingers into his palm, stepping back, and looking away. But before he did, her head tilted, as if she could barely hold it up, and her cheek eased to his shoulder. Her body swayed, hips curving forward and crushing their joined hands between her soft pelvis and his aching dick. A geyser of lust blasted up his chest and out his limbs. He shuddered. The muscles in his legs went lax. Pleasure blurred the edges of his mind.
Oh, no. Hell, no.
Some part of his sesame-seed-sized brain evidently still worked. Teague nudged her backwards and steadied himself on the building with his free hand. He had no idea if he looked disinterested on the outside because he was a mega fireworks display gone awry on the inside.
“Stand up, for God’s sake.” He pushed her back another step. “Don’t pull any fainting bullshit. We still have a long way to go.”
God help him.
Her lids fluttered fully open. She stared at him with those eyes, some curious color between sand and hazel. They were a little dazed, a little confused and plenty suspicious, but they were most definitely not afraid. And, yeah, he may have been out of the game for years now, but he couldn’t mistake that edge of lusty heat, even if it was now fading. Quickly.
Taz steered the hot rod to a stop alongside them. Grateful for the diversion, Teague swung the back door open and tugged on the girl’s cuffs. The motion seemed to knock her back into reality, back into that little spitfire she’d been inside the hospital. She pulled, yanked, kicked, twisted like a frigging pretzel.
“Dammit.” He fought to get a solid grip on the squirming target without hurting her. “What did I just tell you?”
With one good yank, she popped her arm from his grip. And ran.
“Fuck.” Teague took off after her. And shit, she was fast. She headed toward the front of the hospital, toward Di-visidero, the busiest street in the goddamned city. If she made it to the sidewalk, he’d lose her. If he lost her, he might as well just cuff himself and walk right back into prison.
She reached a grass patch near the southeast corner of the building. Before she broke into public view, Teague lunged. He clipped her around the waist with one arm and broke
their fall with the other.
The GTO rumbled up next to them, door still open, Taz yelling, “Kill her or leave her.”
Teague sure as hell wasn’t leaving her. He fisted her scrub top and yanked. Smoke plumed from beneath his fingers. When he made a move to hoist her by the waist, she thrust her head back. Her skull connected with his cheekbone. Pain exploded behind his eye, traveled up his temple and gripped his brain. But he didn’t let go. He kept his fingers wrapped in that fabric, because it wasn’t as if his life depended on keeping her—it absolutely depended on keeping her.
“You little witch.” The thin scrub fabric disintegrated in his hand and he lost his grip. He bent at the knees, tossed her over his shoulder and shoved her into the car, then slid in beside her. The vehicle skidded out of the parking lot before Teague got the door closed.
“We don’t need her anymore,” Taz yelled. “And I don’t want a piece of ass bad enough to keep that cunt-eyed bitch around.”
“Shut up and drive.” Teague wiped at the warmth sliding down his face and pulled his hand back covered in a mixture of sweat and blood.
He leaned across the seat and slammed the lock on the girl’s door with his fist. Even after years of effort, he still couldn’t harness the heat that came with anger. His healing powers needed work, too, but at least those he could control.
Her hair had come loose from the ponytail and fell everywhere. It was long and straight and nearly solid black but for a bittersweet chocolate undercurrent in the natural light. Her face looked so much softer, so much more innocent with the soft strands framing the high cheekbones and little nose. And those eyes seemed even more piercing with the new contrast.
Teague retreated to his own side of the car. He needed to clear his head and think. All things considered, this had gone pretty well—aside from getting beat up by a goddamned girl, of course. Hannah. That was her name. And nothing about her had worked out quite right. He had to admit, the tape over her mouth had been a brilliant move on Taz’s part. No doubt she’d be smacking up a whirlwind if she weren’t gagged.