Snow and Seduction: A Steamy Reverse Harem Winter Collection

by Amanda Rose

  "Don't try to move," a soft voice chides me. It reminds me of someone but surely... Ben. He's here.

  "How?" I ask, but it comes out as a croaking whisper.

  He laughs sadly. "Didn't think I'd miss not being able to argue with you. But I guess now you'll just have to listen. Even if that's a little one-sided."

  He drags a chair over and sits down, looking straight at me with his dark brown eyes. I want to turn away from their scrutiny, but this time I remember the collar and stay still.

  "The police told me you were here."

  Bastard. He knows I won't be able to ask questions, so why is he not giving me more information.

  "How are you feeling?"

  I shrug, not wanting to waste painful words on such a trivial question. I'm in hospital with a broken ankle, a bruised throat and a mind that replays the fear of last night over and over again. I've been better.

  "Water?" I nod, trying to move as little as possible.

  He takes the glass but instead of just holding it to my lips, he gently puts a hand behind my head and lifts me up slightly so I'm in a more comfortable position to drink. I take a few slow sips while he is patiently keeping me upright. When I'm done, he lowers me back onto the pillow, but his hand stays in place, cupping the back of my head, gently massaging my scalp.

  "How?" I ask again, my voice a little stronger this time.

  "After I walked away from you yesterday, I tried finding you again but you had gone. I sent my contact in the police a message with your name and description, asking him to pass it on to his officers. I hadn't expected a call this soon, though." He frowns. "You shouldn't have run. You should have let me help you."

  I grimace. "Why?"

  "Why you should have accepted my help? Because then you wouldn't be here, you'd be safe at my place. You wouldn't have been all alone on the streets. You wouldn't have almost got killed... and raped." He's almost shouting now. I'm scared, I need to get away from him. I move despite my muscles being heavy and painful, rolling over, groaning as the collar presses against my bruises.

  "Oh no, Em, I'm sorry! Don't be scared of me, please don't be scared. I get a little loud sometimes, I'm sorry. Please, don't move. I don't want you to hurt."

  At the sound of his panicked voice, I stop my frenzied scramble. With a few quick steps, he's on the other side of the bed where I have made it to in my pitiful escape attempt. Now that he's looking at me with this vulnerable expression around his eyes, I notice that I wasn't scared of him. What I felt was the fear from earlier, amplified as a memory.

  "It's okay," I sigh, exhausted.

  He goes on his knees until he's at the same level as I am.

  "I was so afraid when they called me. I know you won't believe me, and I don't expect you to, but... I don't know how to say it. I wanted you to be safe, and you weren't. I was scared that you were dead. Killed because you ran from me. Gone before I could tell you why I chose you."

  "You chose me?" I croak. I would like to tell him that he's self-obsessed and that he doesn't need to feel guilty, but words hurt.

  "There's a reason why I asked you to go to that cafe with me. Why it was important to talk to you." He sighs. "It just didn't go to plan."

  I think he's waiting for an answer, but I just point to my throat instead of talking. He'll get the message.

  "First, let's get you comfortable again."

  He helps me back in my previous position, even fluffs the pillows beneath my head. When I'm lying comfortably again, he sits on the chair next to the bed and looks at me curiously.

  "I didn't expect you to be this stunning."

  "What?" Now he's lost me.

  "When I read your profile, I imagined someone a little less... more ordinary. With your intelligence, I didn't hope for beauty as well. Not that I was hoping for you to be pretty. It doesn't matter. But..." He pauses. "I'm talking myself into a hole here, right?"

  I nod, still completely confused by what he's trying to say. Intelligence? Pretty? Profile?

  With his scarred hand, he wipes a strand of his black hair out of his face before looking into my eyes again. Why does he always do this? He's very intense.

  "I was given your profile when I was looking for a possible assistant. There aren't many translators out there who speak Albanian, Italian and Russian. I had read through a few profiles and found them lacking a certain... extra, but when I came across yours, I wanted to know more. But in our work, we first need to do some research before contacting people. I was about to get in touch when you moved out from your partner's flat and didn't register a new one. I thought it was temporary, but you didn't reappear in the system until I saw an application for emergency housing. That's when you went up even higher on my list of possible candidates."

  He pauses and notices me staring at him. Noticing my confusion, he sighs. "I can't tell you more until you sign a few documents. For now, think of me as someone who's offering you a job. A well-paid one with a range of benefits. Including free housing."

  If my eyes could go any wider, they'd be popping out of my face just now.

  "Not... a... whore," I croak, and his expression darkens.

  "That's not what I meant. I know we got off to a bad start, but I'm hoping to make this right. Think about it: would I really go through all this trouble trying to contact you if all I wanted was a prostitute? Believe me, they are a lot easier to find than you were."

  His phone vibrates in his pocket and he looks at his watch, frowning. "I need to leave soon. The doctors say you'll need to stay another night at least, and they won't release you until you have a place to stay. So you can wait for the Council to come up with a solution, or you can accept my offer. And with that I only mean the room, you don't need to commit yourself to the job yet."

  "Where?" I ask, and he smiles.

  "At the house I share with my colleagues. Friends, actually. There's a studio flat on the ground floor that's been empty for a while. You'll have your own kitchen and bathroom. It's small, but I hope it'll do for now until we find a more permanent solution."

  I'm speechless. And sceptical. Maybe the mysterious 'job' he keeps talking about doesn't even exist. Maybe this is all just one big plan to hold me captive at his place. But no, that doesn't make any sense. If he's really gone through all this trouble just to find a homeless girl, there has to be more to it. I wish my brain was working properly, but I'm still foggy from the pain killers. Not that they're working.

  His phone vibrates again and he looks at it, irritation evident on his face.

  "Sorry, I need to go. Do you need anything? A book perhaps, or some music?"

  I shake my head and wince. I don't want to be in his debt, no matter how tempting the offer is. There's a little tv in this room, and once I find out where the remote is, that can be my entertainment for the day. Or even better, sleep.

  "I'll come back tomorrow," he says and, almost as an afterthought, gently strokes my cheek. "Bye, Emily."

  He's already out of the door when I whisper, "bye."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When I wake up, Ben is sitting by my bedside, eating ice cream. When he sees that I'm awake, he chuckles.

  "Sorry, I brought this for you, but when you weren't awake, I thought it would be a waste for it to melt." He takes a second spoon from the bedside table. "It’s better than grapes. Want some?"

  I'm about to decline when he adds, "It's chocolate."

  I smile, moving muscles that have been unused for a while.

  "Water first?" I ask, my voice a little better than yesterday, but still hoarse and raspy. The doctor said it could take weeks until my vocal chords are fully healed.

  Ben puts away the ice cream and presses a button by my bed and a buzzing motor springs into life, lifting the top end of the mattress until I'm sitting up. I smile again at his thoughtfulness. He holds the glass to my lips, but I gently take it away from him. I'm stronger today, I can hold it myself. He frowns when he sees the cannula peeking out from a piece of tape on the back o
f my hand. A nurse removed the bag of fluids it had been connected to at some point in the early morning.

  "Are you still in pain?" he asks, worry tinging his voice.

  I just shrug and take another small sip of water. Drinking hurts but it also soothes my throat at the same time.

  "Shall I ask the doctors to get you some painkillers?"

  "It's okay," I whisper, trying not to strain my voice too much. "Better. Than. Yesterday."

  "Don't talk." He smiles. "Eat your ice cream instead."

  He hands me a paper cup with half molten chocolate goodness inside. There are even little chocolate pieces floating on top of the ice cream. It's just what I need.

  I have to take small spoons as swallowing still hurts. I don't think ice cream has ever tasted this good. Ben watches me with amusement as I savour every spoonful with delight, but I don't mind. He brought me ice cream, he's okay.

  After I've scraped the last morsels from the paper cup, I sink back, exhausted from all the movement. It's strange how I don't have any injuries on my body besides the bruised throat, my broken ankle and a few scratches on my arms, but still everything hurts. There's a fatigue to it all, a tiredness in every single one of my muscles. I'm slowly beginning to realise that it will take me some time to recover, not just because my ankle is in plaster. And even though I'm still confused about Ben's motives, the thought of having somewhere to stay that isn't a church or a cold bit of pavement does make my future look a little better.

  "Do you want more?" he asks, pointing at my empty cup.

  "No," I whisper. "Thank you."

  "It's nothing. How are you feeling?"

  "Been better." I attempt a brave smirk.

  "The police are wanting a statement soon. I've told them to get some pen and paper so you don't have to talk." He hesitates for a moment. "Would you like me to stay when they come?"

  "Yes, please." I don't know when Ben changed from the mysterious stalker to a person I trusted, but it feels good. Even though this trust is totally irrational. I still don't know the first thing about this man.

  "Tell me about yourself," I croak, closing my eyes. I don't want to sleep, but it's hard keeping my eyelids from closing.

  He stays quiet for a moment, before taking a deep breath. "I'm not sure what to tell you. My name is Ben, I'm thirty-one, I work for a government agency, and I like photography."

  It sounds like something he's learned by heart.

  "No, tell me about you," I repeat, putting the emphasis on the final word.

  He doesn't reply. Maybe I was wrong to trust him. If he's not letting me into his world, how am I supposed to give him access to mine?

  Finally, he sighs. "I don't actually like photography. It's just something I say because it makes me sound hip and creative. I like looking at photos, but I'm terrible at taking them. I would love to learn to paint though, one day. What I really like to do is archery. Not the modern kind they do at the Olympic Games. I have a longbow at home that I sometimes take into the woods to practice." He lowers his voice. "Don't tell anyone, it's not strictly allowed."

  I smile. I can imagine him in the forest, bow slung over his shoulder; a modern version of Legolas. Hunting for prey, stalking it, keeping his brown eyes trained on it until he's in position.

  "Hunt animals?" I whisper, my voice fading.

  "Oh no, I just shoot at targets I put up. I grew up in a vegetarian hippie household, so I don't think I could ever kill an animal. It's not about shooting to kill, it's about the calm that comes before you release the string, the tension that suddenly gives way to total calm. Once the arrow is shot, you keep the bow in the same position for a breath or two, and that's the most relaxing feeling I can imagine. Knowing that you achieved something, and somehow released some of your own tension in the process." He sighs. "I don't have a lot of time for archery nowadays. Work always gets in the way. But maybe once my current... project is completed, I might have a chance to do it more regularly again."

  He goes quiet again. I feel like I'm not going to hear much more from him today. He's not used to talking about himself, that much is clear. I'm amazed he already opened up this much.

  A knock on the door ends our conversation, and a bubble of anxiety grows in my chest as I realise that I will have to tell my story now, relive what happened last night.

  "Is she awake?" a woman whispers.

  "Yes, she's just exhausted," Ben replies and I can hear them move towards the bed. "Emily, are you up for this?"

  I force my eyes to open. Better get this over with.

  "Yes. Painkillers?" It's strange how my sentences have been reduced to single words. With speaking being so painful, I'm being selective about what to say. It's frustrating; usually I can't shut up. Now I'm forced to let others do all the talking.

  "I'll get you something, be back in a moment," Ben says and exits the room, leaving me alone with two female police officers. One of them hands me a notepad and a pencil. I grip it tightly, not wanting it to slip from my weak hands.

  "We're going to keep this as short as possible, okay?" the younger officer says and takes a seat on the chair where Ben was sitting just a moment ago. Her colleague stays standing, watching me with a mixture of empathy and curiosity.

  "For the records, could you please write down your full name and date of birth."

  By the time I'm done, trying to make my shaking hand write it halfway legible, Ben returns with a nurse. While she is giving me some intravenous pain meds, Ben sits down on my bed. "Just tell us when it gets too much, okay?"

  When the nurse has left, he nods at the police officers to continue. It's a bit odd, they are looking at him like he's important. Like he's in command. But maybe that's just my tired brain playing tricks on me.

  "How long have you been without a permanent residence?"

  21st September, I write. I'm not going to forget that day anytime soon. Our relationship had been troubled for a while, but the way she told me to move out was harsh even for her. I can't believe how I managed to stay with my ex for three years. I was close to leaving several times, but then she would be nice for a few days, treating me like a delicate flower, before falling into her old patterns again. The patterns that sometimes left bruises on my skin. She made me believe it was all my fault. That she didn't have another choice than to get angry. That it was me who made her explode in fits of rage.

  The weeks I lived on the streets were better than therapy. I realise now that our relationship was abusive. That it should never have gone on as long as it did.

  "Where were you going last night? Can you write down a quick summary of what you did yesterday?"

  I do as she asks, trying to remember where I went. It's all a bit foggy; the only thing that is very clear in my mind is the moment Ben saw me on the Royal Mile. The shame of him seeing me like this. The anger at how he seemed to be stalking me.

  "Did you meet the suspect where you were found or did you walk there together?" I frown at her calling the man a suspect. Clearly he's the attacker; he was arrested while trying to strangle me.

  He wanted money. I didn't have any, but he became pushy and when I tried to get away from him, I fell and injured my ankle. I was lying on the ground and he

  I can't continue writing, I'm shaking too much. My hands are trembling and I notice my breathing becoming quicker.

  "It's okay, Em, you're safe now," Ben whispers soothingly and gently takes my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. "I know it's hard, but we want this bastard to be locked up, so we need your statement. Is it okay if I ask you a few yes and no questions? That way you don't have to write."

  "That's not advisable, sir, closed questions may influence her statement," the older police officer interjects.

  Did she really call Ben 'sir'? I look at him questioningly and he whispers, "I'll explain later."

  He turns to the woman. "It's either that or you'll have to come back another time."

  She sighs. "Go ahead."

  Ben squeezes my hand again and I
look at him, my anxiety slowly lessening. I can do this.

  "Did you know this man?" I shake my head.

  "Had you ever seen him before?" No.

  The first ten questions or so he asks me are easy. But I know it won't stay that way. I'm getting tired; the pain meds are finally kicking in.

  "Before he put his hands around your throat, did he touch you somewhere else?" I nod and his grip on my hand tightens. A muscle twitches on his right cheek, almost unnoticeable, but he is all I'm looking at. Focussing on him helps me stay in the present.

  "Can you show me where?" I move my other hand to my breast, trembling as I remember his touch there.

  "Did you struggle?"

  I nod. "I almost got free," I whisper, a stray tear running down my face. Ben gently wipes it away. "Ankle," I add as an explanation for why I didn't run.

  "Was that why he tried to strangle you?" Yes.

  "This may be a strange question, but do you think he wanted to kill you rather than just make you unconscious?"

  Shivering, I think back to what the man said when he put his bony fingers around my throat. Then I nod. Yes, he said I didn't need to be alive.

  Ben turns to the two women. "Is that enough?"

  "Yes, although we'll need to get a full statement once she can talk again."

  Letting go of my hand, Ben gets up and accompanies the officers out of the room, talking to them outside. Without his support, the memories come crashing over me again. I'm shaking and I can't stop imagining those pale hands roaming my body. The fingers around my neck, squeezing tight. The pain. The fear. No air. I'm gasping, trying to get him off, make him let me go. His hands are everywhere, touching me, defiling me. I whimper in between gasping breaths. It hurts so much.

  "Shit!" Hands grip my shoulders. "Em, listen to me. You're safe, it isn't real. Breathe, Em, breathe!"

  There are sirens again as everything repeats itself. The black spots in front of my eyes. The pressure on my chest. The voices. And then the silent, thoughtless sleep.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Ben's house is massive. Wait, he said it belonged to one of his flatmates. He also said that they would be waiting for us. Waiting to meet me. Apparently, they didn't have a problem at all with a random woman coming to live with them. Maybe they're used to Ben taking in strays.