Stolen Melody

by Winter Sloane

  EVERNIGHT PUBLISHING ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2020 Winter Sloane

  ISBN: 978-0-3695-0169-1

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: Audrey Bobak

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my readers, I hope you enjoy Beast and Melody’s story as much as I loved writing it.

  STOLEN MELODY

  Winter Sloane

  Copyright © 2020

  Chapter One

  At point-blank range, Beast shot the fucker coming after him with a knife. Brain matter, bits of flesh, and blood splattered his face and shirt. Felt like a sweet baptism of sorts. What kind of stupid bastard brought a knife to a gunfight?

  Another fucker in a cheap suit appeared in Beast’s line of sight. This one pulled out a revolver tucked in his pants but the gun got caught in his belt. Too easy. Beast raised his gun and emptied out the rest of the clip into the bastard’s chest. His prey went down.

  Who was next?

  Violence and adrenaline sang in his veins. Blood surged through his entire body. His dick dug against the zipper of his jeans. Beast sighted another of Cheklov’s lackeys flopping like a fish out of water on the dusty floor of the old canning factory.

  The lackey saw him and reached for a fallen comrade’s gun. Beast calmly walked up to him and bashed his skull in with the muzzle of his gun. He dropped his weapon. It held no sentimental value for he’d taken it off another of Cheklov’s flunkies when his own gun ran out of bullets.

  The cops might run the weapons for prints but he always wore gloves. They’d never trace him. Beast was always careful. He looked around the factory floor, at the dusty machines and the dead men at his feet. Beast was forgetting something important, something vital for his client.

  “The shipment,” he grumbled. Beast didn’t like to talk and hated the sound of his growling voice, but there was no one left in the factory to listen, to make fun of him.

  He walked to the back of the factory, entered what looked like a storage area, and saw the crates. Beast walked to the nearest one, closed one fist, and punched a hole into the box. Blood welled over his gloves but he hardly felt the pain. Wood splintered and he spotted the plastic baggies containing the white stuff inside.

  Satisfied, Beast plucked his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He was about to message his client to pick up his stolen shit when his ears caught the sound of a whimper. He frowned, tucking his phone back in his pocket.

  Fuck. Did he miss one?

  He was about to head back to the factory floor but he stilled, listening to the sound again. The loathsome noise reminded him of a puppy being beaten to death. He traced the source of the sound, moving past his client’s goods and all the way to the end of the storage room.

  Another door. Beast wished he’d nabbed a gun or knife from one of the corpses on the factory floor but he had to make do with his hands. He looked at his gloved hands and cracked them. He doubted whatever lay beyond this door would give him much fight. A prisoner of Cheklov’s, maybe?

  What did it matter? His client explicitly told him to leave no one alive.

  Beast touched the doorknob. It rattled. He yanked it open, wrinkled his nose at the smell of musk. Darkness swallowed him as he stepped inside. No windows here. The rustling sound of chains drew his attention to the single occupant of the room, the one making that awful noise.

  He took out his phone again and used the flashlight function, aiming it at the miserable creature whose life he was about to end.

  Beast froze in his tracks. It was a girl. No, a woman. She lay curled up on a filthy, threadbare mattress, completely naked. Bruises, old and new, blossomed across the length of her pale, slender skin, as well as cuts. Her ribs looked caved in. She’d been starved, Beast noted, unable to take his gaze off her. He stood, mesmerized by her long and tangled gold hair.

  Tried, puffy azure eyes met his. She opened her dry lips to scream—but no sound came out. Beast was used to that reaction. People who caught sight of him often reacted the same way. He was a sight for sore eyes. A monster, like his name.

  He placed his phone on the ground, letting the light illuminate the rest of the tiny room. A cage. He knelt next to her but didn’t make a move to touch her. What an atrocity. It should be a sin to break something that must’ve been so pure, so beautiful. The fuckers who did this deserved to experience real pain.

  If he’d known that Cheklov’s men had a toy, he wouldn’t have killed them so quickly but instead, subjected them to a far worse punishment.

  Beast might kill for money. Most of his associates would call him soulless, but he lived by his own code. Children and women were out-of-bounds to him. His client knew that. Did his client know about the prisoner Cheklov’s men were keeping?

  What was he supposed to do now? She began making that strange noise again, reminding him of a frightened prey animal.

  Beast moved his gaze to her wrists, still cuffed to a hook on the floor. He left that awful room and her cry of alarm made him halt. Did she think he was leaving her like that? Beast shook his head and found what he was looking for. He pulled a gun from a corpse and returned to her.

  Beast knelt again. Wide, frightened blue eyes met his as he showed her the gun.

  “Stay still.” He watched the rise and fall of her chest for a moment.

  Beast took a deep breath then shot at the handcuffs, breaking the links. She lowered her hands and pressed them against her chest. As he saw the angry red lines that cut across her wrists, a growl rattled from his throat.

  She remained on that filthy mattress, not moving. The woman hadn’t said a single word to him. Selective mutism perhaps? Why wasn’t she running? Perhaps she couldn’t. Maybe she was worse off than he thought. Too far gone. Beast had learned all about hunting from his old man. Sometimes, it was better to deliver mercy than let an injured animal suffer.

  She started to tremble, to shake.

  “Shh,” he said. He didn’t know why he took off his gloves and ran his big, calloused fingers over the mess of her likely once glorious hair. That seemed to calm her down for some reason. He drew her head to his lap, unsure of his actions.

  “Do you wish to die?” he asked her. “Or do you have something to live for? People to return to?”

  Beast hated to talk ever since the accident, but he didn’t mind letting her hear his voice. Slender fingers touched his own. Shock rippled through him. Beast couldn’t remember the last time anyone touched him like this. No one dared to.

  She’s just reaching for the gun, he thought with almost palpable relief. He didn’t understand the disappointment that sat heavy in his chest. For a second there, Beast nearly thought she was reaching for him in comfort. What a laugh. Who would want to touch him?

  She ran her fingers up the cold barrel of the gun then dropped her hand. Her eyes closed and for a second, Beast nearly panicked. Did she die before telling him what she wanted?

  Still breathing, Beast thought. She curled her fingers into the hem of his shirt and clutched at it so tightly that the sight marveled him. Despite the hell she’d been through, she still had the strength to cling on to him.

  She reminded him of a baby chick, trying to imprint on whoever was closest to her. He was probably the first person to show her kindness in a lo
ng time. Naturally, she’d think he was her savior. That was all, except she made a grievous error. Beast wasn’t a good man. He’d never been one.

  Beast was at a loss. What was he going to do with her? With this mess? His phone started to vibrate on the slick, dirty floor. Beast reached for it, unsurprised to see it was his client calling. He let the call go to voicemail. Then he typed his client a message, telling him to pick up his stolen shit.

  Beast looked at the unconscious woman lying on his lap. He couldn’t leave her here. Once his client’s men arrived, they’d clean up the mess he left behind—including her. His quiet and broken woman.

  Who was she? Would she be missed? The fact she was left here meant Cheklov had probably tired of her and had given her over to his men. The thought sickened him, fueled his rage. He gently lowered her and took off his jacket. Beast wrapped it around her broken body and carefully lifted her into his arms. She hardly weighed a thing. She would need meat on her bones, Beast decided.

  Beast carried her out of there. He kept on walking, not stopping until he reached his car. Taking her might be a monumental mistake but it was too late now. She now belonged to him, and Beast never did like to share.

  Chapter Two

  Melody didn’t want to open her eyes. She was awake but sometimes, pretending to sleep helped. Not always. The one they called Mikhail didn’t give a damn if she was unconscious or not. Sunlight caressed her face.

  Wait a moment. Light?

  Mel hadn’t seen the sun for what felt like forever. She dared to open her eyes, shocked to find a window, a very big one across from her. She almost thought it was some kind of TV or painting. It was also open. That wasn’t the biggest surprise. Trees looked back at her. A forest.

  Mel drew fresh air into her lungs. Sweet air, so unlike city air that often reeked of garbage and despair.

  Was she dreaming? She must be, or perhaps the real her had died in that awful dark place. Maybe Mikhail and his men had finally done it. Broken her completely and her spirit had no choice but to escape the tainted shell of her body.

  If this was heaven, then … she must be all right. There were no monsters here.

  Mel sat up slowly, touching soft sheets. She looked down and found herself lying on some kind of bed. Her chest heaved. Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes. God. What a crybaby. Mel had always been a wimp. A weakling. A stronger woman would’ve fought harder to get free, except she’d exhausted all her options. Mel had gotten tired, so tired, so she’d stopped being a fighter.

  Time to stop feeling sorry for herself and test her theory about her current reality.

  She pinched her wrist and yelped. Pain. Okay. This might be real. The marks left behind by the handcuffs were still there, except they were no longer an angry red but pink. Mel could also feel aches in her body. She lifted her shirt and swallowed to see the ugly bruises forming there but someone, she didn’t know who, had tended to her old injuries. This shirt wasn’t hers either. For one, it was two, no, three sizes too big for her.

  Mel lifted the fabric to her nose and sniffed. It smelled like fabric softener and a man’s cologne.

  Mel pictured a big, hairy giant in her head. A behemoth of a man who knelt in front of her. Knelt. Like some kind of knight. Mikhail would just kick her to get her to move but this one didn’t. He drew her head to his lap and stroked her until she stopped trembling, like she was some kind of pet that needed assurance. Part of her liked it, loved the comfort of his hands. Even his strange voice, more animal than man, didn’t scare her.

  He didn’t look at her the way the others did. Not like trash or a toy he could dispose of any time but a prize. A treasure.

  Her heart hammered. It felt difficult to breathe. She began to hyperventilate. She clutched the headboard and closed her eyes. This cabin, this place, it was all too much to take at once, especially when Mel had been used to the dark for so long.

  Mel took deep breaths. Her head spun. She should lie back down those soft pillows. Sleep a little, but she couldn’t, not until she got to the bottom of this. Find out her current situation.

  She opened her eyes and looked around the room. Wood everywhere. Simple but sturdy furniture. The shelves housing books surprised her. They were everywhere. They lined the walls right up to the ceiling. Mel swung her legs off the bed. She stumbled and felt a little lightheaded but she gritted her teeth.

  Mel was about to walk to the nearest shelves and check out the books when the door suddenly opened.

  She whirled, swallowing at the sight of the stranger who entered. It was him. The man who had rescued her from her cage. She’d only caught a glimpse of him for a few moments and the light from his cell phone didn’t provide much illumination, but she was sure of it. Mel wouldn’t forget those scars.

  He was so huge he practically filled up the doorway. He only wore jeans and nothing else. Sweat beaded down his massive chest. His impressive six, no, eight-pack abs flexed with every breath, like he was in a hurry to get inside the room. Was he lured in here by the sounds she made earlier?

  Black ink decorated his entire body like a work of art, but under the tattoos, she could almost see the faint lines. Scars that went all over, even his neck, his face. His black beard covered some of them but not all. He kept his hair short, unlike his beard. Intense, blue-gray eyes the color of frost met hers.

  She tentatively approached him, unsure what she was doing. Simply looking at him made her nipples tighten. Moisture gathered between her legs. What was happening to her body? Mel didn’t think she could feel genuine desire again after what she’d gone through. When Cheklov’s men took her over and over again, the only emotions they managed to wring out of her was resentment, fear, and hatred. Hatred of them, of her own tainted body that she could never love again.

  Except for this man whose name she didn’t even know. Maybe he could make her new again.

  What was she thinking? She had gone insane. Irrational.

  Mel hadn’t run fast enough before and the bad men found her. She was easy prey for them, because despite her name, Mel couldn’t sing. She had no voice. Her silent screams fell to deaf ears every single time. Yet, she didn’t stop, she didn’t run from him and cower.

  Within a foot from him now, she hesitantly reached out, about to touch his chest, but he grabbed her fingers with his big ones. So strong, she thought. If he wanted, he could crush the bones in her hands without much effort, like breaking the bones of a bird.

  “Bed.” He gritted out the one word then jerked his head toward the bed. It seemed to pain him to even utter that one word. “Now.”

  She pulled her fingers back.

  “Still don’t want to talk to me?” he asked in that strange, raspy, growly voice of his.

  Frustration welled up inside of her. This again. Reason returned to her. Mel wanted to slap herself silly. What was she thinking, approaching a complete stranger like this? She might send out the wrong message.

  They were in the middle of God knew where. Certainly far from Ashborne City. Out here, he could do whatever he wanted with her if he chose, and yet he didn’t. This scarred stranger hadn’t touched her while she was knocked out. He even took care of her injuries, cleaned her up and dressed her.

  He could’ve taken his fill of her any time he wanted and yet he hadn’t. He didn’t feel like the others either. She wasn’t terrified of him even when he looked her up and down. He was different.

  Mel didn’t know what else to do, so she tried to communicate using the only language she knew.

  She signed at him. “You dick. You took me. Why didn’t you end my life?”

  The stranger blinked at her for a few moments then raised his hands. “I saved you.”

  He knew sign language? Mel was stumped for a few moments. He grabbed her arm and dragged her back to bed. “Rest,” he told her.

  She stubbornly shook her head, about to give him the finger, but dots danced in front of her vision again. Mel sat down at the edge of the bed, all too aware of his hand
was still on hers, making sure she wouldn’t fall, she realized. The finger? What was she? Twelve? Besides, it didn’t seem like a wise idea to piss off her captor.

  Could she even call him that when he’d saved her life?

  He released her, not saying a word as he stared down at her. She breathed in and out. He tapped her shoulder. “I’ll bring food,” he signed. “Stay there.”

  Where else was she going to go? Not like she could take a few steps without fainting.

  Besides, she didn’t have anything or anyone to return to. The thought depressed her. She’d moved out of her small town to the city five years ago only to discover people were the same everywhere. Cruel. Vindictive. Selfish.

  She’d debated moving out of the city, to start somewhere new when her entire life went to shit. Cheklov had started frequenting the diner where she worked, had taken one look at her and decided he’d wanted her. Whatever the most powerful man in the city wanted, he got it. Except Mel was starting to realize there were more frightening monsters than Cheklov.

  Her savior returned, holding a tray. She watched him warily. He kept his distance as he set the tray down, like she was some kind of rescue animal who was terrified of her new environment and owner. In a way, Mel realized she was exactly that.

  Her throat was parched. Mel reached for the glass of water first. She sniffed at it. The stranger grabbed the glass and took a sip before handing it back to her. It was as if he wanted to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

  She drank the entire water down, closing her eyes. It was just water but it tasted so good. Sometimes, Mikhail and the others forgot to give her something to eat or drink. Stop it, she chided to herself. Mel wanted to put all her horrible experiences in a box, lock it, and throw the key away.