5. Camilla
Agony winds through my body like a vine, but I can’t work out where the source is. There has to be a source. Everything hurts. It hurts to breathe, to move, to just be. Every single thing my body does of its own accord to keep me alive makes me wince.
“She’s waking up,” a voice to my left whispers. It’s a man, but it’s definitely not my father, and he never allowed any of the guards close to me, so who the hell does the voice belong to?
“I’ll get her some water and some more morphine,” another voice says. This one is deeper, and I find myself lost in each syllable that slips from his throat.
Wait, morphine?
It all comes crashing over me in one overwhelming second. My father gave me away before I could even take my first breath. Then he helped me escape, and I was caught. The taxi. The alley. Those men. Is that who has me? Davenport? Despite my best efforts, have I been taken by the very man I tried to escape?
I open my eyes gingerly, the sunlight in the room too bright for my sensitive eyes. As if they notice how much the light hurts me, the curtains are quickly drawn, and the room darkens significantly. And yet, I can’t bring myself to look over at whoever closed them. What if it’s Charles Davenport? I don’t have an escape plan, and good luck to me if I did. I don’t need to have ever stepped foot inside his penthouse to know there’s no way out unless he lets me go, and we both know that’s not going to happen.
A face appears above mine, a soft smile on the lips of the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life. His chiseled features are covered with the shadow of at least a day, perhaps even two, and his green eyes sparkle as they look down at me.
“Hey there,” he rumbles. “I’m sure you’re scared. It would be kind of weird if you weren’t. But you’re safe here.” I shouldn’t believe a word out of his mouth, especially when each one sounds like a quiet prayer, but I find myself leaning into the false sense of security he’s promising. What other choice do I have?
Another face appears over me, and I’m startled by the sheer size of the man. There’s something about him I know I should be afraid of, but instead, I’m intrigued. “Good morning, Little Lamb.” His smile tugs at the scars at the edge of his lips until they crinkle. He’s not unattractive by any stretch of the imagination, but he’s covered in various degrees of scarring, and for some reason, I ache to brush my fingers along the broken skin. His wild blue eyes confirm he’s someone who should scare me, but instead I’m intrigued.
Have I woken up as another person? Or in an alternate dimension or something? Because that’s the only way I would be in a strange place, with strange men, and thinking about what their skin would feel like beneath my fingertips.
They’re both staring down at me expectantly, but it’s long moments before I realize they’re waiting for me to say something.
I swallow heavily, the pain in my throat almost makes me stop trying to speak, but I have to say something. “Where am I?” I croak. It’s as good a question as any, but not at the top of the list sitting on the tip of my tongue.
“You’re safe,” the second man tells me. Fantastic. That’s not vague at all.
“Are you in any pain?” the first one asks, and I nod immediately. God, I’m not even sure there’s a word for this kind of pain, but the soft mattress and luxurious bedding are making it a little easier on my aching body. He chuckles, the corners of his lips tipping up into a smile that lights up his whole face, and it takes my fucking breath away. “Okay, love. I’ve got some morphine here to give you. Is that okay?” He doesn’t strike me as someone who often waits for permission before doing something, and for some reason, that puts me at ease. I’ve never trusted easily because distrust comes part and parcel with the life I grew up in, so it strikes me as odd that I’ve just woken up in a strange place, surrounded by strange men, and for some reason I’m not freaking the hell out. I must have hit my head. “Love?” It’s only when he says the affectionate pet name again that I realize I’ve been staring at him blankly for God knows how long.
I nod again, not capable of forming words right now because everything fucking hurts. I can’t believe I’m going to allow a strange man to stick me with a needle full of God only knows what, but right now I need any relief I can get, and if that means trusting perfect strangers who are likely bad news, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
I look away as he prepares the needle, because although I’ve never admitted it to anyone, I’m afraid of them. It’s irrational, I know, but it’s just one of those things I could do without in my life.
The scarred man catches my eye as he looks on curiously. “Scared of needles, Little Lamb?”
It seems pointless to deny, so I nod again. My throat is dry, and it hurts to swallow, but something about the two men comforts me.
The tattooed man bundles one of my hands in his in an oddly comforting gesture and brings a cup of water with a straw to my lips. “Have some water before the drugs kick in. The doctor said it will knock you out, and I don’t want you getting dehydrated.”
I’ve met a lot of scary men over the years, but this man may be the scariest. Except I’m not afraid of him. I’m not afraid of either of them.
The needle pricks into my skin, and I wince at the same time the tattooed man tightens his hold on my hand, giving me something else to focus on. “I’ve got you, Little Lamb.”
Why does he keep calling me that? And why does it make my skin heat each time the two little words fall from his lips?
“All done,” the other man says, but the scarred one doesn’t pull away. He keeps my hand bundled in his as I drink the rest of the water in the glass. Once I’ve drained it, he pulls it away from my lips and gives me a small smile, but it seems almost unnatural for him.
There are so many questions whirling around in my mind, but the combination of drugs and pain makes it difficult to settle on any one to ask.
The two of them share a look across the bed, but I can’t work out what it is about the silent conversation they share that makes uneasiness settle in my belly. Every emotion that washes over my body is a contradiction to the last, and I don’t know how to pull myself from that reality.
“Who are you?” I croak. It seems like as good a question as any, and at least if they answer that, I’ll be able to stop calling them the scarred one and the handsome one in my head.
The one holding my hand smirks, and a dark chuckle erupts in his chest. “Oh, Little Lamb.”
My brows tug together as I look at the other man, and his eyes are just as dark. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like the answer to this question?
“Perhaps you’ve heard of us, love.” He pauses, and my stomach drops. “We’re the Syndicate of the Legion.”
They could have replied with just about anything and I would have been able to swallow it. But that…what they’ve just told me, it’s pretty much the worst-case scenario, because as soon as they figure out who I am, they’re going to hand me over to Charles. There’s no way to escape the Princes of the Underworld, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them from figuring out who I am.
Dread washes over me at the same time the grogginess from the morphine hits me, and my eyes droop shut. I need to figure out a way out of here. I need to escape. But instead of doing either of those things, I allow my eyes to flutter closed. I guess I’ll have to deal with it once the drugs wear off.