Chapter 8 #2
Rose was getting a headache trying to figure out what was going on.
Or maybe that was because the ceiling had collapsed on her.
“Don’t touch her,” Mr. Bedroom Man growled, and someone else gave an annoyed huff.
“How exactly do you expect me to help her if you won't let me touch her?”
She knew that voice, too. It was the man who had given her the pills in the basement that made her pass out. Was he some sort of doctor? Weren't you supposed to take some kind of oath to do no harm when you became a doctor? You know, because you wanted to save lives not take them.
Mr. Bedroom Man grunted, but she felt herself move again, and she couldn’t help another moan escaping.
Damn, she hurt all over.
“Would you stop looking at me like that. I heard your threat loud and clear. She dies, I die,” the other man said, and Rose had no idea what that could possibly mean.
No one cared if she died.
Certainly not enough to kill someone else because of it, which, if she was reading the words correctly, a threat had been delivered from Mr. Bedroom Man to Doctor Man involving her and whether she lived or died.
Too bad for them that the idea of dying didn't seem so bad right now.
Set down on something soft, Rose would have assumed it was a bed, but why would they put her on a bed?
There were no beds in her cell, and they’d put her back in her cell after whipping her, so she doubted they would upgrade her accommodation just because she had managed to pull the roof down on herself.
Then again, Mr. Bedroom Man was sounding awfully possessive all of a sudden.
Hands began to skim her body, and she didn't need to open her eyes, something which it seemed she couldn’t do anyway, to know that Mr. Bedroom Man was shooting death glares at Doctor Man.
What the hell was up with him?
Why was he worried about her dying when he planned to kill her anyway? Her brother wasn't going to care about her and give them what they wanted, so the only logical next step was for them to kill her.
Yet it seemed he was trying to fix her instead.
Something sharp pricked the inside of her elbow, but honestly, she was hurting so badly all over that it barely even registered on the pain scale.
When hands brushed across her arm, Rose screamed and jerked off whatever she’d been set down on. That didn't just hurt, it broke the pain scale.
“Hold her down,” Doctor Man instructed.
“Give her something,” Mr. Bedroom Man countered, sounding almost panicked.
“Can't, don’t know how badly she’s hurt. From the way she’s breathing, I know there are cracked ribs at least, but if I give her too many drugs without properly assessing her, I could kill her. That what you want?”
The responding growl was answer enough.
“Thought so. Hold her down, I have to fix this break in her arm.”
Rose would have sworn the hands that covered her shoulders and eased her back to lie against what she would have sworn was a mattress were shaking. But then again, maybe it was she who was shaking so badly that it felt like Mr. Bedroom Man was shaking along with her.
The most pathetic whimper came from her as Mr. Bedroom Man held her down, and Doctor Man gently circled her wrist and elbow. She knew what was coming, but there was no way to prepare herself for the onslaught of pain that assaulted her when her broken arm was snapped back into place.
At least the pain did something helpful and shoved her into unconsciousness.
That was where she hovered.
In the dark, surfacing briefly for snippets of time. Sometimes the room was quiet, sometimes hushed voices spoke, always Mr. Bedroom Man sat beside her, his low voice murmuring soothing words whenever the pain got too bad and she became restless.
“What are we going to do with her?”
“She knows about us.”
“Can't let her go now.”
“She’ll tell.”
“Her brother will try to use her to find us.”
“Never should have done this.”
“Eagle is going to kill us.”
“We should kill her and be done with it.”
After those words, she would have sworn she heard the sounds of flesh hitting flesh, and a grunt of pain.
Pain. Her own threatened to steal all her strength from her, and Rose whimpered and licked her dry lips. “Yes,” she croaked, liking the idea of no longer being forced to suffer very much. “Kill me.”
“No,” Mr. Bedroom Man snarled, and she saw, or maybe felt, him move so he was standing over her.
A large hand—his she assumed—brushed across her forehead in a gentle caress that made her whimper again.
Not in pain this time, but because she craved touches like that more than she craved her next painful breath. “You have to live, little ladybug.”
“Don’t want to anymore, too tired,” she murmured before the darkness came for her again, sweeping her away into the sea of nothingness.
There were more whispered words around her, but no more talk about killing her, and she almost regretted her words. Maybe if she’d kept quiet, they would have done it.
Time passed slowly. Or maybe it was quickly. Bright sunlight hurt her eyes, then there was darkness, then sunlight once again.
Next time she woke, Rose felt a little more with it.
The pain was still there, but she was able to find some strength to shove it into a box.
Blinking open her eyes, she found herself in a bedroom.
It was gorgeously decorated, the walls were covered in a deep burgundy wallpaper with a small gold flower pattern, she was lying on a huge four-poster bed, the dark wooden posts carved with flowers, an actual chandelier hung from the ceiling in the center of the room, drapes that matched the wallpaper covered what she assumed was a window.
The rest of the room’s furniture, two nightstands, a dresser, a wardrobe that could have come right out of The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, was all in a dark wood stain, and a chaise lounge that was upholstered with the same pattern as the wallpaper and curtains was pulled close to the bed.
“You're awake.” Mr. Bedroom Man stood as he spoke, towering over her, and the hint of a memory trickled into her mind.
Buried under the rubble, Rose had been positive she was going to die.
Not only had her body been burning with pain, but there wasn't much oxygen left around her. Just surviving the initial fall and the concrete debris piling up around her was a miracle, but she’d been certain that she would never make it out alive.
How could she? There was no way six men could remove that much concrete quickly enough, even if they wanted to save her, which they didn't. At least she’d thought they hadn't, now she wasn't so sure.
But she remembered watching as Mr. Bedroom Man literally lifted a chunk of concrete that had to be half the size of her like it was nothing more than a pebble.
Eyes widening, she stared up at the man looming above her.
He was no longer wearing a balaclava, so she could finally see all of his face and not just his eyes and mouth.
It was an annoyingly handsome face given the reasons why had to look at it, strong jaw, high cheekbones, perfectly shaped lips.
Some distant part of her mind recognized that it couldn’t be a good thing that she now knew what he looked like, that it meant he didn't intend to let her walk away alive.
But right now there was a more pressing issue she had to address.
“Who are you, and how did you lift concrete like it was nothing?”