18. Willow
18
WILLOW
I 'm hyperventilating, trying my best not to completely lose it on camera—because there's no way I can use this recording to fight against those guys with the police. Like Tom said, they'd listen to my story and roll their eyes, dismissing the assault completely. She asked for it, they'll say. Like this is consensual, although it fucking isn't. Tom is raping me. So I might as well bear it, so I don’t completely lose my platform on top of everything.
"I don't know man. This doesn't feel right."
"Then walk. You know where the door is. Or shut up and you can have a go after I'm done." Tom presses in, though every muscle in my body protests the intrusion.
And then there's a thud .
The noise is as sudden as it is loud, making my ears hurt.
"What the?—"
Thud.
Thud.
Two more, just as sudden and unexpected. Then there's a sort of a gurgling, and a mass falls on me, pinning me harder than Tom did. I feel warm wetness coat my back. Is he pissing on me?
I do my best to crawl from under the weight.
And I scream.
Tom. Or rather, Tom's body, is lying face down on the bed right behind where I just was. My legs are still underneath him. I crab crawl back in horror and disgust.
In my panic, I don't even notice the other man until there's a hand flat against my mouth.
"Please, Ms. Brown. We don't need the attention right now." The voice is quiet, grounding.
It belongs to a man I don't know, wearing black gloves, and a thick, expensive winter coat. He looks like a million Wall Street bankers that I'd see on the street any day. Nondescript. White or Hispanic, thirty-something, brown-haired.
He could be anyone.
But now something tugs at the back of my memory. I think I have seen him before. Haven't I?
Another man walks in, a gun in hand, with a suppressor. He talks into a an earpiece in a language I don't recognize.
"You got them?"
"All clear," the man next to me replies.
Clear as in, Tom and Sam are dead.
Because Tom was hurting me. And these people came in to stop it.
Those facts slowly make their way to my brain, but I can't quite make sense of them. Why would they be here for me? How did they know I needed help? Did they hear something?
No. He called me Ms. Brown. He knows me. He was watching me. Protecting me.
"I'm going to let you go now, Ms. Brown. Please do not scream again."
I make my head nod, feeling myself shiver all over.
His gloved hand moves from my mouth, and he straightens up. "How are you feeling? Are you hurt anywhere, miss?"
I shake my head. "Thanks to you."
The man smiles. "Only doing my job, miss. Glad to have helped."
I suddenly straighten up in panic. "I'm live!"
Someone must have seen them shoot the guys. And sure, Tom was trying to rape me, but given my line of work, I figure that’s a far less important detail than, oh, say, an actual murder.Plus, he said my name.
"Your equipment was my first shot, miss," the stranger assures me. "No offense. That scum of the earth was the second."
Oh. Of course he was smart enough to cover his tracks.
"My apologies about your equipment."
"Oh, you never have to apologize for, like, anything. Ever." It occurs to me that I know nothing about my rescuer. "Sorry, you are?"
The logical questions would be, what are you doing here, how did you arrive just in time. But I don't need to ask, do I? Not only because the second, silent man, near the door, spoke in Russian in his earpiece. Simply because there's only one possible answer.
These men work for him. They have to.
He's had me watched.
I flush.
He…knew what was going on tonight. Oh, god. Somehow, that's a little mortifying. Did he tell Morgan? She's going to strangle me.
"Andrei, miss."
"Andrei. Thank you so much." I clear my throat. "So, you're a bodyguard?"
"Yes, miss. One of your regular ones. I work in shifts with Quintin and Marc. Paul, here, has been assigned to you as well tonight, in case we needed more security for your hobby."
He's saying words, and each one first confuses, then baffles me when I understand their meaning.
"You mean, you regularly watch after me?"
"Every day, miss. For the last three years."
Three years.
Three years .
I gasp. That's just...not logical.
Cam.
It must have been Cam who arranged it, right?
But then again, why wouldn't he have told me? He's open enough about Morgan's security.
And Paul did speak Russian.
I'm still gaping wordlessly at the two bodyguards, not even sure what to ask, when Paul steps away from the doors and bows.
I only have time to stiffen when Dimitri strides in with the confidence of someone who owns every ounce of space he occupies.
"Out." One word, that feels like ice and daggers, full of threat. Promise.
Andrei moves with a speed I wouldn't have thought possible for someone of his stature, and shuts the door behind him.
Some bodyguard.
But I suppose his job description includes protecting me from vile rapists, not from being shouted at by his boss.
I brace myself.
One look in those cold green eyes and I know Dimitri is aware of what I was doing here. And he's angry. Very, very angry.
Honestly, I didn't even think he ever got pissed. He's too collected. A master of zen, always either amused or indifferent. I thought that was one of the things that attracted me to him, his complete and utter self-control.
That was before seeing pure, undiluted rage flow through him.
Now I know I wasn't into the control, but what was hidden underneath.
This man…he's capable of hurting anyone, anything that threatens what he considers his.
The look in his eyes tell me that he's sorry Tom and Sam are dead, their bodies cooling on the floor, blood soaking the mattress.
He's sorry he didn't snuff the life out of them himself.
"I let you have your fun, petal. I left you in control."
I don't recognize this voice. I don't recognize this man.
"That ends now."