Chapter 22 Jane
JANE
Pain races up my arms as they’re cranked behind my back, my hands pinned uselessly against my spine.
I can feel the soft leather of the person’s gloves—a stark contrast to the way he’s handling me.
Then he gives a deep, breathless laugh as he folds me forward, bringing me to my knees and into a twisted version of child’s pose as he shoves my face against the cold rubber floor.
Terror grips my chest, my heart hammering against my ribs, warning me to escape before it’s too late.
“Whew, she’s a feisty one, isn’t she?” the man says, his gruff voice raking down my skin and unleashing a violent shudder through my body.
“She’s going to be fun to play with,” another man says playfully from somewhere behind me.
“Get off me!” I scream, squirming beneath the man’s bone-crushing hold. But I know it’s pointless.
He’s too strong, and I can feel the road bumping beneath us. He’s taking me away.
From where, I don’t know. All I know is that the farther we get, the more danger I face.
“I don’t think so, sweetheart,” the man holding me purrs, his voice laced with far too much pleasure for my liking.
“You see, Don Augusta sent us to teach his son a lesson, and seeing as you’re his little plaything Daddy doesn’t want causing any more distractions, that means we’re just getting started with you. ”
Doing my best to observe my surroundings from the limited position I’m in, I search for something that might help me—a weapon of any sort.
But all I see is the rubber floor of a dark van, one bench seat stretching across the side wall I’m looking at.
I cry out in pain as the pressure increases on my wrists and neck as the man leans in, then a shiver crawls down my spine as hot breath washes across my earlobe.
“Maybe we should start by breaking in your pretty little holes. What do you say?” he murmurs. His breath smells like day-old grappa and halitosis, and my stomach churns, ready to revolt. “See just how much cock you can take.”
Another dark chuckle from somewhere to my right, but I can’t see who it belongs to with my head wrenched to the side. “I doubt he’ll want her after we’re done with her,” the man says.
An image of Gio flashes behind my eyes, so vivid, I feel like I could reach out and touch him.
And as the men’s voices grow more argumentative, I lash out, fighting back with all my might to get back to the man I love.
Then, blinding pain explodes through my head, and with a violent jerk, I sit bolt upright in bed.
Raking in ragged breaths, I press my palm to my racing heart, trying to keep it from bursting as I break into a cold sweat.
“Hey, you’re okay.” Gio’s deep, calming voice grounds me as he sits up beside me, and a second later, his strong arms are pulling me close, protecting me.
I lean into him, burying my face against his chest, but I don’t cry this time.
As macabre as it might sound, I think I’m starting to get used to the nightmares.
Because while in my waking hours, I’ve never been happier, my dreams are getting progressively worse.
I can’t figure out why—except maybe now that I’ve put a real man’s face to the shadowed figure that starred in my steamy dreams, my subconscious seems to have moved on.
And I’m starting to wonder if it might not be trying to process a lost memory—maybe even the one leading up to my amnesia.
Like the recurring spicy dreams I was having before Gio came into my life, it’s the same voices every time.
But in my nightmare, the sounds, the smells, the setting remain completely consistent.
The same terrifying action happens every time—several men grabbing me and pulling me into a dark van, their hands rough and groping as they force me into submission.
At least, with the repetition, I’ve found that the details have been coming into better focus with each reoccurrence of the nightmare.
But then, that only makes it feel more real, more terrifying.
Because the words are the same every time as well, the men’s threats of what they might do to me, their taunting glee at the prospect that whoever he is will no longer want me once they’re through with me.
The very acute sense of fear and helplessness feels more real than anything.
Then the blinding pain in my head that jolts me awake.
It leaves me with a headache that throbs beneath my scar for hours afterward, sometimes even into the early afternoon.
“Jane,” Gio says, his voice kind, soft, yet authoritative. “It’s not getting better. You need to deal with whatever is going on for you.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, just as my traitorous body sends a violent shiver up my spine.
With a heavy sigh, Gio tucks my head beneath his chin and runs his fingers through my short locks in a calm, soothing gesture.
“I don’t like that the nightmares are getting more frequent.
And if you really weren’t having them before, it seems like that means your subconscious might be trying to tell you something,” he presses.
My heart sinks.
He’s not wrong.
I’ve been starting to think the same thing.
But facing the nightmare when I’m awake makes it feel too real.
What if it is, in fact, a memory?
The possibility frightens me more than I’d like to admit.
“I wish you would talk about it,” he murmurs, his hands warm and inviting as they slide softly across my skin in a comforting caress.
“With a friend if not with me—or a therapist if it’s something you don’t want to talk about with someone you know—but it’s killing me to see how badly it frightens you.
And in the morning, you’re waking up exhausted.
This is the fifth night in a row that you’ve startled awake.
It’s getting worse, and I don’t think avoiding it is helping. ”
My heart squeezes at the concern in his tone.
I feel bad enough that I know I wake him every time the nightmare returns—but knowing that it’s weighing on him this much intensifies the guilt. “You’re right,” I agree, my voice barely above a whisper.
But I don’t have friends to share my bad dreams with, and I don’t particularly like the idea of talking to a therapist, spilling my secrets to a complete stranger.
Still, it feels vulnerable to think about voicing the horrible things those men say to me in my sleep—even to Gio.
With a deep, shuddering breath, I try to steady my nerves, and I keep my cheek pressed against his chest so I don’t have to see his reaction to my dream.
“It doesn’t always start the same,” I say, my voice quavering despite my best efforts to control it, and Gio’s arms tighten around me reassuringly, his hands pausing their soft strokes as if he’s rapt with attention.
“Most of the time, it starts with you,” I whisper, and Gio tenses.
“I’m in this nightmare?” he asks, pain and anxiety lacing his tone.
“Just at the start—before it gets bad. We’re…
leaving a restaurant or something, and you’re teasing me about something—not wanting me to go.
We kiss, and it feels so real, I can almost taste it, but at the same time, it almost doesn’t make sense—why we’re there, why I have to go.
” I frown, trying to recall if any of my nightmares have given me an explanation to that.
But I’ve got nothing, and after a moment’s silence, I shake my head, my cheek nuzzling against Gio’s collarbone.
“Then what?” Gio breathes, his chest so still, I wonder if he’s stopped breathing.
“I’m standing by the curb, and I hear you shout something, but when I turn, all I see is this horrified look on your face.
And then this van comes flying up behind me.
These guys grab me, pulling me inside.” My heart starts to race again, my mouth dry as I relive the moment viscerally—even with my eyes wide open.
“They’re… rough with me, forcing me onto the floor of the van, and when I struggle, they just hurt me more. ”
A lone tear slips from my eye, and Gio cups my face, the pad of his thumb lightly brushing it away.
But he doesn’t speak—as if he’s worried anything he says might cut my story short.
“It’s… terrifying,” I whisper, my body starting to tremble uncontrollably as cold adrenaline surges through my veins.
“They taunt me, telling me that someone named Don Augusta sent them to teach his son a lesson—that I’m too much of a distraction—and that they’re just getting started with me.
They…” My breath catches, and when I try to continue, a sob rips from me instead.
“Shh,” Gio soothes. “You’re okay. You’re safe with me,” he whispers, his strong arms holding me in one piece.
I nod, wiping impatiently at the tears that stream down my face now, then rake in another stuttering breath.
“They threaten to rape me… and laugh about how—” I cut off, unable to finish my sentence, because now that I’m awake, I realize the “he” they were referring to would have to be Gio from my dream.
He’s who I’m with at the start of the dream—and they want to ruin me so he wouldn’t want to touch me again after they’re finished with me.
The realization is too horrible and revolting for me to say, and I know I can’t finish the sentence.
Because what if it really is a memory?
Even if it wasn’t actually Gio I was with at the time, knowing what those men could have done to me might change the way he sees me.
When it comes down to it, I think that’s why I was afraid to tell him about the nightmare at all.
Because I don’t know if it’s real or not, and either it’s a sick part of my subconscious trying to tell me something, or someone—some men—violated me.
Again, I shake my head and jump tracks. “They start to argue about something, and I use the distraction to try to escape. That’s when I get this pain in my head that wakes me.”
I reach for my head, my fingers brushing the scar that’s hidden beneath my hair, and I trace it lightly.
Then, as the silence stretches between us, I finally find the courage to look up and meet Gio’s horror-filled eyes.
And my stomach drops as I realize how pale he’s gotten.