17. Eva
EVA
It’s another night in front of the camera. More punches, more cuts, and more questions I can’t answer.
My lips are swollen and split. Fresh cuts are covering my upper thighs, and my stomach hurts from being hit so many times.
Martin Cross is a fucking sadist.
He enjoys hurting me.
Every session ends the same way, with him jerking himself off and coming on my skin.
It’s disgusting and humiliating. That might not even be the worst thing he could do.
Violence excites him.
So does resistance.
But most of all, he likes making me feel small and worthless.
I won’t let him have that.
I feel pain.
Fear.
Disgust.
But I am not weak.
I keep telling myself that because it’s the only thing keeping me together.
I’ve lost track of how many days I’ve been here. Morning and night blur together.
The only way I know time is passing is by the two meals they bring me each day.
Everything else fades away in between.
When the door opens, I expect dinner delivery.
Instead, it’s him.
Hudson.
His face goes hard as soon as he sees me. He notices the swelling, the blood, and how I can barely stand.
And then there’s that sound again.
Low.
Rough.
Almost feral.
Maybe I should be terrified.
But with everything I’ve been through, fear barely registers anymore.
Hudson breathes slowly through his nose, as if he’s holding something back.
A long silence stretches between us before he says, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I stare at him because that’s the last thing I expected him to say.
He holds out a hand to help me up from the bed. I wince immediately; every movement’s painful.
I should hide it and act stronger, but I’m too tired to pretend.
He carries me through the hallway, past the guards, into a bathroom I haven’t seen before.
It’s bigger than I expected.
Clean.
Bright.
It feels painfully normal.
I brace for him to shove me under the showerhead like an animal being hosed down.
But he doesn’t.
He sets me on my feet and starts filling a big clawfoot tub with hot water.
“You need to get undressed,” he says. “Do you need help?”
I nod reluctantly.
I can barely lift my arms.
He makes a rough sound, then steps closer and takes off my bloodstained shirt and joggers.
I’m left shivering in plain white cotton panties.
I want to cover myself but lack the energy.
Blood runs from the cuts on my thighs, and bruises have spread across my ribs and stomach.
Hudson goes still when he sees them.
He tests the bathwater with one hand before holding the other out to me.
“Hopefully it’s not too hot.”
I look at his hand for a second before taking it.
Hudson helps me step into the tub, and I slide down into the warm water with a shaky breath.
It feels almost too good, soothing in a way that actually scares me.
He dabs gently at the cut on my lip, wiping away the blood before cleaning the rest of my face.
Then he wets my hair with the handheld sprayer and works shampoo through it, the scent of gardenia drifting through the steam.
The whole thing feels strangely intimate.
Not because he's touching me.
Because he treats me like I’m worth caring for.
And he doesn’t use my weakness as a reason to take advantage of me.
The washcloth glides along my neck, over my shoulders, beneath my arms, and across my back.
When it brushes between my thighs, my breath catches.
A sharp feeling twists in my stomach.
My eyes squeeze shut.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” I whisper.
His hand pauses.
Just for a second.
Then it moves again.
I can feel the tension in him now. His shoulders are stiff, and he’s breathing a little harder.
And somehow that only makes it worse.
Heat rushes through me, unwanted and humiliating.
Shame comes right after.
By the time Hudson helps me out of the tub, embarrassment has turned to anger.
Mostly at myself.
He wraps me in a thick white robe and pulls it closed carefully at my waist.
He's close.
Too close.
Close enough that touching him feels easy and dangerous.
The realization hits me.
I step back immediately.
Whatever this strange tenderness is, it does not belong here.
Not between us.
“Can you walk?”
I nod, so he guides me back through the hallways toward my room.
A petite woman, with dark hair pulled neatly back, rises from the chair near the table when we enter.
Hudson steps behind me and quietly shuts the door.
I stop just inside the room, suddenly aware of how exposed I am. I stand in only a robe, bruised, tired, and barely able to stand.
The woman studies me carefully.
“I’m Maya Patel,” she says. “I’m a physician.”
A doctor?
Here?
That surprises me so much I nearly forget to answer.
“Eva,” I say quietly.
“May I examine you?”
I glance back toward Hudson.
He’s standing near the door, broad enough to make the room feel smaller.
Maya notices immediately.
“Hudson,” she says calmly, her subtle Indian accent softening the edges of the words. “Would you mind waiting outside while I examine the patient?”
His mouth tightens, but he nods and steps out.
Maya gestures toward the bed.
“Lie down for me.”
I lower myself carefully onto the mattress.
My hands won’t stop trembling.
“Can you untie the robe?” Maya asks gently.
I nod, feeling extremely vulnerable. She could be another part of this nightmare.
Something in my expression must give me away because her face softens slightly.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says quietly. “Can you tell me where you’re injured?”
I swallow.
“My stomach,” I say. My voice sounds far away.
“My thighs too. My fingernail’s gone. My mouth. My head.”
I pause, trying to clear the fog in my mind.
“I think I might have had a concussion at some point. Honestly, I’ve lost track.”
Maya’s cool hands work through my damp hair, checking the back of my scalp.
I flinch when her fingers brush a tender spot.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, tilting my head gently.
She shines a penlight into my eyes before asking me to open my mouth.
The whole thing feels strangely normal.
For a moment, it feels like I’m in a real doctor’s office, not a mansion full of violent criminals.
Maya checks my ribs and collarbone next, then presses carefully along my abdomen.
Pain slices through me instantly.
I suck in a breath.
“Sorry,” she says again as her hands keep moving. “I need to check for internal damage.”
She presses once more before easing back.
“There’s swelling,” she says after a moment. “But I don’t think you’re bleeding internally.”
A brief wave of relief washes over me.
She examines the cuts across my stomach next, then the deeper ones along my thighs.
Her expression grows serious.
“Any sexual assault?” she asks quietly. “Do you need a pelvic exam?”
I shake my head immediately.
She relaxes a little.
“Hudson didn’t…”
“It wasn’t him,” I say quickly.
Maya nods, but the frown stays on her face.
“I’m going to clean the wounds properly and stitch the deeper cuts,” she says. “The antiseptic’s going to hurt.”
Great.
“I’ll leave antibiotics with Hudson. Twice a day. Keep the wounds clean and dry, and you should heal fine.”
If I’m even alive in a week.
I keep that thought to myself.
Maya moves efficiently after that, opening a medical bag I somehow hadn’t noticed earlier.
“Are you…” I hesitate. “Do you know Hudson well?”
“We’re not together,” she says calmly. “If that’s what you’re asking.”
My cheeks flush.
“I wasn’t.”
At least I don’t think so.
“Who is he to you?” I ask finally.
Maya ties off a stitch before answering.
“He’s…a private patron of my health clinic.”
“So you patch them up when things go bad.”
One eyebrow lifts slightly.
“Something like that.”
I watch her pack her medical tools away.
“Why bring you here?” I ask quietly. “I’m not part of the club. He’s made it pretty clear he plans to kill me eventually, so why help me at all?”
That finally gets a reaction from her.
“Hudson is a complicated man,” she says quietly. “I can’t speak for his intentions. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you,” I say after a moment. “For helping me.”
Maya gives me a small nod, but before she stands, her face turns serious again.
"Eva...are you sure you haven’t been sexually assaulted?" She asks cautiously.
I laugh bitterly.
“It’s definitely been implied,” I say. “But no.”
I hesitate.
“Unless forcing someone to watch while you masturbate and finishing on their injuries counts.”
Maya freezes.
Anger flashes across her face before she hides it and mutters something sharp under her breath I can’t catch.
“I need to know if Hudson did any of that to you.”
“He didn’t,” I say immediately, lifting a hand. “Scout’s honor.”
I pause.
“He’s not innocent.”
Maya nods just as the door opens behind her.
Hudson steps back into the room.
“How is she?” he asks.
Maya straightens, all business again.
“Internal swelling, but I don’t think there’s any bleeding,” she says. “Keep an eye on her for dizziness, vomiting, worsening pain. She needs rest.”
She picks up her bag.
“I’m leaving antibiotics with you. Twice a day.”
Her tone stays clipped.
Cold.
Like she’s angry just being in the same room with him.
A small, painful hope rises in me.
Maybe she’ll call the police after she leaves.
Maybe she’ll send someone.
Maybe—
Maya glances back at me before heading for the door.
“Be well, Eva.”
Her words hit me harder than I expect.
She and Hudson step into the hallway.
The door doesn’t close all the way, and I hear low voices through the gap before Hudson finally comes back in alone.
“Why did you bring her?” I ask quietly. “Why help me at all if you’re planning to kill me anyway?”
“I don’t know,” he says at last, and his honesty surprises me.
I’m exhausted and can barely hold myself upright anymore.
“You know who your father is, and what he does, right?” Hudson asks eventually.
I let out a weak laugh.
“That’s pretty self-righteous coming from someone who slit two men’s throats and kidnapped me.”
“The Trusted Saints is no different than The Iron Eagles.”
His voice turns flat.
“But your father ordered Baron Roybal to execute my mother.”
My breath catches.
“I’m not a good man, Eva Sorenson,” Hudson says. “I’m not better than Jonas. But he owes me blood.”
Now I finally get why he harbors the hatred.
This was never truly about me.
“I’m the blood he owes you,” I whisper.
A bitter laugh slips out.
“So what am I now? Entertainment for a psychopath who gets off on violence?”
Hudson says nothing.
His silence tells me everything.
“Well, I’d rather die, so just do it already.”
Hudson studies me for a long moment.
“Death would've been the easy part.”
“My father promised me to Baron. I’m supposed to marry him.”
“Marry that son of a bitch?” Hudson sounds like he might choke. “He’s, what, twice your age?”
“At least,” I answer.
I almost tell him I planned to let Baron overdose on our wedding night, but I stop myself.
Hudson Cross is not my friend. He’s not on my side. Whatever his reason for bringing the doctor, it’s probably not kindness.
So, I just add, “He’ll probably kill me himself, so either way, I’m dead.”
We stare at each other for a long time. I don’t know how I feel around him. I’m nervous, sometimes attracted, but there’s something else. I can’t figure it out. Everything feels confusing.
Finally, Hudson steps back toward the door.
“I leave with the team tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll be gone a week.”
“You play hockey?”
One corner of his mouth twitches faintly.
“Yeah.”
Suddenly, it all makes sense.
“The Reapers,” I murmur. “That’s why everyone here wears their merch.”
Then his expression hardens again.
“I asked Lucian to check on you while I’m gone,” he says. “But I can’t stop Martin from doing whatever he wants.”
A cold dread fills my chest.
“Lucian can’t stop him either.”
“So what?” I ask quietly. “Don’t die or do die? I’m not sure which outcome you want.”
His eyes hold mine.
“Me neither,” he says.
Then he leaves.
The door shuts behind him.
And I'm left alone with the terrifying realization that the man who wants me dead might be the only person in this house trying to keep me alive.