Chapter 36
“Hold her up, Karson. She’s weighing down the straps and I can’t get them undone.”
“Boss said she’s not to be injured further. I don’t know where to fucking grab her to follow orders.”
“Anywhere, fuck. Just don’t make any new injuries.”
Loud voices pull me from the blackness. Someone’s arms wrap around my cold, naked body, tightening to support my weight, and the scream I release is ear-splitting.
Abruptly, I’m dropped, as the man holding me covers his ears.
My one hand slips free of its binding, crashing down to hang limply at my side, as the other still-confined wrist takes the entirety of my dead weight.
Something dislodges—popping internally as pain fires anew.
“Fuck. Shit. Karson! I thought you had her!”
My outcry of agony dissolves into a whimper as my eyes open. Sea glass irises look down upon me. “I need to lift you, can you contain your screaming?”
I offer a shaky nod, curling my lips over my teeth and biting down. Hoping the pain in my mouth will distract from the throbbing aches everywhere else.
It doesn’t.
“I think she fucked up her wrist.” The beefy one with the crew cut and tear drop tattoo says. I recognize him immediately, he’s the reason I’m in here.
It’s in me to interject. Complain that my semiconscious ass didn’t drop myself, he did. But I’m too fucking overwhelmed to speak.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Karson snaps. Together, he and I look up. My wrist is bent—stretched somewhat unnaturally as it hangs. He lifts me higher, taking more weight off my injury.
“Hurry Rylan, get her down.” He can’t like me very much after our first meeting, so I suppose he’s enjoying this.
The ginormous man at my back works quickly. “Don’t let her arm drop,” Karson directs, but Rylan isn’t quick enough to comply. My limb slams down against my hip, forcing a muffled scream as I fight to keep my lips shut.
“Does she need a doctor?” Maximus’s voice coolly calls out. Not from the crackling speaker this time, but from the doorway, shocking the three of us.
Rylan lifts my arm carefully, face contorting with concern the longer he examines it. “Hard to say how bad it is without an x-ray.”
Maximus sweeps into the room, feet scuffing through the dried pool of blood. “Let me see.” Rylan scurries out of the way, and Maximus gently takes my hand in his, like a handshake. “Hold tight, Karson.”
My eyes shoot to his aqua green ones, as his hold on me becomes crushing. He’s not dressed in the usual uniform today, unlike Rylan who’s every bit the dutiful guard. He looks like any happy-go-lucky island dweller, ready to grab a board and hit the crashing surf.
“Get her a bit.” Maximus snaps, other hand wrapping firmly around my forearm. Behind me, the clanking of Rylan’s belt is loud. He whips it free of the loops, causing cool air to move across my skin.
“Open up,” he says, coming over my shoulder.
I hesitate, knowing but still terrified of what comes next.
“I’d listen, Rose.” Karson’s hold loosens slightly, becoming more of a comfort.
Reluctantly, my mouth drops open.
Rylan places his folded leather belt between my teeth, holding it with a hand on either side of my head.
Without warning, Maximus yanks on my hand as Karson crushes me to him once more. “Don’t scream, bite down.” He grunts, trying to control my agonized writhing.
Rylan pulls back on the belt, controlling me like a wild mare that refuses to be broken.
Though I burn with the desire to fight, withstand, overcome…it’s too much. I feel like I’m coming apart from the torture.
Maximus twists my hand back and forth, fingers of his free hand pushing and directing the inner carpels of my wrist.
Shadows curtain the corners of my vision, and my body begins to droop, head lolling to the side.
“Boss, she’s blacking out.”
“Let her, this will be easier without her tensing up.”
Roughly, he jerks my hand toward him again, pulling me out of the darkness.
His other hand firmly holds my arm still.
There’s a quick twist, followed by an uncomfortable clunk beneath my skin.
Then Maximus is pressing against my hand, pushing it back toward my arm. Forcing everything back into place.
“Rylan, you’re the least dishevelled, go get the specialized first aid kit and meet us in the infirmary.”
“Yes, sir.” He slides his belt from my mouth, and I listen to the sound of his retreating footsteps between my panting breaths.
“Sorry we left you so long, doll.” Maximus tries to brush the hair back from my face, however, it’s caked in blood and stuck in place. “But Rylan demanded penance for you embarrassing him.” I knew he disliked me. I wonder if he regrets his decision after seeing the soiled state I was left in.
I nod, because honestly, what the fuck do I say to that? He’s not fucking sorry. He watched me endlessly. The clicking of the camera lens giving him away, and little green light illuminating the darkness like a taunt.
“How long?” I rasp, trying to get my feet firmly under me.
“Any longer and you could have died from lack of water.”
Well, that could be three to five days if he doesn’t know Sam came to visit.
“Even with what Samuel snuck to you.”
Oh. Never mind then. Probably closer to five.
It doesn’t feel like that long, and knowing I was unresponsive for almost all of it makes me both thankful and unsettled.
“Karson?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Please deliver her to the infirmary, I’ll be along shortly. I’m going to visit her sister first.”
Karson’s body tenses against mine. His hold on me tightening.
“You’re going to see Chelsea? She’s still here?” I rasp more desperately than I’d like.
“Yes. I need to go ensure Bradley hasn’t found his way to her again.”
I muster up the strength to say, “Thank you.” I know it’s what he’s waiting for, and I’ll willingly say whatever he wants to hear as long as I get out of this damp fucking prison cell.
“Don’t thank me yet, doll face.” His piercing gaze accesses me, nose twitching as my repulsive state works him over. “Get moving, Karson. I want her showered before I return.”
“Yes, boss.”
Maximus turns, leaving Karson and I alone.
“Can you stand?” he asks, eyes soft and warm.
“I think so.”
He places me gently on my feet, releasing me slowly. My head swims, body slightly swaying, as dizziness wavers my vision. Faintly, I’m aware of the expanse of tanned skin appearing before me, sandy hair pushed back off his brow by the backward baseball cap.
“Arms up,” he directs, light grey shirt dangling from his fingers. I pierce him with a sharp glare. After hanging by them for countless hours, my arms are useless lead weights at my side.
“Unless,” he adds, voice dipping low, “you’d rather I carry you through half of Bleakcrest with nothing to shield you but your pride.” His mouth curves, the tiniest smile waiting to break free. “Or would you like at least a little of your dignity preserved?”
If he only knew what I’ve been through, and how little of my dignity remains.
Slowly, I start to move my arms to the front of my body.
“Thought so,” he snips back. “Just lift them a little, I’ll do the rest.”
His warm shirt moves across my skin, coming down over me and swamping my frame. It’s sporadically stained with both my old and fresh blood, smelling like vanilla, citrus, and the brine of the ocean.
It smells like him.
It smells like Chelsea.
Karson eyes me warily, my vision becoming crystal clear. I swear if this rough-handed motherfucker hurt my sister, I’ll make him regret it. She’s always been so strong, so protective. It’s about time I return the gesture.
My body floods with renewed energy, and I know he feels it as he sweeps me off my feet. “Not now,” he whispers.
I wince as water rips open old wounds. It lashes at my skin, washing away filth and soggy scabs.
“I’m sorry, but this needs to be as clean as possible before you can be stitched up.” Karson’s hands glide gently across my back, loosening up the carnage.
“What’s the point? It’s been so long the wounds have mostly closed,” I retort.
“Yeah, but some are infected. They’ll need to be reopened and cleaned properly before any suturing can be done.”
Dark water runs down my legs, swirling around my toes before heading into the drain. “What colour was your hair before they dyed it?” Karson asks.
“Red…scarlet,” I choke, watching the combination of dyes mix in my cupped hands. Sam did a thorough job, but the red still peeks through in some spots. I’m sure I look like a walking corpse with a shitty dye job.
“I can’t imagine that’s your natural colour. Are you blonde like your sister?”
His face remains passive, like we’re old friends casually chatting over tea. In reality, he just reawakened my desire to throttle him. Knock him so hard he falls back and cracks his head on the tile. But I won’t get the answers I seek that way.
“No, my hair is brown.”
“Mmm,” he murmurs.
I’m sick of this small talk. He told me to wait. I’ve been patient enough. “Wha—“
“Do you need help washing your hair?”
Obviously, my wrist doesn’t fucking work and my arms are useless.
“Yes, please.” I reply, not needing it to get back to Maximus that I was ungrateful.
Slowly, he turns and starts unlacing his high-tops. One by one he kicks them off.
Heaving in a deep breath, he schools his features. It’s like he’s amping himself up for something. But what’s so fucking terrible about washing my hair? Of all the things I can imagine he’s had to do, this seems pretty low on the shit list.
Huffing, his hands drop to his belt. Moving quickly, he undoes it, dropping his zipper and pushing his black shorts down his legs.
“Woah—“
“Shhh,” he whisper-snaps.
Fluidly, he moves into the shrinking shower with me. He’s still got his boxer-briefs on, but they leave nothing to the imagination once they’re soaked.
Karson clears his throat, and I die of mortification.
He did not just catch me sizing up his package. I’m tired. Delirious. Barely conscious.
“Turn around,” he coos.
What a fucker.
Reaching over me, he grabs the shampoo, squeezing some onto his palm. His strong fingers start to massage it into my scalp. Working from top to bottom, he spreads the suds.
“Your sister’s as safe as she can be,” he whispers so close his lips brush my ear.
“How—“
“Turn.”
I comply, facing him again.
“Tilt your head back.”
Methodically, he rinses the lather from my hair.
Karson swaps the shampoo bottle for conditioner. “Turn around.” Squirting a healthy amount directly onto my head, he works in silence, spreading the creamy softness from root to tip.
My hair is heavy and saturated when he starts to soap up the cloth. Working it in gentle circles across my abused skin. How he knows to let the conditioner sit on the hair, I don’t know, but I’m not about to complain. Between the salt water and blood, I’m lucky my hair isn’t breaking apart.
I keep waiting for him to say something else, to provide me with some small morsel of information related to Chelsea. He doesn’t. He stays silent, focusing on his task to clean me up like his master instructed.
“How do you know she’s safe?” I say as quietly as I can while still making sure he can hear me over the water.
“I just know,” he growls low, looking up at me as he scrubs between my toes.
Karson averts his gaze as he returns to his task, taking careful consideration to look anywhere but my chest or between my thighs. He makes it apparent to anyone watching that he isn’t aroused by me in the slightest.
The longer I observe him, I realize he doesn’t unnecessarily touch me. He doesn’t brush his dick up against me, doesn’t cop a feel, not so much as a slip up. Fuck, he’s not even hard. Not that I’m complaining. But it’s odd, given where I am and what I expected.
Passing me the now stained cloth, Karson lets me wash my own intimate areas. Not even a courtesy Sam extended to me. Someone who claims to care about me.
It hits me like a freight train then.
“You care about her, don’t you?” I rush out on a quiet breath.
Every muscle in Karson’s body goes rigid, eyes turning icy instead of balmy. “No. I don’t.”
His response and body language are two sides of the same warring coin. Admitting he cares for something in this place is the same as spraying a neon orange target on its back.
“Mmm,” I mumble, imitating him from before.
“Turn,” he snaps loudly, rising to his feet.
The rest of the process is silent. I stew in his words. Chelsea is safe, and he’s doing what he can to keep it that way. It’s why he smells of her perfume, even after a few days. Maybe she’s been offered small prizes for compliance.
Without a doubt, my sister would request that perfume, it’s been her signature scent since she was fifteen.
It would remind her of home, of me, and the birthday when I gifted it to her.
The one where I slammed her face into the cake, thoroughly embarrassing her in front of all her friends.
In retaliation, she pushed me into the pool fully dressed.
Back when we were as happy as we could be, given the circumstances.
The memory burns and throbs, like a bee’s stinger stuck beneath my skin, pumping its venom into me by attached pulsing entrails.
How did we end up here?
Is it my fault?