Mr. E’s hands on her throat. The impending meeting with the buyer. Her phone.
She snapped her eyes open and met the fathomless green of the boy’s gaze.
His hands skimmed heat along her back beneath the blanket, his thumb tracing the length of her spine. “Good morning.” His voice was raspy, relaxed. “Or afternoon. Or whenever it is.”
Her stomach told her it was afternoon. She pushed against the cotton covering his shoulders. He was dressed, and by the scratchy feel of her skin against his jeans, she wasn’t wearing a damned thing.
He watched her closely, his hypnotic eyes and sensual mouth producing a tremor through her aching body. She struggled to drag her attention away from the masculine lines of his chiseled face, the thick mess of black hair, the defined cheekbones. The sudden and intense longing to be cared for by him filled her with dangerous hope. She would address that—all of that—as soon as she gathered her strength.
She pushed again to sit, but the hands on her back held her in place with gentle determination.
“Easy. How are you feeling?”
Her whole fucking body hammered like the aftermath of one of Van’s training sessions when she was a slave.
She reached up, flinching as her fingers met the lump beneath her hair. “Let me go.” Her command came out hoarse and thready, blazing more pain through her throat.
“Nope.” Holding her with an unyielding arm, he reached to the floor and lifted a glass of water to her mouth.
He let her arch up enough to tilt her head back. The first gulp over-flexed the bruised muscles in her throat, reigniting the burn. She continued to drink, scanning the room. “Where’s my phone?”
He studied her, eyebrows shifting downward. “Why?”
Mom and Mattie. If Mr. E wanted to further punish her for the previous night, he’d give her the news in a text. A sinking feeling pulled on her insides. “My phone. Please.” His gaze narrowed. Yeah, her tone was desperate. She was begging. “Please?”
He set the glass on the floor, and his hand returned with the phone. He held it out of reach, watching her with those compelling pale-green eyes. “If I give this to you, will you talk with me? Let me help you?”
If he intended to take advantage of her vulnerable state and force her to talk, he would likely succeed. But there was no manipulation in the wrinkles that worried his chiseled face. His drawn eyebrows and the supportive way his arm rested against her back wasn’t rooted in coercion. He seemed content with simply comforting her.
Her heart contracted, massaging an unfamiliar sensation through her chest. For the first time in seven years, someone held her in a nonsexual way. She didn’t know what to do with that, so she nodded, unbalanced.
The phone dropped into her outstretched hand. He could pluck it away as soon as she unlocked it. And why wouldn’t he?
He let his head rest on the pillow, studying her, and touched a tentative finger to her scarred cheek. His concerned gaze as he stroked the raised line of flesh told her escape wasn’t at the forefront of his thoughts. Another thing she’d need to examine. Later.
She angled the screen away and tapped in the code.
Seventy-eight texts from Van. Nothing from Mr. E. She released a lungful of air.
He grabbed her wrist and jerked the screen toward his face. Her breath caught as she pressed the power button, locking the phone.
“What the fuck?” She let the phone drop from her hand, her molars grinding. “Don’t I feel stupid for trusting you.”
He released her hand and narrowed his eyes. “Now you know how I felt when I’d learned the person I’d helped was a sex trafficker.”
Ouch. She deserved that. Remembering her own capture magnified her shame, stirred an old ache inside her, and shoved her self-loathing to the surface. “I already know that feeling.”
Though her words were whispered, he flinched as if she’d shouted. Their eyes locked and a long look suspended between them. Then his expression hardened. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Not for the first time, she wanted to confide in him. For five days, she longed to expose her arrangement, with the hope that he’d understand her position, and trust he wouldn’t use it against her. She’d never burdened a captive with the truth of her situation, at least, not while they were bound in her chains.
Her composure was wrecked, and his perceptive eyes seemed to capture every crumble and twist of her face. She needed to toughen up, put on her best mask. The scary part was she didn’t want to wear one with him.
His features softened. Even when frowning, his lips formed a serene curve. “Okay, Liv. I’m going to let that sit for a minute.” He blew out a breath. “First, I wasn’t trying to steal your phone. You’re not exactly forthcoming, and I need to know what you’re not telling me. Second, why did that bastard text you seventy-eight times?”
“He’s probably worried.” Or horny.
“Really? He let the friggin’ door shut while you were bleeding and unconscious on the floor.” His nostrils flared at her flinch. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble. “Look, I don’t know what your relationship is with him—”
“There’s no relationship.” She let her heavy head fall to his chest. The protection of his body was a persuasion she couldn’t resist with her mind as fuzzy and achy as it was. He felt like the safest place on Earth.
“Have you told him that?” His voice vibrated through her, powerful, dependable.
She should’ve been punishing his disobedient ass, whipping him into the shape of a dutiful, cock-sucking slave. Even if the thought wasn’t so ludicrous, she had neither the energy nor the will to hurt him. “Let me just lie here a minute.”
“Thank you, God,” he murmured as his fingers combed through her hair, not coiling and yanking, just soothing the strands and stimulating the roots along her scalp. “How much pain are you in?”
“I’ll manage.” Every inch of her bare skin relished the support of his warm musculature. She brushed a hand down his ribs, hooked a finger around the belt loop of his jeans, and yanked it hard enough to pinch his balls with the pull of denim. “Why am I naked?”
A deep noise strangled in his throat. “Your sprayed-on leotard was constricting your breathing.” He bent his knees, and she settled snuggly in the cage of his hard thighs, chest to chest. “Don’t think it’s passed my notice that I’m supposed to be the slave, yet you’re the one lying here battered and troubled.”
The beat of her blood accelerated.
“I’m just going to talk through this and hope that you’ll fill in the gaps.” He stroked her hair. “I’ve tried to figure out why I need to consent to do things with Van.” His caressing paused and began again. “Van doesn’t hit me, hasn’t raped me, but he wants to. What’s his deal?”
She tightened her hand on his waistband. “The buyer wants the appearance of a willing slave. One who desires a man despite his innate heterosexuality. If Van raped you, that outcome wouldn’t be achieved.”
He laughed, coarsely. “Thank God for that. So, that’s a requirement?”
“Requirement one. Slave has never experienced sexual intimacy with a woman. Slave is heterosexual but hates women. He desires only his Master.”
A soft chuckle rumbled through his chest. “I could never hate women.” He wrapped his arms around her. “Nor can I hate you.”
His tender embrace made her heart thump against her ribs. The backs of her eyes burned with the kind of ache she hadn’t felt in a long time. Swear to God, if she cried over a hug, she’d never regain her position with him.
His lips touched the crown of her head and retreated. “If you fail to deliver a slave as prescribed…” His silence stretched for so long, she raised her head and found him staring down at her. “Mr. E will kill you?”