Page 12 of Brutal Truths

But they won’t move. Not even a twitch. Nothing but dead weight.

A sharp spike of panic overtakes me as the piece of shit opens the door and looks at me with lust in his eyes. He runs a hand up my inner thigh, over my scrubs. But then the other man, his voice a low growl, mutters a few harsh words, bringing his assault to a halt.

Leaning in, he injects me with more of whatever drug Marty gave me before leaving me with these shitheads.

Okay, not completely true.

The piece of shit must decide he needs one more cheap feel. As his hand glides down me, the slow deliberate pace causes my skin to crawl. Rage flares, sharp and useless when I can’t even move.

Then he notices specks of blood. He hesitates and pulls his hand back, disgust on his face.

A shaky breath leaves me, part relief, part anger. Guess he’s not a fan of blood.

I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Marty betrayed me. Out of all my guards, he’s the last one I would’ve suspected. The one I trusted the most.

The realization sits heavy in my chest, twisting tighter the more I think about it. I guess the saying is right about the wolf in sheep’s clothing being able to fool you if you let him.

The drug hits faster this time, flooding my system before I can even brace for it. My thoughts tangle, slipping through my fingers. I should be worried about what that means, about how much they’ve given me, but I don’t get that far.

Darkness takes over again.

The next time I wake, my head pounds with a pain so intense from the pressure behind my eyes it threatens to shatter my skull. When I force my eyes open, the light blinds me and it knocks me right back out.

I do that three, maybe four times. At least, that’s how many I remember. Who knows if I’ve done it more? It all blurs together—pain, light, darkness.

My head still aches like a bitch, but at least it’s not blinding. My eyes are sensitive, forcing me to squint while I check out my surroundings.

Nothing looks familiar. Not that I expected it to. A musty odor hangs in the air, suggesting the room’s been vacant for a while.

When I try to sit up, it’s then I realize my arms aren’t just heavy but tightly bound above my head. Not together, but separately. And not so tight that I feel it in my shoulders, but enough to make them useless.

A sudden wave of panic washes over me, but I suppress it before it takes over.

When I look down at my legs, a sigh of relief settles in. They’re free, meaning I can use them to help push myself up into a sitting position. It will take a great deal of effort, but I need to sit up.

Bending my knees, I bring my feet up to my arse and push as hard as I can against the mattress. Wiggling and straining until I finally inch my way up into a seated position.

It’s not comfortable. My arms are being pulled at an odd angle now. The tight restraints on my wrists dig in as I struggle to free myself. The material is rough—too rough—and every movement makes it worse.

They’re going to leave marks. I can already feel it. A painful, fiery sensation spreads across my skin, every scrape almost unbearable.

I still, breathing through it, forcing myself to figure this out. No one is taking these off. Not unless it suits them.

Exhausted from those simple moves, I lean my head against the headboard and rest my eyes. I must fall asleep, because when I open them again, the tingling in my arms feels like needles stabbing into my skin.

Instinct has me pulling them toward me, and to my surprise, they come without resistance.

My eyes open wider, heart hammering against my ribs, panic clawing at my throat as I roll onto my side, searching the room like a madwoman.

The air seems to vibrate with the sound of a deep voice, its timbre both powerful and commanding. “You looked uncomfortable, so I removed your restraints.”

Whipping my head toward the voice causes it to spin with agony. “Fuck.”

“Take a deep breath. The drugs should wear off in another few hours,” he tells me, his voice a low, familiar rumble. “I heard you tried to run from my men. Shame on you.”

That voice… I’ve heard it before. The memory—just out of reach.

“Fuck you.” The words come out, not loud, but edged with enough bite to make it clear what I think of his little stunt. “Do you know who I am? When my brother hears about what you’ve done, he’ll come for you.”