Page 97 of Flashback for the Forward

Groaning, I went to lift my right hand to cradle my aching head, only to be halted after about three or four inches by something sharp biting into my wrist. When I tried again—harder this time—I didn’t make any more progress than before, and there was a metallic rattling noise.

What the hell?

As weak as I was, it took effort to lift my heavy eyelids. When I finally got them cracked open, my vision swam, a wave of dizziness washing over me, so I let them fall shut again.

“You’re awake,” a vaguely familiar male voice rumbled from somewhere nearby.

My brain hurt trying to place where I knew it from.

“Who’s there?” Throat dry, I could barely get the croaked words out.

“I’m disappointed you don’t remember me,” the man said. “Because I’ll never be able to forget the man who decided to make my wife his whore.”

I gasped, and my eyes sprang open. There, in the corner of what I could only assume was a hospital room, sat the motherfucker who’d not only put his hands on Bridget, but he’d left marks.

Fuck, Bridget.

“Where is she?” I seethed.

Aiden picked at an imaginary piece of lint on his police uniform. “That’s really none of your concern.”

“The hell it’s not!” The attempt at a roar sent a searing flash of fire along my esophagus, and I began to cough violently.

I went to sit up and realized I couldn’t. A peek down revealed why. My left arm was immobilized in plaster from my wrist to mid-bicep, bent at the elbow. And my right . . . Well, that was shackled to the gurney with a pair of gleaming silver handcuffs.

“Like your new jewelry?” he taunted, smug.

I pulled at my cuffed arm hard enough that the metal broke the skin and a line of blood trickled down my forearm. “If there’s anyone who should be in handcuffs, it’s you,” I spat.

“That’s not how me or my colleague see it.” An evil smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Are you saying they’ll turn a blind eye to a guy who beats his girlfriend”—I put emphasis on that word so he’d know he was full of shit about Bridget being his wife—“and put an innocent man behind bars because he’s the one who knows how to cherish and protect her?” I scoffed. “Is the department that corrupt?”

“It has nothing to do with corruption, and everything to do with you touching something that belonged to me.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to announce that if we were going by that logic, she was rightfully mine, since I was the one who took her virginity. But I was smart enough not to poke the bear.

“All right,” I said calmly. “What am I being charged with, then?”

With an evil gleam in his eyes, he replied, “Kidnapping.”

I barked out a laugh. “Kidnapping? Good luck getting Bridget to corroborate that story.”

“She’ll do whatever the fuck I tell her if she knows what’s good for her,” Aiden growled.

“Sure. Sounds like a great plan,” I remarked. “When all she has to do is open her mouth on the witness stand to blow your whole story to smithereens and get rid of you permanently.”

He pursed his lips. “You know what? You’re right.” Face transforming, a mask of concern fell into place, with a voice to match. “Bridget will be much too distressed by this harrowing experience to provide testimony. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t prioritize her mental health?”

Damn, I had to admit he was convincing. Too bad I already knew he was a manipulative bastard.

He approached my bedside, portraying an air of authority, as he said, “Cole Astor, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Bridget Russell.”

Then he began reading me my Miranda Rights.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

A fist hit me square in the jaw, the metallic tang of blood bursting across my tongue.