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Paxtyn
I’m tied to a post, my hands crossed over my head, my fingers so numb I can’t feel them. It’s as if my hands were cut off, and sometimes I look up, straining to see them, make sure they’re still attached to my bleeding wrists.
Cable ties. That’s what they used. They’re slicing into my flesh, cutting deep. Maybe the blood flowing down my arms will be enough to kill me. End this.
But not yet, and he’s there, crouching in front of me, grinning like the devil, his teeth big and stained yellow with nicotine.
“Spread your legs for me, slut,” he slurs, alcohol lacing his breath. “Open up.” He rips my panties down my legs, pushes my skirt up. “Let’s see what we got here…”
Darkness. Pain. Ice-cold fear, and I thrash against my bonds, against his hold on me, screaming behind the gag.
I wake up thrashing on my bed, my breath coming in short gasps. Phantom pain haunts my hips, my wrists, my breasts, my face. Lifting my hand, I touch my cheek, expecting it to burn, to ache.
Nothing. Just a memory.
And I should know better than to nap in the afternoon on my sofa. I never sleep well that way, but I was tired.
I sit up, lean my head back, close my eyes.
Fact is, I can’t sleep well these days, period. Not even in my big, soft bed. Since that night at the hotel with Riot, the nightmares have gotten worse. They won’t let me sleep, won’t let me be. Taunting me. Wearing me down.
What can I do? I put my hands over my face, press the heels of my palms into my eyes. What else can I do?
Riot says he can help me. But he knows nothing about my fears. For him, I’m just another job, a paying client. Every appointment with me means money in his pocket.
That’s all this is for him. The proof? He came to the meeting, despite the way we parted the first time. He’s a professional. He can brush off the wrath and tears of irate women as long as they keep paying.
And yet...He seemed genuinely interested, and worried. Careful. Helpful.
Damn he’s good. I almost fell for it there, in my car, when he asked to hold my hand. I was horrified at myself, breaking apart, and he kept me together. Maybe that’s why I agreed to meet him again.
Someone’s knocking on my door, and I frown. Who can that be? A glance at the clock on the wall tells me it’s six PM.
Then I hear the key turning in the lock, and I jump to my feet even as I know who it is. The only person who has a key to my apartment.
The door swings open.
“Pax?” Corey peers into the dimness of the room, a frown on his handsome face. “Christ. There you are. What are you doing in the darkness?”
He flips the lights on, and I wince, covering my eyes. “Corey.”
“In the flesh.” He bows with a flourish. “At your service. I’m just checking if you went off and died on me, since you won’t return my calls or reply to my texts.”
Crap. “Sorry?”
“Are you?”
“A little.” I sigh. “Sorry I worried you.”
He shrugs off his long coat, throws it over a chair, then comes over to me and sits beside me on the sofa. “Okay. Tell everything to Uncle Corey. What happened?”
Corey is a handsome guy. He has his blond hair trimmed short with long sideburns, he has the most amazing green eyes, he’s tall and imposing and totally rocks the old-fashioned style he favors with his long gabardines and tailored pants.
He also likes boys, and the difference between us is that he isn’t afraid of men and sex. At all. I swear, he changes boyfriends like I change panties.
He’s also the sweetest friend ever, for checking up on me, and a mother hen. I bet that in the next few seconds he will freak out by my silence and start mothering me.
“I’m going to make you some tea,” he says right on cue, starting to get up. “And cookies. You look pale, and I don’t like it. You need some sugar in—”
