Deliver (19 page)

It would be so much easier to help the girls if he were free. Even if the operation vanished, detectives could track it.

Why was he even debating this? Would he seriously choose the woman who’d been beating him over his parents’ happiness?

But he couldn’t protect Liv if he left. She was as much a victim as he was. His head swam. He couldn’t protect her in chains, either.

He dressed, and with each piece of clothing covering his skin, he felt more hopeful, more anxious. He watched her expression as he tied his boots, wishing she’d look at him and give him some sign she understood. He wasn’t abandoning her. He was going to get help. He was going to save her, dammit.

Clothed and trembling, he waited at her side while she punched in the code. Was this really happening? He was wearing his clothes. They were letting him go home. Mom and Dad’s joyous faces filled his vision and spread through his chest. He was going home.

The door opened. Mr. E and Van exited first. When Liv stepped through to follow, Mr. E pivoted, grabbed her throat with two hands, and shoved her back against the door jamb. Her mouth gaped, gulping without sound, hands clawing at the ones on her neck.

Josh leapt forward, pulse racing, a roar bellowing from his chest. “You’re choking her.” He tried to break the grip, yanking on unmovable wrists.

The barrel of a gun moved into his vision. Van jerked it at his face. “Move back. All the way into the room.”

Liv stretched her jaw, her eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking down her red face.

“Let her go.” Josh’s heart thundered, his voice thick with spit. “You’re going to kill her.”

“Step. Back.” Van’s tone was steady, but his eyes shifted rapidly between Mr. E and Liv, as if warring with whose side he was on.

Oh God, she couldn’t breathe. He was going to choke her to death. Josh shuffled back, hands in the air.

With a violent heave, Mr. E slammed her head into the jamb and tossed her limp body onto the floor at Josh’s feet.

Josh dropped to his knees and put his ear over her chest, then her mouth. Unconscious, she lay listless, her breaths labored. He didn’t know CPR, had no medical training. What was he supposed to do?

Van lowered the gun, his muscles flexing, his teeth bared, but he made no move to help.

“You’re not going home, boy.” Mr. E clutched the door handle. “You were never going home.”

Deep down, he knew it. Didn’t stop the pain from splintering his chest. He turned her head and followed the river of blood to the cut on her scalp. Head wounds bled a lot, right? Did she need stitches? “She needs a doctor.”

“She needs to do her job. You meet your future Master in two days. If you want her to live, you’ll kiss him with ardor and skill. You’ll grab your ankles if he wants to test drive your ass. You’ll be fucking willing and obedient.”

The door slammed shut, shaking loose the last forgiving piece of Josh’s heart and replacing it with a sharp-edged thirst for blood. Mr. E and Van seemed to be using her in the most vicious way. Maybe she could outsmart them, but she wouldn’t need to do it alone.

As he carried her to the vanity to search for a medical kit, he glared at the door. God was neither hot tempered nor did He rush to judgment. Josh could be patient, but when the time came and God delivered those bastards before him, he would defeat them. He would utterly destroy them.

Something warm and hard and decidedly alive lay beneath Liv’s body, coaxing her awake. Her throat throbbed, and a pounding ache fired through her skull. She was face down with her cheek on a brick chest of muscle, which could only belong to the boy. She tried moving her arms, dragging them along with her thoughts from the comfort of oblivion.

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?”

A swallow hung in her raw throat. “Worse.”

His face twisted. “What’s worse than death?”

Mom always said if she could confront the wind at 10,000 feet, she could confront anything. But falling out of the sky felt a fuck of a lot safer than exposing her awful, selfish truth. “Ask yourself that question.”

He stared at her with such intensity she closed her eyes against it. He was the only person who had ever tried to peek beneath her masks, and damn her, she wanted him to find what he was searching for. After a long moment, he rolled her off his chest with gentle arms and settled her on her side. Then he sprang from the bed.

She shifted to sit with her back against the wall, pulling the blanket around her chest. As he paced through the room, the contraction of his tense body captivated her.

Powerful legs stretched the denim of his low-waist jeans. His biceps flexed as he ran his fingers through cropped strands of his black hair. “Who is he threatening? Your parents? A husband?” He stopped at the mattress, fists on his hips. With the agitation straining the tight fabric of his t-shirt, the hard line of his lips, and his eyes sharply focused, there was no way he could pass as a boy. In fact, he looked like a man prepared to take on the world. Especially when he shouted, “Who, Liv?”

Why did she feel so compelled to open up to him? She pressed her fist to her lips, stifling the song that suddenly and violently ripped through her mind. He wouldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t use her fears against her. Drawing a deep breath, she swallowed her panic and whispered, “My mom.”

In the next breath, he was kneeling beside her, holding her hands in his. “Your mom?”

She pressed her back to the wall, her hands sweating and shoulders stiff. “And my daughter.” She kept her eyes on his, but her voice was so small she was sure he didn’t hear her nor did she want him to. She would’ve done the world a favor if she’d died giving birth. But her body had recovered, just like it always did. A fucking curse she couldn’t bring herself to end.