Chapter 7

SEVEN

Laura

A n odd little tug at my chest made me squirm in bed, my soft sheets bunching beneath my sticky skin.

Why was I so hot?

A sharp piercing sensation jolted me out of that plane between sleeping and awake, my eyes snapping open as a curse died in my raspy throat.

A dryness filled my mouth, and my tongue lay swollen and sore against my teeth. Inhaling made my lungs burn as I stared at an unfamiliar wooden ceiling. The panelling was in a soft, smooth-looking oak that made my brain stutter.

The same strange tugging sensation had me looking down at my chest, where a set of calloused hands pressed a needle into my bare flesh. Panic ripped through me, and I tried to roll away from the dark pair of eyes focused on my face.

Rough rope secured both my wrists and ankles to the bed.

‘Let me go,' I croaked as the events at my home came crashing back into my mind. The fire. The blood. The masked man.

His lower face remained covered by a stretchy cloth mask emblazoned with that same phoenix emblem, but the heavy gas mask was gone.

He didn't answer my plea. With a forceful hand on my ribcage, he pinned me to the bed and resumed his stitching at a hole in my chest.

‘Please, take me to a hospital. You need to let me go to the police. He killed my family.'

Each sharp pierce of the needle took my breath away as the man ignored me entirely, focusing only on the neat little stitches that knitted my flesh back together. When I attempted to pull away, he gave me a pointed look with those inky brown eyes and dug his fingertips harder into my ribs.

It took a few moments for the reality of my situation to hit me. My cheeks flamed at the lack of my clothing. He must have removed my dress, leaving me in nothing but a pair of panties. I tensed my fists, feeling the ropes tighten at the movement, anger flooding me to replace the shame my near nakedness brought.

It's so he can stitch you.

I hoped the little voice inside my head was right.

He's trying to help.

Idiot. Helping me would have been calling an ambulance, not stitching me like a sock that needed darning.

Closing my eyes to hide from his intense gaze, I took a slow breath. If he'd intended to kill me, he wouldn't be trying to help me.

But maybe that was worse. If he didn't want to kill me, what was his intention ?

He had to be one of Massimo's associates, and Massimo tried to kill me. My family were all dead. No-one would be looking for me.

There was no saviour on the horizon. Once I thought Massimo was one, but instead he'd ripped my world to shreds.

A tear trickled down over my cheeks as the memory of my family's bodies sparked into my mind. Mum's perfect white dining room soaked in scarlet and burning to a crisp. They were far from perfect, but they'd been all I had known.

The pain in my chest continued as I willed myself not to flinch. I wouldn't give the insane masked fucker the chance to enjoy it.

Eventually, he stopped. A finger turned my face toward his, and reluctantly, I opened my eyes. He held up a washcloth and a tub of soapy water, before pressing the warm, wet cloth over my wound.

The intimacy of the touch made my stomach turn, and his dark eyes watched every movement I made as he continued to clean the blood and dirt from my skin. The tenderness almost made it worse, each stroke of the warm cloth felt good, loving, like I was precious. From someone I wanted, it would have made me feel cherished, but from the man who had kidnapped me? It disgusted me.

Turning my face from him, I let my mind go elsewhere, trying my damndest to pretend the psycho washing me didn't exist.

I had no idea how long I had been out of it, or where I was.

The room was modest but plushly decorated in rich polished woods and cream leather. My brows creased as I noted the small, circular windows, and nothing but blue outside.

The motion around us struck with such clarity that it took my breath away. We were on a boat.

My pulse thundered at the realisation my situation was even more dire than I'd thought. Not only had the man taken me, but how on earth could I hope to escape?

If I even survived his makeshift nursing.

Fuck.

Maybe death would be a kinder end.

A tap on my cheek had me turning my head slowly back to him. He was holding out a bottle of clear liquid for me.

Antiseptic.

He undid the cap and placed it above my left breast, his fingers lightly trembling at the proximity to my nipple.

His other hand moved up to slide into my fingers, grasping them. I couldn't pull away with the way I remained tied, so I had little choice but to let him hold my hand.

Then he poured.

A sob tore from my throat as the antiseptic burned like acid against my crudely stitched wound. His eyebrows furrowed when I writhed against the bed, trying to escape the blazing sensation. His fingers squeezed mine, and I returned the action, forcing my pain in through my grip and onto him.

He let me.

Placing the bottle down, he wiped the excess from my skin before disentangling his fingers from mine.

‘Who are you?' I asked, my voice weak.

Rising to his feet, he just looked at me before shaking his head.

‘Please, just a name?'

Nothing.

He covered me with a soft blanket before heading out of the room, leaving me to sob on the gently bobbing bed.

I should have been getting married.

Instead, a masked man had tied me to his bed, on a boat, probably in the middle of the sea. My family was dead. My life, gone.

Death would be a blessing.