4. Alexis

4

Adull throbbing pounds behind my eyes as I slowly regain consciousness. My mouth is as dry as a desert, my tongue feeling like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.

I blink slowly, finally managing to crack my eyelids open a slit. Moonlight pours through white curtains, bathing an unfamiliar room in a soft glow. This isn't my room. My heart rate spikes as I take in my strange surroundings.

Cream colored walls with framed landscape photos. An ornate wooden dresser on one wall. Rumpled navy sheets tangled around my legs.

Panic seizes me as I struggle to figure out how I ended up here. I try to push myself upright, but a searing pain rips through my head, forcing me back onto the pillows with a muffled groan.

I'm still wearing that stupid dress and it's hiked all the way to my waist, exposing my ass. My cheeks burn. I hope that happened while I was unconscious in bed. I couldn't bear the thought of whoever rescued me seeing me in such an indecent state.

But, where am I?

Fragmented memories start stitching themselves back together. Emma and Mark having sex… the Carters wanting to sell me to some Brotherhood organization… being locked in the basement… escaping and being attacked as gunfire rang out. The feeling of someone pushing me before the ground swallowed me whole. Then blackness.

I swallow as I lift a leaden arm to cautiously probe at my head. There's a large, raised lump at the crown of my head. I hiss at the blossom of pain from the slightest touch.

Okay, so I have a head injury.

I must have been kidnapped after falling unconscious. I can't believe I've been abducted again, but this time, there's no Dennis Carter to save me.

Fear grips my chest as I struggle to stamp down my hysteria. I take deep breaths, trying to calm myself down. I need to look at this situation logically as soon as my muddled mind allows me to do so.

This can't be a kidnapping situation because I seem to be reasonably safe, tucked in a bed and by myself in a room.

But I need to get out of here. Wherever "here" is. Sucking in a sharp breath, I push myself upright, fighting back nausea as the room spins violently. My bare feet sink into the plush cream carpet, and I clutch the edge of the nightstand for support.

My eyes land on the door across the room. My first thought is to bolt through it and figure out the rest later. But what if I end up stumbling right into another dangerous situation? I nibble my lip anxiously as I debate my options.

With a resigned sigh, I realize I need more information before I can make any hasty decisions. Steadying myself, I start poking around the bedroom, keeping an ear pricked for any sounds beyond the door.

I rifle through the top drawers of the wooden dresser, freezing when my fingers brush against a woman's fitted shirt. So this is at least a woman's bedroom. Or at least a woman lives here. At least that's mildly reassuring. I withdraw my hand, frustrated that I am not able to unearth any other clues about whose room this is.

Muffled voices drift down the hallway outside the door. I hold my breath, ears straining.

"You have her locked in the guest room?" a female voice asks, dismay evident in her tone.

"Where else was I supposed to put her?" a male voice replies, sounding annoyed.

"A hospital! Anywhere but here!"

A beat of silence, then the male voice replies, "We can't take her to a fucking hospital, Nat. I couldn't leave her there. She would have been killed. Or worse."

There's harsh laughter. "Oh, so now you're playing the hero, Damian? Good job. You got your brownie points. Now get her out of here."

"Nat's right, Damian," a third voice states, the tone gruff. "Dump her at the hospital. From that nasty lump on her head, she'll probably be in a concussion for a while and won't ever know she was here."

"No, I think she'll stay right here."

I flinch as I hear something slam against the wall. "Why the fuck are you being so obtuse?" the woman snarls.

"We know nothing about her and why she was being held by the Invicta soldier. We should question her first before I decide what to do with her."

"That's stupid, Damian," says the third voice.

There's a heavy pause, and even I take a step back at the venom in the second man's voice. "What did you call me?"

"Don't apologize, Edo," the woman says sharply. "He's right, Damian. Ditch the bitch."

"I'll be the judge of that," the second voice retorts.

Heavy footsteps begin approaching the door, unhurried but purposeful. My throat grows dry as the sound grows nearer. I glance around wildly, looking for any weapon I can use to protect myself. I do a double-take as I notice a wooden baseball bat leaning against the wall by the window.

I lunge for the bat just as the door handle slowly turns and opens. Clutching it in my arms, I raise it above my head, my hands shaking.

In the doorway stand two men and a woman. The woman is striking with shoulder-length black hair and bangs framing large brown eyes that are currently narrowed in my direction. Standing next to her is an imposing, incredibly tall man with a thick, tree-trunk neck and shoulders so broad they seem to span the entire doorway. His massive chest strains against the seams of his white button-up shirt, seemingly ready to burst the fibers at any moment.

But it's the man standing in front of the others that makes my heart skip a beat.

It's the handsome man from the bakery. But he looks far scarier now with the scowl on his face, his dark eyes fixed on me.

"Put the bat down," he orders, his voice a rich baritone.

I shake my head, refusing to listen. I'm not sure what's gotten into me as I would have had no problem doing so if Mark or the Carters asked me.

"Put. It. Down," the man snaps, taking one menacing step toward me.

I only grip the bat tighter, my body starting to shake from terror. I've never been the athletic type, but it wouldn't be that difficult to swing the bat at him. Although I'm not sure what to do about the two people still standing at the door. The huge man looks like he could eat me for breakfast, and I'm not about to underestimate the woman.

In the blink of an eye, the handsome man rushes forward, snatches the bat from me, and breaks it clean across his muscular knee. I squeak in fear, my feet frozen to the ground.

"What's your name?" he asks, tossing the baseball bat pieces away from him.

"Where am I?" I whisper.

"No," the handsome man says, his gaze unwavering and intense. "That's not how this is going to work. I ask a question and you answer it. Let's start again. What is your name?"

I swallow hard, my throat constricting with fear. Every instinct is telling me to remain silent, to guard what little privacy I have left.

"I don't want to say," I reply, my voice meek and small.

In a flash, the man is in my face, making me flinch. "That's not an option," he growls. "You don't get to decide what information you share."

My heart pounds in my chest as he leans closer, his face mere inches from mine. I can smell the mint of his breath, and can see the anger in his eyes.

"Now," he says, his voice dangerously low. "Your name."

I open my mouth, but no words come out. Fear has rendered me mute, paralyzed by the threat of his escalating aggression. This is not the same man who tipped Daniela, Julia, and I twenty dollars earlier today.

The man's jaw tightens, and he grabs my arms in a vise-like grip. I whimper involuntarily as his fingers dig into my flesh.

"Damian," the man in the doorway says, his voice full of warning, but the handsome man—Damian—ignores him.

"I'm not going to ask you again," he hisses. "Give me your fucking name."

Tears sting my eyes. "A–Alexis," I stammer out, my voice trembling. "My name is Alexis."

Damian releases his grip, a satisfied smirk spreading across his handsome face. "See?" he says mockingly. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

I say nothing, my body trembling with a potent mixture of fear and shame. I have surrendered my identity to this stranger, and at this moment, I feel powerless.

"I'm Damian. And to answer your question, you're at my house. Now that those pleasantries are done, what were you doing with an Invicta soldier?"

Who?

My confusion must be evident on my face because Damian rolls his eyes. "You were held at gunpoint earlier," he says. "By an Invicta gang member. Why was he after you?"

"I–I don't know," I whisper, still scared from Damian's question about my name. I rub my arms self-consciously, painfully aware of the dress I'm wearing. Shame burns at my cheeks and I struggle to hold back tears.

Damian cocks his head to the side, dark eyes studying me. "You don't know?" he repeats.

I shake my head furiously, ignoring the wave of pain from doing so. "No."

He circles me, like a predator stalking its prey. "See, I don't believe that, Alexis. You mean to tell me you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time in a neighborhood run by Invicta?" He scoffs, pausing and shaking his head. "Can you see why I don't believe you?"

I don't even know what he's talking about. I don't know who Invicta is and I don't understand what he means when he says the neighborhood is ‘run by Invicta'.

"Do you know The Brotherhood?"

I stiffen. Mark indicated that he was planning on selling me to them, but I know next to nothing about them other than their name. "No, I don't."

"So." Damian resumes his circling. "Either you're lying to me—which I highly advise you don't do—or you're a hooker and it was a date gone wrong." He glances at my dress, his eyes lingering on my bare legs.

I gape at him. White-hot anger suddenly courses through me. Before I can stop myself, my open palm connects with Damian's cheek in a resounding slap. "I am not a prostitute!" I nearly shriek. "How dare you!"

He stumbles back, and when he looks up at me, there's anger flashing in those dark eyes of his that promise retribution.

"Damian!" the woman calls out urgently, seeing the severity of this situation.

I shrink back, my impulsive act suddenly weighing heavily on me. What was I thinking, assaulting this stranger like that? Especially a stranger who has me in his house and has enough strength to break a baseball bat in half?

Damian turns to the door where the woman and man are. "Leave us," he says dangerously.

"But—"

"Now."

The two exchange looks, and I want to shout for them to please stay, but I'm incapable of doing so. Instead, I watch helplessly as the woman and man close the door, their footsteps fading away.

Damian whirls around toward me, a hand raised in the air. The scene is all too familiar to me, and I flinch, my heart pounding.

"P–Please, don't hit me," I plead, tears springing to my eyes. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hit you. It was an accident. I?—"

Damian pauses, his hand still in the air, a mixture of anger and confusion on his face. "Hit you? I wasn't about to hit you!"

Staring at him warily, I gesture to his upraised hand. He tracks my movement, and I can see realization wash over him. His tense shoulders loosen and he lowers his hand to his side.

Relief pours through me as I realize I'm not about to be hit again. I close my eyes and breathe out a sigh.

When I open my eyes again, there's a different look on Damian's face as he studies me. It's then that I realize he's staring at the bruise on my cheek from Mark's initial hit.

"Where did you get that?" Damian asks, his voice much gentler than I'm used to.

My mouth dries and I flinch as Damian takes another step toward me. He holds his hands up in surrender.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

"I don't know you," I whisper, backing away from him.

"You're Alexis and I'm Damian," he points out. "See? Now we know each other."

"That's not how this works," I say as I wrap my arms around myself. Damian's eyes fall on the bruises on my arms and his eyes narrow.

"Look, it's clear you're injured, and pretty badly at that," Damian says. "I just want to make sure you're okay."

His personality change is about to give me whiplash. One moment, he's demanding to know my name and breaking a baseball bat, and the other, he's trying to figure out how I'm doing.

"Then why don't you take me to the hospital, like your friends suggested?"

A dark look crosses his face, and I immediately regret my words. He didn't want me to overhear his conversation and I just sold myself out.

"I–I?—"

"Can I look at your injuries?" Damian asks again, the tension leaving his body.

Biting my lip, I wrestle with my thoughts. He's a walking contradiction. Damian's a stranger, but I can tell he's being sincere about my injuries. He nearly assaulted me when I wouldn't tell him my name, but he also rescued me from being kidnapped. He can break a baseball bat, but he also tips food workers twenty dollars.

My own feelings surprise me. I feel grateful to this strange man for not leaving me on the streets where I probably would have been found by Mark or the Carters.

Is this Stockholm Syndrome?

"Well?" Damian presses.

I nod jerkily, slowly letting my arms fall back to my sides. "Okay," I whisper.

As Damian closes the distance between us, I feel my stomach drop in the same way it did on roller coaster rides. His cologne envelopes me in what feels like a warm hug, and my stomach twists in nerves.

His fingers are light as they touch my face, and my eyes flutter closed. I hiss as he pokes at a particularly tender spot on my cheek, but I also feel warmth and fire, too.

"Who hurt you?" Damian asks, his voice low. "These bruises aren't from Invicta." His hands slide down my face. "I'm going to turn you around to check out your back."

"Okay," I whisper again.

I feel intensely vulnerable, but also, somehow comfortable. This makes no sense. Mark never made me feel this way.

Damian's hands are warm as they press against my back. I flinch at a rush of pain on my left side.

"You have a huge bruise by your ribs," Damian says, his hands stilling at that spot. "That's also not from the Invicta soldier. Looks like you were thrown around. I'm going to ask you one more time. Who hurt you?"

Goosebumps erupt along my skin, my stomach swirling with a warmth that trails further down my body, a tingling wetness I'm not accustomed to. It's an uncomfortable feeling, so I step away from Damian's magnetic pull.

I don't want to tell Damian who it is, but I don't think he will allow me to evade the question.