Page 7

Chapter Seven

W hen I next regain consciousness, I’m in a strange room, laying on a mattress on the floor, with a light, clean sheet draped over me. Sunlight streams through a high set window in the wall to my right. I automatically try to sit up, but nausea quickly overwhelms me, and I abort the attempt without really getting anywhere, closing my eyes as I sink back onto the soft mattress. The gun fight comes rushing back to me and my eyes fly open again, I wildly look around, but there’s no one in the room with me and exhaustion is pulling me back under already, I guess if I’m not dead yet, it can’t hurt to catch a bit more sleep…

***

The next time I wake it’s to the sound of masculine voices. I keep my breathing even and my eyes closed as I try to pretend I’m still asleep while I listen in.

“Are you sure she’s doing ok, Nate? She looks way too pale.” I recognize the deep rumbling as the voice from the tiny town shoot out, the one who argued to take me with them.

“Well, she lost a lot of blood, man, and honestly, she wasn’t in the best condition before she got shot. It’s going to take some time. She’s just skin and bone, wounds like hers take a lot of energy that I doubt she has.” That was the other voice from before, the honeyed, Texas drawl guy.

“Bloody hell, I wonder what happened to her? Those guys were itching to rip her apart. I think I heard them say she killed a guy?” That’s the first guy rumbling again, he sounds kind of angry about the whole thing. His voice is coming from above me to the right, while the honey voiced guy was located above me to my left, near my wounded shoulder.

“Why don’t we let her tell us what happened?” a new voice speaks up, this one is a gravelly, dark voice, his words silky smooth, “seeing as she’s been awake and listening to you two for some time now…” Sprung! My eyes fly open and I grab automatically for my blades strapped to my thighs, instead I meet only skin and my left arm flares with pain so bad I end up rolling to the right and dry retching.

“Damn, girl settle down! You’re gunna ruin my stitches!” honey voice is telling me, using a tone I haven’t heard since my mother last scolded me for not putting away the dishes.

I draw a couple of steadying breaths and look up at the body that belongs to the rumbling voice on my right. Hells bells, the man is built. He towers over me, he has to be well over six foot with a broad chest and shoulders that make him look like he wrestles bears for a living, or maybe throws thunderbolts from the heavens for fun. Or both. His face is ruggedly handsome and with his dirty blond hair, beard and stormy grey eyes he looks like he just stepped out of a Mills and Boon wild, mountain man romance novel. Except that his hair is cut army style short, and his beard is closely trimmed to his strong jaw. He shoots me a small, uncomfortable smile and a little hand wave, like maybe I’m the first girl he’s kidnapped and brought to a strange place and he doesn’t know quite how to feel about it. I can’t comprehend why my brain tells me that’s cute. The main part in that sentence is kidnapped, brain. Keep it together please. I chide myself as I pick my jaw up off the floor and roll onto my back to get a glimpse of the other guys in the room, only to find my space immediately invaded by a rough cut, shaggy, blond head as it bends over my wound.

“You didn’t damage them, thank God. These are some of my best work, you know” says the honey voiced man, Nate, the other guy said his name was Nate, as he looks up at me with eyes as blue as the Caribbean seas. Dear god, I’m waxing lyrical about my kidnappers eyes! I’ve lost it. It’s official. I snap my gaze away from his apparently brain melting eyes and study the rest of his features quickly. His face is slightly more rounded than the thunderbolt gods and for some ridiculous reason he reminds me of a slightly nerdy Viking warrior. When he stands, he’s just as tall as his friend, with a slightly thinner build (emphasize the slightly). Where the first guy has muscles on muscles and is near bursting out of his shirt, this guy has a leaner build. He looks athletic and chiseled at the same time. He looks like a damn Norse god of literature or something.

Ookaay, you need to get yourself together girl, just because they haven’t hurt you yet doesn’t mean they won’t, time to stop drooling and start pretending you are not desperately checking them out! With my brilliant pep talk ringing in my head I rip my eyes from the Viking, Nate, and search out the final voice of the trio. Well, dang. My mind goes utterly blank after that, as I study the man standing at the foot of my makeshift bed. The shortest of the three, he’s still going to be able to tower over me, his dark hair is cut roughly, close to his head, just like the first guys. His face is all hard planes and sharp angles that give him an unreal type of beauty. It’s the type of beauty you see in sculptures of old gods; you know the really, cruelly beautiful ones. The ones that like to smite people just for daring to look at their perfect faces. His eyes are a deep chocolate brown that nearly looks black, even this close, and his frame is built like he was made solely for the purpose of female worship. Broad shoulders and narrow hips, every part of him is certainly packed with an unholy amount if muscle. Lordy, where did these guys come from?

I realize they are all staring at me expectantly and I figure I should probably thank them for stitching me up, but instead what comes out is “Where are my weapons? Who the fuck are you people?” okay, cool, guess we need to work on our manners.

“I think a simple ‘thank you’ might be a more appropriate response.” Growls the guy standing at the foot of my bed, I think I hear a touch of Southern in his voice as his lifts one imperious eyebrow.

I flinch a little, expecting more of a reprimand for my harshly spoken first words. I quickly roll my good shoulder in as far as I can and turn so he can’t get easy access to my ruined arm. I watch dark and gloomy’s eyes narrow at me and I decide to be nice for a bit, at least until I can figure out if I’m a prisoner or worse. I cast my eyes to the ground and mumble a quick explanation for my outburst. “I’m sorry, it’s not that I’m not grateful, I am, really… I think. I just don’t know who you guys are. People don’t help other people for no reason. And I think you saved my life. So why? Why would you help me?” I hold my breath and wait to see how they all react to my small stand in sticking to my original question.

“ I didn’t help you, those two did” snaps the dark-haired brooder, gesturing, I suppose, at the two guys behind me, but I can’t take my eyes off him, my instincts are telling me he’s the biggest threat, not them “they brought you back here because you were in need of help that we could provide.” The last part is said somewhat softer, probably due to the fact that I may have flinched slightly at his starting tone. But who knows, I’m too busy trying to figure out what he just said and if he means his offer of help. And if I can accept it. Do I have much of a choice? My arm is ruined and I have no way to defend myself while I heal.

“There are still good people out there, Lady” this comment comes from thunderbolt thrower, and it’s delivered in a much nicer tone than his friend was using. I gingerly turn towards him as he continues “We couldn’t just let you die out there. Not without giving you a chance to explain yourself anyway. My names Chase, by the way. That there’s the good doctor, Nate” he gestures to the blond man who has retreated into the corner of the room, apparently content to watch the proceedings. “And that grumpy ass there is our fearless leader, Hunter.” With this he gestures to the man at the foot of the bed, who is, in fact, wearing a seriously pissed off expression. Great.

There’s a strained, expectant pause and I wonder what they are waiting for. Your name you idiot, that’s what normal people do when someone introduces themselves, they respond with their name.

“My names La- Angela, Angie. My names Angie.” I blurt out in a rush. Then I kind of wish someone would shoot me again because I sound like an idiot. I’m abruptly done talking to these guys while laying on my back and letting them loom over me. I start to struggle into a sitting position and two large, gentle hands immediately help to lift me. I can’t help the tension that locks me in place when the hands touch me, my heart rate picks up and my breathing hitches in fear. Before I can do anything rash, though, the hands are snatched swiftly away, and I’m left feeling embarrassed about my near panic attack. Ridiculously, I hope they didn’t notice. I don’t want them to know how broken I am. It’s a weakness.

It’s only once I’ve controlled my breathing and can risk looking up at them again that I realize none of them are even looking at me. Apparently, there’s something super interesting on the ceiling. I look up, too, but I don’t see anything.

“Angie. Your, um, your sheet slipped…” the giant Chase says in an uncomfortable, strained voice.

“What does it matter if the sheet… oh. Oh ! Wait. What? Where the fuck are my CLOTHES?!” That last bit might have come out as a screech, as I pull the sheet up to cover my mostly naked body, because I’m immediately ‘Shushed’ by three masculine voices. I don’t care, the thought of someone ever touching me again without my permission has me feeling like I might vomit. I feel the blood drain from my face as I start to shake uncontrollably.

“Calm down, please, it’s not what you think. Your clothes were filthy and covered in fresh blood, we had to throw them away because we needed to travel through the forest, we didn’t want the dead to smell you.” Chase says in a low soothing voice, while keeping his eyes fixed to the ceiling. Looks like he’s the designated ‘deal with the crazy lady’s meltdowns’ support guy. “We found clean clothes for you, and we brought up a bucket of water” he gestures to the bucket of water in the corner “so you can wash your things and your wounds…”

All of a sudden, it’s all too much and his voice trails off as the room starts to spin around me and blackness creeps into my vision.

I’m staring at the wash bucket. But it’s not the bucket in the brightly lit room I was just in. I’m staring at the wash buckets of the toilet block where I killed Ben. I never made it out. It’s so dark in here, so silent. The only thing I can see is the buckets. The silence presses down on my chest making it hard to breathe. Something is leaking from one of the buckets and I take a hesitant step toward it, then another, until I’m standing over the dark liquid. I watch as it sluggishly seeps from a hole in the bottom. Wait. Water shouldn’t be sluggish. The smell of blood overpowers me, then, and I gag. There’s blood in the bucket. Why? Where am I? A sound from behind me has me spinning around and I stumble a little in the blood. I peer into the gloom, trying to find the source of the sound. It sounds like rasping breathing; I realize with horror. I can do nothing but watch, my limbs locked in place, as the reanimated corpse of Ben drags itself slowly into the light. With every step he becomes more solid, moving easier and faster until he stands in front of me.

“La- ceyyy” his voice hisses around me and I watch in horrified fascination as his slit throat moves with the word. I can’t move, I’m trapped, nowhere to go and no weapons. Defenseless. Again. I start to cry as he reaches a dead hand up to caress my face…

I jerk away from the hand caressing me, falling from my mattress with a hiss, like a feral cat. I crouch, scrambling for weapons I don’t have. It takes a moment for the soft, gentle murmuring to reach my ears, and I wildly search out the source of the comfort, needing something to ground myself. My gaze collides with dark chocolate-colored irises, crouched at my level, only inches away. Shock leaves me momentarily immobile as Hunter continues his nonsensical comforting in a soft, smooth voice. He doesn’t move an inch as my gaze stays locked on him while I frantically try to corral my thoughts as the last vestiges of terror leave my body. Just a dream, Angie. I tell myself, just a dream, in the middle of the day during a conversation about why you are sitting in your underwear with three strange men. Nothing to panic about. He’s dead, truly dead. There’s no coming back for him. I have to repeat the dead part several times before I can breathe properly again. All the while staring into dark brown eyes that never leave mine.

As soon as I start to relax, though, Hunter stops his comforting murmurs and gets to his feet. Without another word he turns and walks out a door I didn’t notice. Everyone watches him go in silence. I have no idea what just happened.

I look to the two remaining guys, only to find that it’s just Nate and I. The Viking doctor gives me a small, sad smile. “You had a panic attack.” He states gently and, if I’m honest, a little unnecessarily “Are you ok? Do you want to talk about it?”

“No” absolutely not. “ I’m fine. Where’s Chase? Did I scream?” those two questions are the first things that pop into my head, so I blurt them out. “I’m sorry, I’ve never had a panic attack before.”

“It’s ok,” Nate’s voice is soothing and calm, and I abruptly realize I’m still crouched on the floor like a cornered animal. I straighten myself and pain dumps into my system again, I can’t stifle the groan that escapes me. Nate is next to me in the blink of an eye, helping me back to the bed with strong, gentle hands. “You might have screamed a bit, but it wasn’t too loud.” Nate answers my weird questions as he tucks the sheet back around me, “Chase, well I think he felt bad, like he caused your attack. He said he was going to kill something.” Oh, well that makes sense. I think. “Hunter must be going to check up on him” continues Nate with a slightly concerned look on his face as he glances at the door. It smooths out when he looks back at me and he continues in a brisk voice that I immediately dub his ‘doctor voice’. “You need to rest. You’ve way overtaxed yourself. No moving from this bed without my specific ok, do you hear me?”

I want to bristle at the command, I don’t take orders from anyone anymore, but, unfortunately my body and my mind disagree and I start to relax despite myself. Ugh.

“But I need to wash the blood off me” I meekly protest.

“Later. When you’ve rested. Now go to sleep, Trouble.” I grumble incoherently at the unfair nickname, but my body is already obeying him and I’m struggling to hold on to consciousness. I feel his warm fingers brush gently over my bruised face and I sigh, feeling ridiculously safe for the first time in a long, long time. They haven’t hurt me. They’re helping me. I’m allowed to be… me. For now.