Page 17 of Don't Hate Me

Without another word or even looking back at me, he sighs heavily and closes the door behind him.

I stare down at my hands, trembling so violently that my vision blurs. I feel so damn sick, and sweat drips down my forehead. I swipe it away, trying to swallow down the nausea rising. I drop to my knees on the soft plush rug, grabbing for the trash can as I empty the contents of my stomach. Over and over again until I’m dry heaving, hugging the bin close to stop myself from falling to the ground.

Outside of the room I hear their muffled voices, talking not far from the door.

“Is it broken?” Orlando asks.

“Hard to say without X-rays, there could be a fracture. You really should get her to the mainland if you can,” the doctor answers him. They sound close, too close. That’s why he wasn’t going to help me, there is more going on here.

“We both know that’s not an option, Doc,” Orlando replies. “What do I do to take care of her. I knew she was going to be hard to manage, but she’s more difficult than I thought. Yesterday she threatened me with a butter knife.”

“She also just begged me to get her out of here and threatened me when I didn’t comply with helping her. If you want her to stop freaking the hell out, you need to get her back on her medication. If she doesn’t take them, her nervous system basically goes into overdrive constantly. She will experience an elevated heart rate, dizziness, even blackouts, especially under stress. Without the meds, her body reacts like it’s in constant danger, even if it’s not. She will keep running from you, and she’s never going to trust you. She won’t be able to think clearly or focus. I will leave this bottle of pills with you. We both know what she means to you. If you’re really doing this for her like you say you are, do the right thing, boss. The poor girl is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

I sit back on my ass, leaning my back into the sofa for support. That’s why I’m freaking the fuck out. On top of this pressure cooker of a situation, I need my anxiety pills.

Their voices muffle out to nothing, and I’m left alone staring at my shaking hands. I slump all the way down to the plush rug, pulling my knees up to my chest, hugging them as I rock back and forth. My head feeling too heavy to keep up another second.

It’s not too long before the door opens, Orlando’s eyes coming to mine. “Fuck, Sloane.” He shakes his head when he finds me curled up on the floor. He moves quickly, scooping me up in his arms carefully. “What the fuck am I going to do with you?” he asks like he really doesn’t know.

I stare up at him, his face too kind for the man I know him to be. For the man who hurt me. “You did this to me. You made me this way.”

“I know,” he agrees, his voice a low murmur, heavy with shame.

He carries me to a powder room and sits me on the countertop, handing me a warm washcloth to clean up my face. My cheeks glow with embarrassment. I can’t believe I just vomited up my breakfast in his den. I scrub the washcloth over my face, the warmth bringing me back to life ever so slightly.

He then fills a glass of water and hands it to me.

I take a slow sip. When I’m done, he offers me his hand to help me back up to standing.

“You need to eat so I can give you your medication,” he says, wrapping his arms around my shoulders so he can help me through the house.

I let him, too weak to fight him anymore. There is also the offer of my pills and that in itself is worth complying for. I heard what the doctor said. I fucking need them.

He leads me into the industrial kitchen. It’s massive and showy, but there is no sign of staff, even though I knowthey must be around here someplace. There is a large pot of something cooking on the stove, it smells like tomato soup, rich and garlicy. He leaves me leaning against the counter as he moves to the fridge where he takes out a plate filled with little sandwiches cut into triangles, placing it on the counter in front of me. “Eat,” he demands.

I watch him. He looks tense, more so than usual, and I wonder what is going through his head after that conversation with the doctor. Is he feeling guilty for locking me up without my meds? Or is it that I’m hurt because of him? I’m not sure if he’s capable of that kind of compassion. But something is worrying him.

I take up a triangle. It looks to be egg salad and smells delicious. I take a bite, the flavor filling my mouth, the kick of mustard a pleasant surprise. I eat the whole thing, then go back for seconds. “Can I have my pills now?” I ask when I’m done.

From his pants pocket, he produces a bottle, his eyes scanning me as he does. “If anyone else tried the shit you did this morning, begging the doctor to get you out of here, telling him I kidnapped you, they would be dead already. You know that, right? I run my organization on trust, and right now, I can’t trust you, Sloane.”

“I can’t trust you either, so I guess that makes us even.” My body stiffens. Is he not going to give them to me after all? He holds the bottle, and I stare at it, waiting for him to hand it over. “Why won’t you kill me?”

His eyes lock with mine. “You’re my atonement,” he grumbles like it’s a noose around his neck. Then he hands me the pills and pours me a glass of ice-cold water.

I tip two into my hand and throw them back with the water before he can change his mind, blinking back at him when I’m done. “I don’t understand.”

His head drops, and I can feel the pain he carries around with him. “I should have died when your guard shot me. I shouldn’tstill be here.” He touches his chest where the bullet got him. “Fate had other ideas for me.”

“How did you survive?” I whisper, desperate to know. When Onyx and I got out of that room, I thought he was dead for sure. I had nightmares about it for years after, still feeling the weight of his body pressing down on me.

His eyes meet mine, and it’s as if he’s looking right into my soul. “I was left for dead, bleeding out in the back alleyway of your club. Abandoned by my own family, the family I had sacrificed everything for, including my own brother, to do right by.” He sucks in a labored breath, his shoulders dropping. “A good Samaritan found me and took me to the hospital. He was a doctor and made sure I got the help necessary to survive. My asshole father left me with nothing, no way of being linked back to him or tying him to the horror show he orchestrated in your family club that night. The police declared me as John Doe.” His eyes meet mine again, and they’re filled with so much pain. “Don’t you get it, treasure? You gave me a fresh start. An escape from the dictator that was controlling my life. You changed my life, and every day since, I have tried to be a better person because I got my second chance.”

I suck in a breath, pain radiating through my chest for him. For what he also lost that night. How could a father leave his own son for dead? “Why did you kidnap me then?”

“You saved me from my papa, and now I’ll save you from yours.”

My eyes go wide, everything all of a sudden making sense. “You’re serious.”