Page 4 of Dormeo

ROSE

“ S he’s unconscious. You’re not fucking someone who’s out cold.”

Those are the words, spoken in a velvety deep voice, that filter through my peaceful slumber and alert me to the fact that something is wrong. Very wrong.

A thick fog clouds my mind, and even though I feel well rested, a niggling sense of unease urges me to snap out of it. I’ve never been spoken about in such a way, not within earshot anyway, and I’m not used to overhearing such vulgar language.

I overheard my father cursing when I was passing his study late one night, and he’d had far too much whiskey with his best friend, but nobody who comes into our home would utter such profanities in front of a Lady.

No men, that is.

My younger sister has a penchant for causing chaos and will drop the odd swear word for shock value.

But now isn’t the time to worry about these men's words. I need to be more concerned about their actions.

I attempt to wiggle my fingers, relieved to find the heavy weight that seemed to be keeping my body pressed down isn’t real.

As my brain clears, I can gradually move a little more.

Curling my fingers, I feel cool satin slide underneath my fingertips.

The surface underneath is yielding. A mattress.

I’m in a bed, and a luxurious one at that. The mattress is like a cloud.

Drowsiness still tugs at me, and I struggle to shake it off. It’s tempting me back into the darkness of my mind, and the delightful, relaxing dreams that have kept me cosy and content.

And yet, that husky voice intrigues me, pulling me back to the surface. I want to see who that voice belongs to. Something about those words feels wrong. Searching, the memory slips through my fingers like water every time I try to grasp it.

What did he say again?

Something uncouth.

Are they talking about me? Am I’m the unconscious person someone wants to fuck?

It’s preposterous. Everyone knows I’m to be married to a gentleman of my father’s choosing, and that to cross him would mean certain death. I’ve seen enough staff and former friends disappear after some perceived slight to know that my father isn’t a man to be trifled with.

And that to him, maintaining my virtue, or resale value, as my sister likes to call it, is of paramount importance.

It takes all of my strength to force my eyes open the tiniest bit.

I struggle to make sense of what I’m seeing.

The bed is huge, an ornate four poster, made from a wood so dark that it’s almost black, but it’s located in a room unlike any I’ve ever seen.

The walls are smooth stone and there’s a sheen to them that reflects the flickering light cast by a roaring fire.

Iron torches secured to the walls glow making the room feel even warmer.

My legs refuse to cooperate with my efforts to sit upright, but I manage to lift my hands, maybe an inch, and I can twist my head ever so slightly to the side, allowing me to take in more of the vast space.

“Where am I?” I whisper. My words come out slurred, and I frown.

Am I ill? Is this some kind of healer’s chamber?

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to dredge up my last memory, but it’s all too fragmented to make up a clear picture of what’s happened.

I have a flashback of my father’s face, etched with deep regret. Then a vision of his guards gripping my arms, and the memory of pinched skin as I struggled against their hold. And then darkness.

Is that just a bad dream my mind has conjured up?

My father would never hurt me. Not out of love, but because I’m worth too much to him. Another asset for him to trade off when the time is right.

“Wakey, wakey, Sleeping Beauty.”

Flinching, I attempt to move away. That’s not the voice I like. This one is deep too, and with a harsh edge that has me shrinking back as far as I can.

Which isn’t much.

“Gaap, don’t.” The warning is quiet but carries with it the threat of violence.

I’m relieved to know I’m not alone with this man who seems to set all of my senses on high alert.

I can’t see anyone, but I can tell which direction their voices have come from. Even if they didn’t speak, I think I’d know; such is the power of their mere presence. As my body continues to awaken, my fear rises.

Where the hell am I?

My heart pounds, and I squirm, trying to will my useless body back to life faster. Reality is beginning to set in.

I’m helpless, vulnerable, and unable to move or defend myself, in a strange room and a strange place, with at least two men, one of whom is already talking about taking me without my consent.

Run, Rose, run!

My breath comes out in ragged sputters as panic takes me in a chokehold. I’m completely at their mercy.

“Shh. It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt you.” The other man coughs, and I hear the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting soft flesh.

They’re not completely in agreement on that point.

“Yet,” the other voice corrects. “We’re in hell, Ash. You can’t guarantee her that.”

I whimper, but my fingers tingle with the adrenaline flooding through my system.

Is that what’s happened? I’m dead, and I’ve been sent to hell for all the times I wished my father ill or had impure thoughts about the rugged horsemen who often visited our home.

“You’re not in hell.” He soothes. “But you’re not at home, either.”

Despite how vulnerable I feel, and how terrified, this man’s husky tones somehow soothe me, and as his shadow falls over me, I calm down.

His scent reaches me before I can even see him. He smells like smoke and whiskey.

My fists unclench, and my frantic attempts to rock myself across the mattress come to a halt. That was never going to work anyway, so there’s no point in ending up on the floor with a broken nose to make this day even worse.

A single tear falls from the corner of my eye as I stop fighting and screw my eyes shut tightly, confused and scared.

“Look at me.” He demands, and the other one, the mean one, chuckles when I keep my eyes firmly closed. “Look at me!”

When he barks the second order, my eyes fling open, and I squeal, before he slams a hand over my mouth to drown out the sound. Leaning over me is not a man, but a massive horned creature, with rust-coloured eyes, and muscles layered upon muscles.

“I won’t hurt you,” he repeats.

“Unless you ask nicely,” the other one comments, chuckling. “You might really enjoy being here soon.”

Black smooth skin covers thick muscle, and I can see the cords flexing underneath with every movement this big, scary man makes.

Dark eyelashes frame his intense eyes as he studies my face, waiting to see if I’m about to freak out.

I get a glimpse of strong, white teeth as he growls, a low rumble that passes all the way through my body, right down to my toes.

He comes dangerously close as he leans in, taking a lungful of my scent deep into his chest.

It feels intrusive, sensual, and when his chest vibrates even harder, the atmosphere becomes even more charged.

And yet, I say nothing, grateful my paralysed body can’t react properly, and carefully weigh up my limited options. Now is the time to assess the precarious nature of my situation with a calm head, not run screaming.

“Where am I? Why am I here?” Much as the next part pains me, mentioning him might be my best chance of getting out of here, unscathed. “Where is my father, Lord Farly?”

He stoops down so I can see him properly from my prone position.

“Most certainly not here,” he says dryly.

I can feel the heat radiating off his rock-hard body, even through his thin shirt, and when his arm brushes mine, I startle. Liquid warmth spreads through my veins. Despite the dim lighting and dark shadows, it’s impossible to ignore the sheer size and impressive physique of this man.

“You’re in my bed,” he states simply, before adding, “You’re at the gates of hell, little one, and currently at my mercy.”

This is an apex predator if I ever saw one. Even if I was able to move, I wouldn’t have a hope of getting away from him.

“As for why? Well, you’ll have to ask the great Lord Farly. He’s the one who bartered with you and dumped you here with scant regard for your safety.” His smile is wicked, as are his eyes, which are now glowing bright red.

I can see my terrified face reflected back at me.

“You can ask him what he expected to happen here, when he willingly handed you over; that’s so bad, he thought it would be better if you were unconscious for it.”

Bile rises up inside my throat as the meaning of his words hits home.

My father put me to sleep, because he knew I was potentially going to endure something awful.

If he knew this, then how could he hand me over to these men? What kind of person could give up their own daughter, knowing she was likely to be abused? But I know the answer to that, because I know the type of men he’s willing to marry me off to in the human realm.

“Sleep. Unlike your vermin father, I will keep you safe.”