Page 27

ELEVEN

Awareness stole through Kensley as so many things became clear: him on his back, head and shoulders slightly reclined on something not terribly soft; strong antiseptic smells that hurt his nose; something beeping at a steady rate; his dry mouth with a weird taste in it.

Nothing like the beach house or even the abbey.

He tried to open his eyes, but they were tacky and dry, and when he attempted to raise his left hand, it was yanked back down by something clasped to his wrist. Alarm jolted Kensley harder toward consciousness, and he forced his eyelids apart.

He didn’t recognize the ivory walls, lack of windows, or single closed door.

It could have been a closet or a room in a submarine, for all he knew.

He was in some sort of bed, his left wrist chained somewhere out of sight. An IV line was taped to the inside of his right elbow. He twisted his neck but could only see a simple IV pole setup, and what he hoped was a bag of saline hanging from it.

The entire thing was such a mind-fuck that it took his addled brain way too long to remember why this was completely wrong.

“Bishop!” His voice barely echoed in the small room. Or maybe he had no volume. His mind was still incredibly fuzzy. “Hello?”

No one answered. Kensley fixed on a random spot on the wall and tried to focus on the last things he remembered.

He’d been in bed, exhausted of vomiting, and running a fever, and while he was worried, he hadn’t thought it was too serious.

Bishop had been prowling like a caged tiger, anxious for the doctor to arrive.

At some point, Bishop had gone to wait by the front door.

Kensley vaguely recalled the sound of an engine, probably Walsh’s Jeep.

The bangs. The bangs!

Kensley’s entire body jolted as more details came flooding back, leaving him cold all over. The bangs had startled him awake, and then suddenly a woman was in his room. She’d rushed him, jabbed him in the neck, and then…he woke up here.

They’d been ambushed. Had those bangs been gunshots?

His chest tightened, and he couldn’t catch his breath.

Where was Bishop? Had he been shot? Killed?

Pure rage battled against his fear, and he yanked at the chain around his wrist. Tried to get up and only managed tumbling to the floor.

His elbow slammed off the hard surface, the shock of pain startling out a yelp.

The stretched IV line stung where it pierced his skin.

But that was nothing compared to the agony burning in his heart.

King’s enemies had found them, and they’d taken him. Kensley didn’t need a villain speech to know that. And he didn’t care. They could torture him, experiment on him, hold him for ransom. None of that mattered if Bishop was dead.

“Please, don’t do that, Elder Thorne,” a female voice said. Kensley looked at the door, but it remained shut, and the voice had sounded tinny. “If you hurt yourself, I’ll have to sedate you again.”

“Who are you? Is Bishop dead?” he asked the disembodied voice.

“You can refer to me as Marta, if you like. It isn’t my real name, but I did have a cat named Marta when I was a girl.”

Kensley growled softly at the condescending tone. “Is Bishop dead?”

“I have no information on the fate of your island guard. My job is to keep you and your fetus in good health for the foreseeable future.”

“My…” Kensley was glad to be sitting, because his head swam with shock and confusion. “What are you talking about? My fertile period isn’t for another month. I’m not pregnant.”

“Our blood tests show otherwise. Believe me, we were also quite shocked, Elder Thorne. But I suppose indiscretions are to be expected when healthy young men live in such close, isolated quarters as you once did.”

He bristled at the intimation that he’d slept with any of the other abbey residents. The only person he’d been intimate with was Bishop, and Bishop was…missing. Until he saw a body, Kensley was going with missing. “You don’t know me. Your insinuations are disgusting.”

“And yet our tests don’t lie. If you are correct about your fertility period, then you are three to four weeks along. It’s very early in the pregnancy, and any number of factors can cause a miscarriage, which we do not wish to exacerbate.”

“But…” Bishop was the only man he’d ever had sex with, but his captors didn’t seem to know that. They were assuming he’d slept with a fellow priest and not his “island guard,” and he wasn’t about to educate them. He couldn’t give them extra fodder to use against him.

In all their couplings, Kensley and Bishop had never used protection, because Kensley wasn’t fertile. His fertile period had ended before the spaghetti dinner, before their first time together.

They were also beloved charum, and even though it was only a legend that he’d never witnessed in real life, it was rumored that when an omega male met his charus, together they could trigger the omega’s fertility. Create life through their connection and love.

Had that happened with him and Bishop? Had their love created a life? In so short a time?

“I’m glad you’re thinking this through,” Marta said. “You might also wish to get up off the cold floor.”

Kensley raised his right hand and stuck out his middle finger.

Waved it in several directions, because he couldn’t see an obvious surveillance camera.

He did get up off the hard, cold floor, though, and back into his uncomfortable bed.

But it was warmer, and he couldn’t stop himself from resting a protective hand over his flat belly.

What if the only living piece of Bishop left was in there?

He had to protect this baby with everything in him, no matter what.

“What do you want from me?” Kensley asked the room. “Am I for ransom? Are you going to trade me?”

“Perhaps. We are less interested in your brother’s territory than we are with money. And you, Elder Thorne, will go to the highest bidder.”

“Bidder? I’m not a painting in an auction, I’m a human being!”

“You are an omega male, very rare in society, and there are some who will pay high prices for men like you. Higher, perhaps, than your worth to your half-brother.”

Kensley closed his eyes and took long, deep breaths to calm his now-roiling stomach.

He was so tired of vomiting, but the idea of being sold into sexual slavery was far beyond his realm of comprehension.

What would that sort of abuse do to his baby?

Would his purchaser be kind until his baby was born?

Would they force his body into a miscarriage?

If he truly was pregnant, Kensley’s life was no longer about himself. It was about protecting his child.

“When?” Kensley asked, surprised he didn’t scream the question. “When does this happen? How long are you going to torture me?”

“Our goal is not to torture you, Elder Thorne, only to keep you alive. We will provide you with food and any necessary medicines.”

“Yeah? What about a bathroom?” And now that he’d asked, his bladder throbbed.

“To your right, you will find a bedpan and urinal bottle. When one is full, place it by the room’s door. It will be removed and replaced. You are always under surveillance, Elder Thorne. I do not wish to embarrass you, but please do not assume you will ever have a chance to escape.”

“Don’t assume I’ll ever stop trying to escape. This is not my chosen life. I’m a prisoner, and I will do whatever it takes to protect myself and my baby. From you and whoever you try to sell me to.”

“You have heart. I admire that. Your meal will arrive in one hour. Try to rest until then.”

Kensley wanted to scream at the top of his lungs that Marta could shove her rest right up her ass, but it wouldn’t change anything.

He was chained to this bed, in a room with no obvious exit, and someone watching him at all times.

Resistance might be futile, but vigilance would save his life. And his baby’s.

“What about my illness on the island?” Kensley asked, not expecting a response. “All the vomiting? What was that?”

“The emetic is out of your system, and there will be no lasting damage. Rest now, please.”

The finality of those statements did little to relax Kensley.

Emetic told him that he’d been drugged somehow, which had forced Bishop into requesting a doctor.

A doctor who’d obviously been a fraud or replaced by this Marta woman.

Someone who’d betrayed them all, possibly killed Bishop, and kidnapped Kensley, all for profit.

But they’d been so careful. Who had betrayed them? Walsh? Someone else inside of King’s organization?

With no way of knowing anything for a while, Kensley snagged the urinal bottle, pulled the blanket up over his entire body so the spying cameras couldn’t see anything, and relieved himself.

Even though he wanted to throw his piss at a camera or other spying device, he didn’t know where they were.

He also didn’t want to stink up his prison, so he put the bottle back on the small table and tried to find a comfortable position on the bed.

The room had no TV, no books, no magazines, nothing to occupy him, except his own tumultuous thoughts. He had nothing to do but sleep. The problem was he had no idea how long he’d been unconscious. Was it still Sunday? Monday? Had more than one day passed? He definitely wasn’t sleepy.

He closed his eyes anyway and thought back to the island. Found his last memory of swimming with Bishop in the lagoon, and he clung to it while silently praying that Bishop was still alive and already planning his rescue.

Bishop hadn’t felt this helpless since he first woke up after his residence exploded, and he’d been unable to do more than blink at basic yes or no questions.

He’d hated relying on other people during his recovery, but he had recovered.

He’d gone back to work, and he’d become reacquainted with Kensley.

Fallen in love with Kensley. Found his charus.