A tear squeezed from my eye as the needle skittered over a bony rib. The pain was indescribable. Awful and tear-inducing but… addictive, too. A peculiar kind of agony that soothed my shattered soul.
I willed the pain to do what other things had failed to.
Looking first at my scars that carried the weight of my sins, I then looked at my virgin skin and murmured, “Yes. I can stand it. Because I’ve withstood so much more.”
The memory flickered luminescent like a lightning bolt, only to fade just as quickly.
No!
Who was I? What had I lived through to warrant such an incredible piece of body art all in the remembrance of… what?
I was so caught up in the tattoo, I didn’t notice the women undressed before me.
A slap to my cheek sent my eyes soaring upward, locking onto my green-eyed nightmare. “And the rest. You’re not done.”
My heart raced having him so close. He reeked of sweat and blood. I inhaled hard, drugging myself on him. Did I know him from another time and place or was that entirely false? How could I describe the overwhelming sensation of recognizing him?
How do I feel as if I’ve loved you and hated you and ruined you in another time?
When I didn’t move or speak, his large fingers went to my waistband. Never taking his eyes from mine, he undid the button, then the zipper, before placing his hands on my hips and tugging the denim away.
My skin ignited beneath his touch, zigging and zagging with flames.
His jaw remained locked, face tight. He gave no hint of being affected by my presence or touching me. I hated the lie he projected. I wanted the man who’d dropped his guard in the battlefield. The man who’d looked at me like I was priceless and scarcely believed I’d been found.
His eyes caressed my body, his nostrils flaring as the jeans puddled to my ankles, displaying the rest of my tattoo. I was wrong to think it finished on my hipbone; it continued down the left side of my buttock and thigh, all the way down my leg to trace around my ankle and finish on my pinky toe. The ink followed a similar path to the scars trailing down my right leg to my foot. I looked as if I’d stepped from fire and straight into a waterfall of color, stained by both—forever changed.
I stood naked before him, my chest rising and falling. My skin alive and tingling beneath his inspection.
It seemed whoever I was, I had an aversion to underwear. Just as I was braless, I was panty-less, too.
He didn’t move. I couldn’t move.
His hands rested on my hips, fingers digging hard into my flesh as he devoured me with his gaze. The connection between us hummed, dulling the room and inhabitants, placing us in a tight bubble of crackling lust.
I do know you.
How do I know you?
My heart flurried the longer we stared. Vulnerability spread warm between us, smothered by confusion.
His breathing turned shallow, his body once again curving toward mine—as if invisible threads bound us together.
“Kill.” The voice was faraway. “Kill! For fuck’s sake, Prez!”
The man holding me blinked, snapping the link between us. The warmth in his gaze turned to snow, shutting me out completely.
Stepping back, he cleared his throat. “Shit.” He swayed a little on his feet.
I liked to think it was because of whatever existed between us, but a trail of red droplets decorated the bare wood below. His blood splashed darkly on his large combat boots, looking like rusty tears.
Increasing his distance from me, he crossed his arms, flinching. His eyes tightened with agony but he was good at hiding it. “Take their clothes away, Grasshopper.”
The man with the mohawk did as he was told, scooping the mismatch of skirts, trousers, and dresses, wadding them into a ball and shoving them into a black rubbish bag.
Keeping his eyes from mine, Kill muttered, “You’ll be given new attire once you’ve been washed and inspected.”
More tears and whimpers.
But not from me.
I was steadfast in my concentration. Locked to the floor with the knowledge the man before me may seem invincible, but he wasn’t. He bled. Same as any other. He hurt. Same as the men he’d overthrown. He needed help, and soon.
“Once you’ve been inspected, you’ll be fed, given a room to sleep, and permitted a night of rest before your true fate is determined. I don’t care what your names are. I don’t care where you’ve come from. To me, you are nothing more than skin. Skin to sell, skin to trade. Tears won’t save you; screams will only hurt you. So fucking listen, keep quiet, and look at your stay with us as a small holiday before your new reality.”
The woman with the long blonde hair whispered, “Please… This can’t be happening. What do you want?”
Kill bared his teeth, wrapping his arms tighter around his middle. It projected as aggression but I saw the whiteness of blood loss creeping up his jaw.
“Told you; not my fault if you didn’t listen. And you won’t see me again after tonight.” Straightening his shoulders, he growled, “Mo, Grasshopper, get them bunkered for the night. I trust you’ll ship them out to their destinations tomorrow? I don’t have time to go over it with you.”
You don’t have time because you’re bleeding out.
The sandy-blond-haired man nodded. “Got the deets. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“Good,” Kill sighed.
A couple of women sniffed, tears trailing their cheeks. I quickly scanned our sad group. One pretty Asian girl, two blondes, one redhead, and one brunette. We were all similar in height, build, and curves.
We’d been chosen.
Hand-picked for whatever they meant to do with us.
A flutter of fear cut through my steadfastness.
Green eyes landed on mine.
The feeling of history, connection, and rebellion came again, thick and fast in our locked gaze. He suddenly stumbled to the left, shaking his head, eyes wide with amazement that his body disobeyed his order to stand.
I wasn’t amazed. I was stupefied he was still upright, let alone leading and possessing the respect of the men behind him.
Snapping his fingers, Kill growled, “I’m leaving. I’ll take the sixth trade with me until I can find a buyer. Don’t trust the brothers after what happened tonight.”
Mo, the sandy-blond-haired man, frowned. “Is that wise? I mean—”
“It’s very fucking wise.” Stalking forward, Kill beelined for me.
I took a step backward, but it didn’t do me any good. Grabbing my elbow, he snarled over his shoulder. “Give me something to dress her in.”
Immediately, a large black T-shirt with the words VENGEANCE IS SWEET across the front sailed from the bag in Grasshopper’s—the black-mohawked biker—hand.
“Put this on.” Kill balled it up, wedging it into my stomach.
With shaking hands, I shook the T-shirt till it faced the right way and pulled it over my head. It fit me like a dress, skimming my thighs.
Kill nodded. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll do.”
Grabbing my wrist, he jerked me toward the corridor. “I’ll call you guys tomorrow. Deal with this shit.”
Without another word, he yanked me to the garage and an awaiting black Triumph. Throwing his leg over the side, he tugged me close. “Get on.”
“I don’t like motorcycles.”
The thought came from nowhere. Why don’t I like motorcycles? Same reason I don’t like motorcycle clubs… the men who exist in this world.
It didn’t make sense. If I’d had anything to do with clubs and violence, I would remember—surely? After all, I remembered my profession. I wouldn’t have gone into healing animals if I’d come from an environment where women were subservient and more stay-at-home types.
Something about that thought didn’t sit right.
The itch in my brain wouldn’t give up, switching from a gentle annoyance to a full-on scratch-fest.
“This isn’t a negotiation. Get the fuck on.” Kill
twisted and hoisted me onto his bike. His hands were large, encasing my waist easily. Once again the cognizant awareness and intensity shot through my blood.
The moment I sat behind him, he let me go, hissing in pain.
“You’re hurt,” I muttered.
He shook his head. “Superficial. Don’t think I’m gonna die and you’ll be free—you’ll be waiting a long time for that to happen.”
My stomach grappled with my heart at the thought of him dying. If he died, answers died with him. But if he dies, you’re free.
The thought of freedom didn’t excite me nearly as much as figuring out the riddle of my amnesiac brain.
“You need to see a doctor.”
You need to stay alive long enough for me to get the truth.
His leather jacket creaked softly as the muscles in his back tensed. “Mind your own business.”
Our connection is my business.
Grabbing the handlebars, he pressed a button that opened a small section of the large garage roller door. Freshness from the night outside flurried in, obscuring the scent of leather and gasoline.
“If you want to stay on, you better grab hold.”
The metaphor of his words didn’t escape me.
If I wanted to move forward in this strange, scary existence, I had to put my faith in the man who held my life in his roguish hands. And if I didn’t, I’d fall.
I have nothing left to lose.
With a sure heart, I wrapped my arms around his considerable bulk.
His muscles bunched beneath my hold and once again awareness and twisted desire sprang into perception.
We didn’t say a word.
We didn’t have to.
Our bodies hummed with more depth than words ever could.
With a shiver and wrench of his wrist, my nightmare and kidnapper fed fuel to his mechanical beast, and we shot forward into the crisp silence of early morning.
Chapter Three
Pain.
I’d known all facets. Endured physical, emotional, and spiritual agony. The wound in my shoulder throbbed like hellfire, but it was nothing to the confusion inside. What the fuck was I doing bringing this liar back to my home?
And why did my heart ache in the worst pain imaginable?
—Kill
The third journey in just a few hours stopped abruptly as Arthur Killian eased on the throttle, coming to a rest in front of huge black gates. Straddling the bike, his large legs kept us from tipping over as he reached into a fake rock and punched in a code.
Instantly the gate split in two, rolling into the thick undergrowth ringing the large stone wall. To have a property like this right on the coastline must cost a fortune.
Gripping his leather cut, I asked, “Where are we?”
“My home.”
Not quite the detailed answer I was hoping for.
Where are we in the world?
Why couldn’t I remember my nationality or where I lived until a few hours ago?
Why did I know that the flowers in my tattoo were forget-me-nots, but not my name? I wasn’t completely clueless—I knew how to talk and interact—I remembered the basics of human life, but my brain was selective, hiding everything that I wanted to know.
Kill teased the acceleration, gliding us from street to stone driveway. He drove to the right of the whitewashed and pillared mansion.
Uplights cast the property in a warm glow, masking the sterile white and making it seem like a cozy cream. There were immaculate flower beds set like regimented soldiers beneath the many windowsills, and the front portico soared upward, keeping the double front door dry from temperamental weather.
Another garage door rolled up. Automatic lighting switched on as we drove with a loud rumble into the large space. Scanning the area, I quickly noted it didn’t look lived-in. There were no overflowing cupboards of personal belongings or Ping-Pong tables or even old exercise equipment. The only thing that the garage housed was a black sports car and now the black Triumph we’d arrived on.
My ears rang as Kill cut the thundering engine and kicked down the stand. He looked over his shoulder. “Get off.”
I tugged his jacket harder. “I don’t want to. Tell me why you brought me here.”
Tell me how I know you.
“I’m not telling you jack shit unless you obey. What part of what I said at the compound didn’t you understand?”
“Most of it.”
He sucked in a breath, an arm lassoing around his bleeding chest. “You’re either the stupidest person I’ve ever met, or you’re broken in some way.”
I gasped. “Broken? What makes you say that?”
I thought the same thing. Where was the fear? The shock? The horror?
“You’re looking right into my eyes. You’re refusing to get off my bike, and you don’t seem to understand what’s going on here.”
I no longer wanted to be washed away by circumstances I didn’t understand. It was time to push—to dig for clues.
“What is going on? Why did you seem to know me… back there?”
His body went rock hard with rage. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I knew what he meant, but something inside made me rebel. I couldn’t get a grip on how drastically my life had changed—or at least I thought it’d changed…
I hated being in the dark. I hated having memories taunting me while staring into the eyes of a killer. I wanted to know.
He growled under his breath, swiping his free hand over his face. The sheen of pain hadn’t diminished; if anything it’d become worse.
“Get. Off. My. Bike,” he whispered. The sharp control in his tone sent a smattering of warning down my back.
Carefully, I obeyed. Swinging my leg over, I hated how naked I was beneath the black T-shirt, and backed away the moment my feet touched concrete. At least it wasn’t cold tonight. The mugginess of humidity lived in the porous floor, warming my toes.
Kill climbed off his motorcycle, grunting in pain. He stood up, his features blanching in agony. Spinning to face me, he growled, “Get inside. I don’t have patience for nonsense.”
I eyed him, then glanced at the already closed garage door.
He chuckled. “You run and I’ll put a bullet in your head so fast, you’ll wake up in heaven without ever remembering what happened.”
I already have that problem. However, I’d woken up in hell with no reflex fear of the devil.
“Why did you bring me here?” Why me and none of the other girls?
He sighed heavily, pinching the brow of his nose. The tips of his fingers left another streak of blood across his face. It glistened in the bright lights of the garage. “Don’t make me repeat myself.” With a fast move, he reached behind and pulled a gun free from his waistband.
I knew it was there. I’d seen it glinting like black death while he bent over the gas tank of his bike and drove us here. Every mile we’d traveled, I’d toyed with the idea of grabbing it and holding it to his temple.
But every scenario of threatening a man who was the only link between keeping me from being roadkill ended badly. I preferred being alive to spread on the road. And I definitely preferred the element of surprise.
Act docile. Then he would never expect the mayhem building inside me.
I squared my shoulders. “You won’t shoot me.”
“Why not?”
Because you do know me. No matter how vehemently you deny it.
“Because you said it yourself—I’m to be sold. What happens to you when the buyer doesn’t get what he paid for?”
It was a gamble, but I decided to use shock value to get a reaction from him. I wanted to scream that there was something between us. To force him to acknowledge it, but at the same time, I had no proof. I needed to see evidence from him, before I fully believed it myself.
He cocked his head. “You’re seriously gonna make me believe you care about what happens when a trafficker doesn’t deliver skin to his buyer?”
I swallowed. “No.
But I do care about getting answers. Answers I’m willing to risk my life to gain.”
He grinned, motioning with the gun for me to head toward the door leading presumably into the house. “You think I’ll answer your questions?”
I nodded, padding toward the door and pulling it open. A waft of air-conditioning greeted me. “You will because you’ll owe me.”
My eyes fell to the spreading bloodstain on his chest. His deterioration had been gradual but not unnoticed. I could sense his wooziness, the lack of strength ebbing like a tide. I couldn’t explain it—yet another hint at who I’d been before this nightmare.
He laughed softly. “I’ll owe you?”
Turning in the doorway, I pointed at the soppiness of his shirt dripping from beneath his brown leather jacket. “You’re bleeding profusely. If you don’t stop moving and lie down, you’ll pass out.” Lowering my voice, I added, “I can help you.”
He stalked forward. “Do I look like I’m fucking weak?”
I gritted my teeth, battling against the flush of fear with him storming so close. He brought the reek of blood and metal and the power of a pissed-off male. His jaw was strong and square, his nose neither too big nor too long. Everything about him was symmetrically in proportion, making him the handsomest criminal I’d ever met.
You think you’ve ever met.
My brain hurt.
“All I know is you’re hurt, and if you don’t sit down soon, you’ll pass out and I’ll just leave you there and escape.”
To where?
You’re mostly naked with no identity, no money—how far could you run with nothing?
But none of that mattered because there was one thing keeping me alive. One thing driving me forward, giving me strength, making me fight and not give into the horror of my situation.
Answers.
I needed them more than I needed air. I needed truth more than I needed safety, freedom, or rescuing.
Answers were my driving force because I currently lived in a worse prison than any Arthur Killian could trap me in.
I was nothing. Nobody. Lost. Alone. Orphaned from all thoughts.
Answers were the key and this man had them.
“Escape!” he snorted. “Fuck, the cops won’t save you. They’re worse than us.”