It was good she’d been sleeping. He had ample frustrations in need of venting when he got back, and she was the perfect little outlet for them all.
By the time the chopper landed he knew something was wrong. He’d watched her the entire flight, wondering if she would sense when he was near. He noticed how she normally heard the helicopter as it approached, but this time, even as they landed on the helipad, she hadn’t stirred, not a twitch.
When he reached the deck, he threw the light switches on. In colour, in person, he could see what had happened. He let out a blood-curdling scream, kicking the cage to send a splinter of pain through his foot.
That little bitch. How dare she do this to him?
His steely gaze fell on the pillows that had been carefully concealed beneath the blanket. Damn her. His hand struck the alarm. There was no way to know how long she had been gone, when the pillows had replaced her. There was only one thing he knew for certain. They had to find her.
They were miles from land. She was either on the boat or in the water, and when he found her he’d make her sorry she ever dared cross him. He’d been playing nice-ish. Now she’d learn what it felt like to be truly broken.
He had allowed her to keep a little bit of her spirit. He’d liked the challenge that came with the occasional spark of life, and it made the perfect excuse to punish her more severely. Although after the last time he thought he’d quashed any thoughts of rebellion. Now, when he got her back, he would extinguish every ounce of her defiance for good.
From now on she would be a model slave. So perfect, in fact, that if he ever got bored with her after she had provided his wife with enough children to be happy, he could sell her on to a new owner who would enjoy her as much as he had. Although he wasn’t sure he could ever get bored with her. Already he found his cock stiffening at the thought of her begging for mercy when he dragged her back.
The time for mercy had passed, and she would understand that all too soon.
Miles’ phone was ringing. He wanted to ignore it. To turn back over, press the pillow over his face, and sleep through his pounding head, but the noise was relentless. His hand skimmed the bedside table, his trembling fingers clasping around the object of his annoyance.
As his blurred gaze recognised the picture, he groaned. It was only his father, again. No doubt calling for another passive aggressive talk about getting his life back in order.
Becca had left late last night after spending a few days watching over him and tipping every bottle of alcohol down the sink.
God, he wanted a drink. Something to take the edge off the headache and the swelling pain in his chest. His mouth turned dry as memories of Becca crying in his arms told him exactly why he shouldn’t nip out to the corner store.
His gaze bore hatefully towards his phone before he let himself fall back onto his pillow, staring at distorted figures on the bedside alarm clock as it blinked through the glass of water before it.
Wait a second.
It was four am. What was his father doing ringing him at this time?
“What?” he growled, snatching the glass and Advil that Becca must have left there for him at some point before she left.
“They’ve found her.” Miles felt the pills lodge in his throat and forced the mouthful of water down. Had he just heard him right? “Miles, did you hear me? They’ve found Ivy.”
There was a weight to his father's voice, heavy, sad. It was more emotion than his father normally delivered any news with. His attempt to keep his voice guarded and business-like only convinced him of the truth. She’d been missing for over three months.
So that was it.
Was this meant to be closure? It sure as hell felt like an end of sorts. His throat swelled and the water he’d swallowed threatened to make another appearance.
“Is …” He couldn’t force the words through his swollen throat. He tried again. “Is she …” He couldn’t bring himself to speak the words. He couldn't bear to hear the definitive answer. Until it was spoken he could pretend for just a moment longer.
“She was in Florida. Some jet skiers pulled her from the water a few miles off the coast this afternoon.” Fuck. “I’ve asked them to keep her registered as Jane Doe for now.”
Jane Doe, the words burnt like acid through his delicate stomach. He could feel the toxic name burning and bubbling as it destroyed him from the inside. His free hand clenched the blanket. Damn Becca. He really needed a drink.
“H-how do you—”
“The police turned up just before midnight. They identified her using fingerprints. Apparently, you’re listed as her next of kin. They tried your phone but when you didn’t answer they had our local precinct come to the listed address.” His world tilted on its axis.
Jane Doe.
Next of kin.
Fingerprint identification.
It was all too much. “You need to get to the hospital. I’ve sent my driver to collect you but, Miles, you need to prepare yourself. I’ve seen the pictures, she’s in a bad way.”
“She’s—” Wait, did he say in a bad way, did he mean her body or was she … could she possibly be alive? He sat a little straighter, swinging his legs from the bed. Was she alive? Why wouldn’t the words come?
“I arranged for a medical evacuation as soon as the police showed me the pictures. Her staying there was not a good idea, it was too close to where she was picked up. They should be arriving any time now. I thought you’d want to be with her.” The silence was heavy, pregnant. Was his father really saying what he thought he was?
Miles pulled the phone from his ear, glancing to the display, making sure there really was a call connected. It wouldn’t be the first time his mind had played such tricks on him. His father’s picture looked back. The call was definitely connected. “Son, just prepare yourself, okay? My driver will be there in a moment. Get yourself straight, she’s going to need you.”
“She’s alive,” he breathed softly, pushing a hand through his hair.
“She is, but …” There was that tone again, the one he had thought meant she was dead, the not quite guarded sadness. “Just get to her, okay?” Miles’ stomach clenched as his father gave a heavy sigh. “Anything she needs we’ll cover, just …” He could hear more emotion working its way into his father’s voice. This was bad, really bad. But she was alive, they’d found her. “Get dressed.”
Miles was off the bed in a flash. Moving quicker than he’d known was possible, pulling on his jeans and t-shirt as he stumbled around the room, searching for socks.
Socks.
He needed socks.
Where were all the fucking socks?
He found a stray black one hung over the radiator, pairing it with a clean blue one from his drawer before stepping into his shoes. It’d have to do. He was just firing a message off to Becca when the intercom to his apartment buzzed. Shit, did he need anything else, wallet, keys. What else? Something else. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter, he’d buy it. Shops opened on Saturdays.
He felt jittery, the pounding in his head was beginning to ease, replaced by, was this fear, was he afraid? Damn it, why was he afraid?
His father’s voice replayed in his mind. Even with the professional tone normally reserved for clients, the sadness had still sneaked through. ‘She’s in a bad way … Anything she needs …’
How bad was it? Not knowing was killing him, but she was alive, and his relief mingled with his fear, sending so much adrenaline coursing through his body that his hands trembled. Even surrounded by enemies, taking fire, he had not trembled this badly.
He sat in the car, shifting from one uncomfortable position to another. The dull thump of his fading headache punctuated each rapid heartbeat as he listened to Becca’s phone ring. For this, she’d forgive him for waking her at four-thirty on a Saturday. He needed to tell her now, not wait for her to see the message.
“Hey.” Her sleepy voice grumbled. He could just imagine her half hanging off the bed, her eyes still clos
ed.
“Bex, they found her. I’m on my way to the hospital now.” Nothing, for a moment he wondered if she’d fallen back asleep. “Bex, did you hear me, they found Sin. She’s alive.” His own voice was thick with emotion but the other side of the line was completely silent but for the rustle of blankets and the tiniest sniff. “I’m bringing her home, Bex. I wanted to let you know. I’m bringing her home.” He heard the line go dead, but knew she’d understood.
Damn it, there was almost no traffic on the roads. Why was the car moving so damn slowly? Why was the world running in slow motion?
His legs had never felt so alien. It was as if these uncooperative appendages weren’t even his as he tried to rush through the hospital to the reception, staggering and lurching in a half-run that seemed more like a prolonged stumble. His breathing was ragged by the time his hands finally struck the counter, using the partition to prop himself up.
Sin was here, somewhere in this massive structure she was here, alive, breathing.
“Jane Doe, medical evac.” His voice was somewhere between a growl and a gasp as he stared at the dark-haired woman with such fierce intensity she flinched.
“I was told to expect you. One moment.” She dropped her gaze to the desk in front of her, pressing a button as she picked up the phone, speaking softly.
Fuck, he didn’t catch a single word she’d just said.
Why was everything taking so goddamn long? He pushed a hand through his hair, thank God Becca had cut it, even if he hadn’t passed a brush through it at least he didn’t look like he’d been sleeping rough now.
“Mister Taylor.” The firmness of the masculine tone as the large hand reached out to touch his arm suggested it wasn’t the first time he’d said his name. Turning he saw the rotund frame of an orderly behind him. He glanced to the receptionist questioningly.
“If you follow David, he’ll escort you to the room we’ve secured her in. The doctor from the other hospital flew out with her. She wanted to speak with you in person.” Miles followed the orderly, his mind a blur.
He couldn’t say if they’d gone up or down, left or right, but then suddenly he was standing before a closed door, his hand hesitating above the silver handle. He could see the reflection of his hand warped in the surface as he willed it to descend.
She was here.
Just on the other side of this door.
“Mister Taylor, as I mentioned, before you go in the doctor wants to talk to you.” These were the only words he recalled hearing from the orderly, although something told him he had been trying to make conversation their entire walk, but the only thing on his mind had been getting to Ivy.
Every step had brought him closer, every step set his nerves aflame. She was alive, safe, and he would never, never, let anyone hurt her again. Now she was behind this door. Just a single barrier stood between them.
He wanted to rush in, take her in his arms, comfort her, banish her demons, because if there was one thing he was certain of, it was that someone could not go missing for over three months and return unscathed.
‘She’s in a bad way.’
His vision burned into the pale wood, his hand still hovering uncertainly. “Mister Taylor, the doctor is waiting at the nurses’ station,” David prompted. “We’ve arranged for some privacy so you can talk.” Miles turned from the door, seeing a woman with a blonde ponytail sitting watching him from the station behind him. “Take a seat.” The orderly pulled out a chair next to the doctor. Miles looked back to the door. He wanted to go in, to see her for himself, to hold her. She was right there, behind that door. Why should he wait?
“I really must insist we talk before you see her.” The doctor’s voice was soft and encouraging with the slightest hint of a Norwegian accent. “How much do you know?”
“Nothing, my father said he’d seen photos and sent a car to get me.” He resigned himself to this conversation, taking the offered seat, his vision alternating between the doctor and the door.
He just wanted to be in there.
“At your father’s request we’ve kept her identity as Jane Doe, and I will be honest, given the extent of her injures I have to agree with his reasoning. She’s a very lucky young woman.
“She was found a few miles from Daytona Beach by some jet skiers. They’d seen her struggling and given the absence of any boats but their own thought she may have been in trouble. She was resuscitated on site and shipped straight to our hospital where we needed to keep her sedated for her own safety.”
“Is she okay?”
“There’s no easy way to say this. Miss Sinclair shows evidence of physical and sexual abuse. She has significant bruising and scarring. As soon as we were able to get an ID, we sent word and your father arranged immediate transport here.
“Prior to this, we were able to complete the necessary scans while she was sedated. They showed some tearing of her shoulder muscles and tendons that are usually indicative of dislocated shoulders.
“We are confident the bruising will fade with no lasting damage, but some of the sores on her wrists will add to the scar tissue already present. I want to show you the photos we took of her injuries, so you can pre—” A shrill scream pierced the air, accompanied by the sound of things falling.
Fuck. He’d prayed to hear her again, but the fear and terror of that sound stirred something primal within him. He needed to be with her. His hand was on the door, pushing it open before he had even realised he’d moved. He froze in the doorway, his gaze fixed on her as the orderly pushed past.
Ivy was strapped down to the bed, her body arched as she dug her heels against the mattress and screamed, throwing herself one way and the next. A clipboard of notes had fallen to the tiled floor and was now trapped beneath the bed as it scraped across the floor with each of her violent thrusts.
She was a blur of movement, spurred by panic and fear. He saw the bruises on her flesh, the welts, the bleeding dressings. Her eyes were crazed as she threw her head back screaming as she thrashed from side to side, thrusting her body weight one way then the next in a desperate bid to escape. Beneath the sound of her cries, he could hear the restraints straining to hold her.
“Fuck. Whose idea was it to restrain her?” Miles snarled, finally unfreezing. He was at her side, his hands desperately working free the buckle around her wrist, thankful they’d not used the magnetic ones instead or he’d never get her out.
He whispered soft soothing phrases, but she didn’t hear him, she just fought. Of course she fought. One look at her injuries should have told them why restraining her was a stupid idea. Of course she was panicking. He could see the sores, the scars across her wrists where her struggles against the cuffs had pushed the dressings down, the pictures had not done their severity justice, not even close.
As soon as her first hand was free she lashed out, slashing at his face. The sting of her nails caught his throat, drawing blood, but he didn’t care. He moved around the bed to unbuckle her other hand. She tried to push herself back, but her feet were still secured, her hands were a blur of movement as she tried to push him away and fend him off.
Her shrill screams were deafening, but he reached forwards, lifting her from the mattress, pulling her towards him. For a moment, as her resistance calmed, and she grew heavy in his arms, he thought she had relaxed into his embrace, that she had realised he was there, that she was safe. Then he saw the orderly disposing of a needle in the nearby sharps bin.
He held her for a moment longer, breathing her in, stroking her hair, wiping away the tears which had leaked from her eyes as he swore all manner of promises before laying her down, gently brushing the sweat soaked hair from her face.
The air seemed to leave his lungs as he got his first proper look at her and his legs grew weak. He could see layers of bruises, old to new, and the horrific blackened hand marks that marred her once pale throat.
A chair was behind him and he was sitting before he even realised his knees had buckled. The hospital gown covered her
torso, but he could see the welts and bruising down her arms all the way to her wrist which the doctor was redressing. How the hell had she survived this?
“I’ll show you the rest of the photographs now.” The doctor advised once she was finished redressing the wounds. There was a resigned melancholy to her voice as she dragged the second chair towards the bed. She glanced to the orderly, nodding. As if by her request he left, closing the door behind him.
Miles kept his hand gently on Ivy’s refusing to let her go, hoping somehow she recognised his touch and knew she was safe. She was a mess. A black, blue, bloody, swollen mess. But she was here, she was alive.
When he found the bastard who did this to her, there would be more than just hell to pay.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked softly, looking through the photographs. They were all dated and time-stamped yesterday evening, probably for a police file. On the back was a printed note, detailing each and every injury. Too many to count.
“I can only hypothesise based on the injuries.” He nodded, giving her permission to spin her theories. Some idea was better than none.
She took the photos from him, finding the one of her raw and scarred wrists. “See how the scarring occurs at distal wrist crease, this suggests she was bound, possibly standing or suspended for a great length of time with little to no support meaning the weight remains on the wrists, which is why we can see such deep injuries.
“It is likely she was kept restrained, and the different angles of the scarring, bruising, and abrasions suggest it wasn’t solely in one position.” She moved to the photo of Ivy’s neck. “I think the cause of these markings is quite apparent since you can still make out the hand shape, with bruises this deep, and the evidence of older bruising, I would be led to believe she would most likely have lost consciousness, which means we know whoever did this had enough control to know when it was too much, for no other reason than the fact she’s still alive and while there is swelling of her throat, there is no permanent damage.”
Breaking Sin: A kidnap abduction story (Addicted to Sin Book 1) Page 22
