by Jade Hart
Hurry!
The crushing migraine began and I welcomed it. The build-up of agony in my bones—I welcomed it that too. The boil of blood—another crack of the whip kissed me. The pain decimated my concentration and I lost the power. Fuck. Too slow!
I careened down the staircase with the heavy sounds of footsteps behind me. I skidded into strong arms, which clamped around me with pincers of muscle.
How did I allow myself to be trapped? Stupid. So stupid! I wriggled and writhed as the henchman held me tight. My teeth snapped at his ear and jaw, but I couldn't get close enough. The roar of weakness made it seem as if I were underwater, or in a horrible dream where none of my limbs obeyed.
Bazeer grunted behind me, ordering the man to hold me firm. I heard the crack of the whip as it bit into my back. I wanted to scream—to release the pain rampaging through me. Adrenaline could only hide so much before the heat of it shredded all logical thoughts.
Awareness of the peril I was in awoke every fiber of every cell. The whip lashed the back of my legs, cutting my flesh as if I was a tender steak. Stop!
“Take her to my room.”
My consciousness flickered as I was tossed over the henchman's shoulder and carted to my doom. Blood rained from the wounds on my back, seeping over my ribcage, tickling the sides of my breasts. My lemon dress was in rags.
Someone slapped my butt, and I was thrown onto a bed where I bounced and moaned as the sheets aggravated my cuts. My face was a blaze of fire where he’d whipped me.
Calm, Ocean. You can get out of here. Focus.
My power built as the door slammed. Atsu Bazeer loomed above me. He growled, “You owe me over thirty million rand. I will take great pleasure extracting it from your flesh, then I will sell you as a discount slut to my clients. I will tell them a fuck with you will cure them of any disease. You will die a ravaged death from AIDS and who knows what else. This is the payment I will take from you.” His fat hands clawed at his shirt buttons; cuff links went flying.
My heart raced. My body ached all over. Migraine pain caused light to pierce my skull. I was about to be raped, and there was nothing I could do.
Shit, Ocean! Port already!
The shirt was torn off in his hurry; he clambered onto the bed. I whimpered despite myself, trying to crawl away from him, but he trapped me by kneeling on the fabric of my dress, keeping me locked beneath him.
This was some horror-filled cruel joke the universe was playing on me. Every second of my life I walked a tightrope of power versus emotion. One wrong step, and the power consumed me. Now, when I wanted nothing more than to disappear, the power left me to wallow in hell.
Come on!
A surge of power; I gasped, but it failed to build enough to allow me to disappear. My nose suddenly gushed blood as I strained to port. Please free me! Past memories of that day when I was eight threaded with the current nightmare: Adrian Mathieu’s grunts mixed with Bazeer’s in my mind. Fear latched my throat, oxygen was hard to capture. I swore to myself I’d never be this helpless again. To have my body used against my will. And yet all my running and fighting and killing were for nothing.
The past was about to repeat itself, and it would crush me. I wouldn’t rise from this. My soul was too battered. It was over.
Tears torrented down my cheeks. Maurice, I'm sorry.
Bazeer ripped the straps off my dress, exposing my chest. He huffed and puffed, already drunk on the thought of sex. He was a rutting beast who no one could stop. His fingers fumbled with his fly.
I scrunched my eyes.
One. Breathe. Two. Breathe. Slowly, my heart rate tamed. I was rewarded with a bursting migraine. I was close. Don't give up. Just a little more.
Hands were on me, pawing at my core, ripping away my knickers. My breathing was out of control. Panic suffocated me as my knees were pushed apart. I couldn't help but fight. I screamed and writhed, fighting as wildly as any jungle cat.
Finally.
My eyes bulged with pain and the room grew less substantial; invading hands were suddenly less real. For once, I welcomed the burst of fracturing reality. I relished the drenching of blood from my nose. I loved the agony of vessels popping in my eyes. I never tasted anything as delicious as my body splitting itself to pieces.
In a whoosh, which was music to my soul, I was free.
A vague curse exploded from Bazeer as I left behind vulgar hands and rancid probing. The journey of speed, of pain and horror, gave me too long to think about what I’d narrowly escaped.
Guilt crushed me. I was safe, but I’d left those twins behind. What would happen to them? How could I leave them there?
Sobs escaped my chest as Maurice's library smoked to solid and I crumbled to the floor. I tried to keep my dignity, clasping the rags of my dress to hide my breasts. A moan wrenched from my lips.
Maurice hobbled quickly down the stairs in his plaid pajamas. It was dark here. Night-time.
“Oh God! What happened?” His hands landed on my back in the gloom. I screamed. The cuts from the whip were deep and weeping, the pain in full swell. Adrenaline abandoned me, leaving me to shake and shudder with misery.
Maurice whimpered, wringing his hands. “Tell me. What should I do?”
I couldn't answer. Tears choked me. Guilt pressed the air out of my lungs. The pain stole my sanity and the world flickered to nothingness.
Chapter Seventeen: Callan
I groaned and rolled onto my back. Ocean stood me up. She lied to me. How stupid was I to believe her words on instant messenger?
She played me for a fool. And it served me right. It was my own bloody fault for letting myself become infatuated with a complete stranger. Sure, something drew me to her, but she obviously didn't feel the same way. A small voice nagged me. Perhaps something happened to stop her from coming?
Ugh.Shut up voices in my head. I couldn't take the worry anymore. The constant images of her hurt, or worse. I was an idiot to get caught up in something like this.
My clock glowed bright neon: 4:14 a.m.
Face it, Callan. She isn't going to show. My worry and internal dialogue were on repeat. I wanted to punch myself.
Stupid. Idiotic.
I groaned again, swiping a hand over my face. Perhaps she had meant to come. . .
My eyes snapped open, heart kicking into life.
I couldn't move fast enough. I jumped out of bed and tore down my corridor. Phone. Where was my bloody phone?
My movements were jerky as I tore through my notepad, looking frantically for Maurice Green's number. Hang on, don’t need it. It’ll be in my mobile’s memory. Maurice was rather surprised when I called him yesterday, demanding to know why he played with Ocean's life. Why he put her in danger.
He politely but firmly put me in my place. Ocean's life was exactly that—her life. He had no power over what she did or who she saved. I couldn't understand how he lived with the constant stress and worry. How was he not dead from panic? I was close to the edge as it was and I’d only known her a few flipping days.
And didn’t Ocean care she might cause Maurice an aneurysm by bouncing off to play vigilante? Damn bloody woman.
I couldn't keep my breathing level as I retrieved my mobile from the back of the couch. My thumb shook as I recalled the last number I dialed.
I paced, struggling to control my erratic heart as the ring continued. It dropped off.
“Fuck!” I retyped the number. “Pick up, Maurice. Pick up, damn you!”
Finally, a click, and a husky voice muttered, “I'm not open for business right now.”
Business? Ignoring that, I clipped, “Where's Ocean?”
A sharp snort, followed by an angry breath. “I thought we went over this yesterday. That is none of your concern.”
“I told you where she was. I want my favor returned.”
A long silence. Finally, Maurice said, “You did. And I thank you. But now is not the time.”
I shivered. Something was wrong. “What happened?” Silenc
e again. Was he still there? “Hello?”
“Ocean is here. With me. There was an incident.”
My entire body repelled from the idea, but I had to ask. “Is she dead?” Say no. Please say no.
“She's alive. She will heal.”
I exhaled in a rush. My eyes danced around my apartment, looking for something to latch onto; something I could do to help her. My gaze landed on the overstuffed envelope sitting on my kitchen counter.
In a spilt, rash decision, I said, “I'm coming to England.” Then hung up.
The rest was a blur. I didn't have a job, so I was free to bugger off for as long as I wanted. I continued to pace, calling airlines, booking a last minute economy ticket to Manchester, then dashing back to my room to pack a bag of necessities.
An hour later, I was in a taxi charging to the airport. In my rush, I almost forgot my laptop and Emily Snow's file. Researching her and the missing girls would keep my mind from going bonkers on the long flight.
A few hours later, I was squeezed into a sardine-sized seat and taking off.
I tasted madness in myself. I couldn’t believe I was on my way to England to see a woman who told me to leave her alone. But how could I? How many women could teleport? How many women fought for justice in the same merciless way I did?
I needed to know her. Not through a profile report or research, but by talking to her, caring for her.
This felt right. I wouldn’t give up on her. And I couldn't wait to see her reaction when she found out I used her own cash to chase her.
Chapter Eighteen: Ocean
Voices drifted over me, followed by hot flashes of pain and shudder inducing memories: A whip. Fumbling. Paws on intimate places.
My face burned and I touched my injuries, finding thick, antiseptic cream smeared on my forehead. More cream was spread over my cheek, the tip of my nose, and chin. Atsu Bazeer sure knew how to use a whip. The lashes were deep. Would they scar? I might as well say goodbye to my pretty days.
I shifted in bed, sitting gingerly. Vision in one eye was fuzzy. I squinted at a sweating glass of water and two tablets on my bedside table. It didn't matter what the drugs were. If they muted the pain, they could be heroin for all I cared.
I gulped back the water, and hissed as I corralled my trembling legs to take my weight. When the room stopped spinning, I inched toward the door. Half-way there, my ears pricked. Tense voices sailed from downstairs. Men. Plural.
Maurice never had company apart from the occasional door-to-door salesman. I often wished he had more family. I loved him as my own, but his past was as shrouded in as many secrets as his Tudor house. Who the hell was down there?
I tiptoed to the door, but I couldn't make out what was said. Maurice was so secretive. Perhaps he did have someone other than me. My heart clenched with satisfaction, then thudded with jealously. I wanted him to have company, but I didn't want to share.
“You are to leave, young man. Ocean has never mentioned you before.”
“I'm not leaving until I see her. I know this is her only home. You're the only friend she has.”
Who? Tension pressured, buckling my knees. That stormy voice. . . the accent. . . why did it sound familiar?
Maurice grew angry. “How do you know that? Ocean is a free spirit. She may have many homes and people who love her.”
My heart seized. Oh, Maurice. He was so sweet. No one else loved me. No one else could put up with me.
Footsteps on the stairs followed by a very angry: “Stop right there, Officer Bliss.”
Bliss? Callan? Shit!
I panicked. Tripping backward, I stumbled to my bed, and landed with a whoosh. I moaned as twinges of fire burned my back and legs. Damn bastard Bazeer and his whip.
What in fiery hell was Callan doing here?
My eyes winged frantically around the room. I was hardly dressed for company. An oversized grey t-shirt and baggy black shorts weren’t first date attire. First date? This wasn’t a date! My bandaged legs tinged pink where I bled through the gauze.
Weapon. Grab a weapon. Better yet, lock the door!
I lurched off the bed, only to fall back again as it opened. My heart lodged firmly in my throat.
He was here.
The sun and brightness of Australia illuminated my room in the form of a cop who didn't understand the word no.
Callan Bliss was in England. In my bedroom! What universe am I in?
His green eyes sparked; disbelief flickered as he took in my injured state. His hands curled and jaw clenched; a gleam of protectiveness shimmered in his gaze. “What happened to you?” His voice was deep, tugging me like the moon pulls the tide.
Ignoring the gravitational urge, I stood, wincing. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Callan tensed. “You didn't show two nights ago at my apartment.”
“Apartment? What?” I never said I'd meet him. I wasn't nuts. Oh, hang on—I did agree. Me and my stupid ‘fine’ comment. But two days ago? Only a few hours ago I was getting my ass whipped by Bazeer.
“On instant messenger. You agreed.” He took a step toward me. I swayed.
Callan reached to steady me, but I shoved a hand up in a stop sign, snarling, “Don't take another step.”
Maurice appeared behind him, pushing Callan out of the way. “Ocean, you should have called me. How long have you been awake?” His gentle hands rested on my brow, measuring my temperature which I was sure rocketed as hot as Morocco.
One look at Callan, with his knowing green eyes and frankness amped the flames in my every molecule. Frissons of want worked their way through me, turning my tormenting pain into something indescribable.
I glared. “Are you going to answer me, Officer Bliss? What are you doing in my bedroom?”
His eyes locked onto my lips. My cut and covered-in-slime lips. Brilliant. This was just brilliant.
Maurice mumbled, “Keep calm, Ocean. You're injured. Don't let your temper hurt you.”
I threw a look at Maurice. He wisely shut up.
Callan stood taut, eyes strained. “Who did this to you? That Bazeer scum?”
Why did he think he could ask questions? He invaded my safe zone. Stalked me across the world. I was the one who earned asking questions.
“Do you know this man?” Maurice muttered.
“Yes,” Callan said, at the same time I said, “No.” Our eyes met, clashing with anger.
My heart pounded. Callan grew wispy before forming solid again. I shook my head to dispel the fogginess. I had no intention of fainting while the cop was in my room.
“You better explain yourself, young man. Otherwise I'm booting you out of my home.” Maurice put his arm around me. I flinched as his shirt grazed my bandages.
Callan took a step toward me, his spicy, salty scent buffeting me. “I'm here to see Ocean.” His eyes met Maurice’s. “She teleported into the Sydney police station a few days ago, looking like death. I wanted to see if she was okay.”
Maurice's eyebrow rose. “Ocean? You ported in front of him?”
That was it. Now I was pissed. “Yes, I ported in front of him. Twice. A big freakin' mistake that was.” I patted Maurice's knee. “Maurice, I’m sorry for being rude, but we have business to discuss, alone. He has something of mine.”
Callan coughed. “I didn't bring it with me.”
Heat flushed my cheeks. “Why not? That money is mine.”
Maurice looked between us, eyebrow quirked.
When I gave Callan a death stare, he muttered, “How do you propose I smuggle all that cash over the border? Unlike you, I came by plane.”
I frowned. The journey must’ve taken at least twenty-four hours, and I was only supposed to see him a few hours ago. The time frames didn't add up.
Callan watched me, lips twitching with concern. I made eye contact with him, confusion etching my face.
He cocked his head. “Um, do you know what day it is?”
Nerves clouded me. Please don't tell me it happened again! The last ti
me I ported too much, I lost three days to recuperation. Hardly ideal—and those twins needed me. They were still there, with that bastard. My eyes locked onto Maurice.
He rubbed my arm gently.
I sighed, bracing myself for the worst. “How long, Maurice?”
Maurice didn't answer straight away. Instead, he reached for the antiseptic balm and played with the tube. I nudged him. “Go on, tell me.”
“Fifty-one hours,” he confessed. “I had to hook you up to an I.V.”
I shot upright. Those girls! Unprotected, left in the dragon's den. Two days? I was worthless. I needed to go back. Immediately.
Taking a deep breath, I summoned my power, wobbling when the migraine burst behind my eyes.
Maurice gasped, “No!”
Callan rushed forward, grabbing me as I folded to the floor. His touch stopped me from leaving. I struggled weakly as he scooped me up and gently lowered me into bed. How horrid could this get? Callan was here. He saw me at my weakest, my ugliest, my most vulnerable.
Maurice bent to kiss my forehead. “Don't leave, Ocean. Don't be stupid. You can't save anyone in this state. Rest. Then fight for the masses.” His eyes locked with Callan's. Something raw passed between them. Maurice nodded slowly, then discretely left the room.
He left? The traitor. So what if I asked him to leave before? I didn’t want to be alone with Callan. Who knew what would happen?
Callan pushed my legs away from the edge of the bed so he could sit. The warmth from his fingertips jolted my skin.
His hand reached for mine, but I folded my arms. “Go away,” I muttered, wincing again as my migraine set fire to all my other injuries.
“No.” His tanned hand plucked the sheet, the back of his knuckles dusted with freckles. He fidgeted, unable to sit still. Why did I find that endearing instead of annoying?
His eyes darted to mine. “Ocean, I—”
I sucked in a breath. More licks of lust in my belly. My entire body boycotted my order to remain an icicle. I melted under his gaze.
Callan froze, then leaned forward, eyes sparking with green dynamite, delving deep into mine. “Now do you understand why I can't leave?”
