The Wicked Horse Boxed Set (The Wicked Horse Series)

by Sawyer Bennett

  The man smiles at me in understanding, but I don’t trust that look one bit. There’s no way he could ever understand the depth of my fear at this point.

  He turns his head to the right and looks upward slightly. I follow his gaze, my eyes coming to rest on a terribly large man glaring down at me with his arms crossed over his chest. I shrink back further into the cushions because of the loathsome look on his face. That movement is not lost on either man. The big guy’s facial features smooth out a bit, and I see a hint of guilt in his eyes for scaring me.

  My eyes skitter back to the other guy, and he holds his palms out in the universal gesture of “calm down, we’re not going to hurt you”. It doesn’t ease my anxiety at all, because I can’t remember the last time I’ve been around someone who didn’t want to hurt me.

  “A friend brought you here,” the bearded guy says reassuringly.

  “I don’t have any friends,” I deny in the raspy voice that doesn’t hurt quite as bad the more I’m using it. Now, more than ever, I’m distrusting everything about my circumstances.

  “Kyle Sommerville,” the big guy provides. His voice is deep, but it sounds like it’s filled with smooth stone gravel at the same time. It has a rumbling sort of effect that causes shivers of—fear, maybe—to ghost across my skin.

  Now Kyle Sommerville is absolutely a name that instills genuine terror, and the fact he brought me here means these men most definitely cannot be trusted. My body energizes, filling with adrenaline that spikes hard and makes me slightly dizzy. But the great thing about adrenaline is that it also masks pain, and in a surprise move that has both men rearing backward, I fly off the couch in a desperate attempt to escape. My eyes immediately land on the front door across the living room, and my feet hit the floor with a frenzied burst of near hysteria to get away.

  The door races toward me… or am I racing toward it?

  Doesn’t matter, because I’m so damn close.

  Almost there.

  Just as my fingers brush the knob, large arms band around me from behind, pulling me away and back into the hard, muscular body of who I inherently know is the large man who called Kyle Sommerville my friend.

  Pain bursts and blooms all over my body, the shot of numbing adrenaline quickly expended.

  “Stop,” I shriek against the agony in my back, ribs, arms, hips, and legs. I try to twist free, but the pain peaks so severely my head starts spinning and bile rises in my throat.

  The arms immediately release me the minute the word ‘stop’ leaves my lips, and I fall unceremoniously, my knees jarring solidly on the wooden floor. I ignore that pain because it’s nothing compared to the electrical shocks that seem to be firing from every nerve ending. My hands come to the floor to support my weight and my back involuntarily arches upward as I gag reflexively against the firestorm of torment my body is feeling once again.

  “Jesus,” I hear the big guy growl from above me. I feel his fingertips delicately pulling at the bottom of my shirt that’s ridden up a bit on my back. “Look at her.”

  I scramble away from him, fear of his touch—any touch—propelling me forward. My hand slips out from under me and my body twists toward the floor, the muscles and skin around my ribs screaming in protest. Nausea starts to rise again, but mercifully, darkness starts to seep in from the periphery of my vision.

  And I go under, once again in a protective measure to escape the misery.

  *

  When I start to wake up again, I immediately feel something is different.

  First, I’m in a bed. I know this because the sensation of soft sheets and pillowy support under my head versus hard concrete under my back feels like heaven. In fact, I can’t remember anything ever feeling this nice before.

  I also feel warm.

  And I don’t feel pain.

  I hesitantly open my eyes. The room is dimly lit from what appears to be a lamp to my right, although I’m afraid to turn my head to look at it. I fear the pain that might come from such a small maneuver.

  “First thing you need to understand is that you are safe and no one is going to hurt you again.” The voice is deep, lower and softer than I’d heard it before.

  Still, I’m scared and can’t help but jolt with awareness as I turn my head toward him. The first thing I notice, because how could I not notice when pain has been a part of my daily—no wait, hourly—existence, is that while I feel a dull throb in my head and from the multitude of bruises all over me, it’s actually manageable. I take a deep breath and focus in on the large man, waiting to see what he says next.

  “I get by your reaction last night that Kyle Sommerville is no friend of yours,” he says tentatively. “So I need to tell you this so you can at least relax and know you’re safe.”

  My eyes clear up a bit and I note the man is sitting on a chair beside the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His face, while grim, is also gentle. He’s actually quite handsome, something I hadn’t noticed earlier, but that’s not something I give a shit about. Who cares if he has beautiful brown hair that’s untamed and longish as well as eyes the color of warm amber? I certainly don’t.

  But the fact those stunning eyes are gentle causes me to stay still.

  For the moment.

  “Kyle is not a friend of mine,” the man says carefully. “He brought you to me and told me you were in danger.”

  “He wouldn’t help me,” I whisper.

  The man nods in understanding. “He’s a cop—ATF. He’s been undercover for three years.”

  I shake my head. I don’t buy it. Kyle’s a sadistic son of a bitch. He egged Kayla on when she tortured me.

  “I promise,” the man assures me, as clearly doubt is written all over my face. “He got you out because he was afraid Kayla would kill you.”

  A tremor runs through my body because that is an absolute truth. She would have killed me for sure, and I know this because she told me she was going to.

  After she finished making me suffer.

  “Who are you?” I ask hesitantly. While I don’t trust this big brute as far as I can throw him, I need to understand why I’m here if I’m going to escape. I need to know everything about my captor.

  “My name is Bridger,” he says in a voice like a low rumble of thunder that is oddly comforting right now. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you, and I’m not going to let anyone else hurt you.”

  That means nothing to me. Trust is earned, not handed out like candy. His few words of reassurance bounce right off, and my mind starts figuring out how quickly I can get away from him. If I can get my battered body out of this bed, that is. I tentatively dig my elbows into the mattress, trying to raise my upper body a bit to scoot up further onto the pillows below my head.

  My body aches with the movement, but I’m stunned it’s not the excruciating level I’d been accustomed to. This confuses me, so it’s my next question. “Why don’t I hurt the way I was a little bit ago?”

  The man—Bridger—doesn’t move a muscle, and I understand immediately he’s trying to be unassuming. “I had a doctor friend come and tend to you. He treated your injuries while you were unconscious.”

  “The man who was just here?” I ask curiously.

  Bridger shakes his head. “First, he wasn’t just here. That was almost twenty-four hours ago.”

  I gasp as I realize I’ve lost almost a day with no recollection, and yet… it’s probably the best twenty-four hours I’ve had in years.

  “And no,” he continues. “That was my friend, Logan, who has some medical training, but he couldn’t handle what was wrong with you. I had to call another friend in for a favor.”

  “A favor?” I ask, now suddenly wary again.

  “Yes. A favor,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the distaste in his tone. “He bound your ribs and cleaned the wound on your head. Although it was too late to put stitches in it, he did stitch up some cuts you had on your stomach. And he gave you a shot of a painkiller. I’ve got some more pills he left. Yo
u had some about six hours ago, but I’m assuming you don’t remember that as they’re pretty heavy duty.”

  No wonder I felt fairly good. I was doped up, but again… was thankful for the reprieve. Perhaps I was actually in good enough shape I could get out of here now.

  I start to sit up from the bed as I say, “Well… Bridger… I do appreciate your help, but I’ve probably imposed on you enough—”

  “Lay down,” he orders me, and because the effort of trying to lift myself up is fairly draining, his words and command have me immediately sinking back down again as my head swims with dizziness. “Those were some fairly heavy narcotics he gave you. You’re not going anywhere for a while.”

  “But… I need to go,” I mumble, the effort of just that small maneuver having seemingly exhausted me. My eyes feel heavy.

  “No, you don’t,” Bridger says softly, and I’m surprised by the gentleness of his tone. It’s almost as if the gravel in his vocal chords were replaced by velvet. “You’re going to stay here until you’re healed, then we’ll figure out the best way to keep you safe.”

  I can’t help it. I don’t want to trust a thing he says, but I feel the weight of injury, stress, and exhaustion pressing down upon me. I haven’t slept more than brief snatches of time here and there for the past four days—last twenty-four hours excluded, of course. My eyes start to lower, my body demanding I give in to the drugs and the need for rest.

  Before I fall back under, I find the strength to look at him for a moment and ask, “Bridger… what’s your last name?”

  “Payne,” he says simply.

  Ironic, I think, just before I close my eyes and give in to my fatigue.

  Chapter 3

  Bridger

  Scooping the scrambled eggs from the pan, I transfer them to the plate next to the bacon I’d nuked in the microwave before turning to the toaster and pulling out two pieces of blackened bread. I curse at my ineptitude when it comes to the simple act of making toast, throwing them in the sink where I’ll jam them down the garbage disposal later.

  Pulling two more pieces of bread from the bag, I put them in the toaster, adjust the timer to a lower setting, and try again. While that’s in process, I reach across the counter and pick up the bottle of hydrocodone, shaking two pills from it. I then do the same with the antibiotics. It’s time for my mystery guest to wake up, so I can feed and medicate her again.

  I saw the bruises, welts, and cuts all over her body from the top of her head to her calves, and I know she’s going to need the strength from the food and the numbing effect from the narcotics. It’s going to take her a few days before she’ll be able to move around without these precious drugs.

  Logan and I were utterly sickened the night before last when we got a peek at her back. We were both stunned when she tried to bolt out of my house, faster than I could have ever imagined anyone in her condition moving. I reacted on instinct, lunging at her and grabbing her from behind in a bear hold.

  But the moment she shrieked at me to ‘stop,’ I immediately recognized the sound of pain in her voice, not panic, and I dropped her like a hot potato. When she fell to the ground and her shirt climbed up a bit, I had to swallow hard against the bile that was forming after seeing the black, blue, purple, and green that covered her exposed skin. Kyle had said she was tortured, but he clearly wasn’t conveying to me the brutality of what happened to the woman whose name I don’t even know, who is now sleeping in my bed.

  After she passed out, Logan helped me get her to my room. We unceremoniously stripped her down, taking advantage of her unconsciousness so we wouldn’t hurt her while she was examined. Logan dispassionately cleaned her up as best he could with a warm, wet cloth and antiseptic. Both of us made sounds of disgust low in our throat as we took in the bruises that covered most of her body, and Logan managed to clean some of the blood off her for a better look. But bruises were only part of it as Kayla apparently took a knife to parts of the woman’s body. Mostly shallow cuts that coagulated and crusted over on their own, but one to the middle of her abdomen that was still open and oozing with blood, so it appeared to be fairly fresh.

  It was patently clear to me without Logan saying a word that this was beyond his capabilities. Well, maybe not beyond his capabilities, but it was beyond his reach. He didn’t have a license and he had no access to the necessary supplies he’d need, not to mention the clear fact that this woman needed medication for recovery.

  As such, I had no choice but to call someone else to help. I weighed the option briefly, remembering Kyle’s words of warning over the secret nature of his operation, but figured he’d want her to get the help needed. It justified the call to one of The Silo’s patrons, Jared Crossgrave. He’s a doctor who practices general medicine in Jackson and has been a member of The Silo since we first opened.

  When he arrived, I sent Logan on his way.

  I then impressed upon him the secrecy I’d require before I asked him for his help and revealed to him the woman in my bed. He promised complete confidentiality, but as I’d told the woman last night, he wanted a favor in return.

  After he patched her injuries, then shot her up with something to kill the pain and ensure she’d rest for several hours, Jared asked for his favor.

  A hard ass fucking, but I wasn’t surprised. The guy is as gay as they come, but in conservative, rural Wyoming, it’s not something he feels he can reveal to the public. So he keeps his oblivious wife happy with fancy cars and jewelry, and he’s managed to fuck her at least on two occasions as he’s got two kids, but outside of that… he gets his gay rocks off in The Silo.

  I don’t begrudge him this. In fact, I’m pleased he has The Silo to turn to. It’s one of the reasons Woolf and I opened it, so we could provide a haven for people to express their sexual desires. For closet homosexuals, it’s probably more important to them than just people into generalized kink. Jared comes in a few times a week, happily sucking dick and getting his ass pounded as he prefers bottom. Because I know his dirty, dark secret he’s afraid to reveal to the world, I knew I could call him and be guaranteed relative security in obtaining his help.

  As I said, I’m not surprised he wanted me to fuck him. He’s made no secret of his attraction to me, and he has subtly inquired to others how he could catch my notice. He’d learned relatively quickly that I don’t give my notice to anyone in The Silo unless they had a penchant for some hardcore BDSM and only then, I’ll hand it out without taking anything in return but cash. Jared might like his sex a little rough, but he’s not into the type of pain I would normally hand out.

  So Jared treated the mystery woman and after handed me two prescriptions written in my name for a painkiller and antibiotics, because he thought the open wound on her stomach looked a little irritated, he primly asked if he could collect his favor immediately.

  I didn’t care one way or the other and gave him a careless shrug before leading him into one of the spare bedrooms. Because I know Jared is generally submissive and finds thrill in being controlled, I grabbed him by his hair, pushed him to his knees, and made him suck my dick for a few minutes just to get me hard.

  I did this all with almost robotic precision, putting on a show for this man as much as I would if I was caning someone inside The Silo. I know how important it is to someone like Jared to feel as if I were as into him as he was into me.

  But the truth is that I wasn’t into him at all. Nope… not into guys, preferring warm, wet pussy, but that doesn’t mean I won’t fuck ass, male or female. I’ll do anything with my cock really, as I see it as nothing more than a tool I can use for personal gain. Not talking about orgasmic gain, although that certainly happens when I let it, but rather as a way to meet my needs, whether they are sexual or not. In this case, I needed a doctor’s services on the sly. He wanted my dick.

  So he gagged and choked on my cock as I fucked his mouth for a bit, because I knew that’s exactly the way he wanted it, then I fucked his ass. I lubed up good, and I pounded him hard, just the
way I’ve watched him take it time and again in The Silo.

  My mind wandered as I serviced him, worried about what to do with the woman in my room. I’d become adept at multitasking, able to fuck my way to an orgasm without much thought. My cock knows what to do and my body reacts because that’s what it’s been trained to do. I could probably engage in a focused chess match as I was ploughing someone, able to stealthily checkmate my opponent while getting my rocks off. That’s just how good I am at compartmentalizing my sex away from the rest of me.

  So Jared squealed like a little girl as I tunneled in and out of his ass, all the while his hand worked his own little cock feverishly. It ended satisfactorily to him as he shot his load all over my guest comforter with a moan of relief—which I made a mental note to throw away and buy another—and I pulled out before I came, snapped the condom off, and shot my spunk all over the back of his legs as I wasn’t paying attention to my aim.

  As I orgasmed, I had a very brief moment of respite. As with every time I come, it’s not necessarily pleasurable and it’s never earth shattering. Rather, it’s more like a purging of a sickness and there’s a second… maybe two… where I’m numb to everything. It’s the paralysis of all my senses that I enjoy, giving me relief from my existence even if it’s over all too quickly. Probably why I fuck so much, always seeking to extend that moment of oblivion.

  Whatever shot Jared gave the woman, she was out of it for almost twenty-four hours. Didn’t mean she slept that whole time, and I’m sure she has no recollection, but I helped her get out of bed and to the bathroom twice during the night and once the next day. She mumbled her thanks and once called me Aunt Gayle, but then she slipped back into heavy slumber when I put her back to bed.

  The reason I knew she needed to go to the bathroom was because I sat by her bed that entire time. I was terrified to leave her—sure she’d wake up at some point completely lucid and ready to bolt. But she didn’t, except for that brief conversation we had where I think I was successful in reassuring her she was safe, and then she was out again.