Rude Awakening

by Sam Crescent

  “Jesus Christ!”

  He dropped the spare coat—a violent splash of crimson—and went down on his knees, tucking his hands beneath her and dragging her towards him. With her torso draped across his thighs, he cradled her head in one arm and snatched the glove off his free hand with his teeth. Hand trembling, he touched two fingers to her neck…which bore what he recognised as a collar. He was relieved to find a faint pulse—but it was extremely faint, and if she stayed out here much longer it would fade completely. With some difficulty, due to her floppy body and his arms seizing up from the cold, he managed to wrap her in the coat, conscious of the blue tinge growing rapidly around her plump mouth. He laid her on the ground then stood, scooping her into his arms. He estimated her weight at not much more than one hundred pounds, and the brief thought entered his head as to how she had become so thin or whether she’d always been that way.

  Holding her close, he staggered back the way he had come, using the path he’d created. His house seemed too far, mocking him from the distance, and he upped his pace, clenching his teeth against the throb of his protesting thigh muscles. At last he reached home, and, lifting one knee so he could balance her back across it, he managed to push open the door without dropping her.

  Inside, heat smacked him with as much ferocity as the wind had when he’d first come out, and he slammed the door shut with his boot sole. Quickly, he moved into the living room, placing her on the deep-pile rug before the fire, wondering if that was the right thing to do. So much heat after so much cold might make her ill. Whatever—he followed his instincts and removed the coat and her clothes, tossing them aside. He laid her out on her back and checked her pulse again—still faint but there—and massaged her limbs for what seemed a great length of time. He noted he still wore one glove but dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter, so long as he brought warmth to her body.

  Would she wake? Should he call an ambulance? How long would it take for one to arrive in this weather? His house was out in the sticks, the roads virtually impassable. He’d been lucky to get home tonight, his car slewing all over the road, snide ice lurking beneath the snow. So long as she was alive, he determined it would be okay to continue what he was doing.

  The snow in her hair melted, leaving dark patches on the rug. Her lips gradually lost their blueness, a rosy pink replacing the previously frightening colour, and her cheek closest to the fire took on the red of warmth, not the raw scarlet of cold.

  Her eyelids flickered, and he sucked in a sharp breath when they opened fully and bright blue eyes stared back at him. He breathed out, so pleased to see her awake, and smiled to give her reassurance.

  “I found you outside,” he said, feeling stupid in stating the obvious.

  She struggled to get up, eyes growing wider, darting from side to side in panic.

  “It’s all right, I won’t hurt you,” he said, unsure what the hell to say to take that scared, pained look from her face. “What were you doing outside? Is there someone I can call? Family, so they can come and collect you?”

  She shook her head, leaning back on her elbows, ribcage prominent like a fishing creel covered in skin. He gritted his teeth at the lengths some women went to for what they thought was the perfect figure, when, in fact, he suspected bones dressed in a thin layer of flesh didn’t truly appeal to any man.

  “A hot drink,” he said, standing and holding his hand out. “And a blanket?”

  She nodded again, and he took her hand, tentative to do so at first in case he scared her. But she took it, pitifully bony fingers curling around his, and he led her from the living room and out into the foyer.

  “I have blankets in here,” he said, jerking his head at the coat cupboard. He opened the door and reached inside to a shelf, tugging a blanket free and handing it to her.

  She let go of his hand and accepted the tartan fleece, wrapping it about her shoulders quickly, as though finally recognising her naked state. Her whole body shook, her teeth chattered, and her eyes appeared large in her tiny, pixie-chinned face. Where on earth had she come from? What life had she led that made her look half-starved and frightened? And what the hell was she doing outside in a snowstorm?

  Those questions and more fizzed on his tongue, but he refrained from asking them just yet. Bombarding her too soon might see her taking flight again, and until he could hand her over to someone who cared for her, he’d keep his probing to a minimum.

  “Come this way,” he said, cursing himself for sounding the toff people thought him to be. “To the kitchen.”

  He walked across the foyer to a door beside that of the living room and pushed inside. He flicked on the light and held the door open for her, guiding her across the room, as she shivered on shaking legs, to one of the pine chairs around the matching table.

  “So there is no one I can call?” he asked again, gently, pouring still-hot coffee from his percolator and adding four spoons of sugar in case she was in shock. He’d heard sugar was good for that. Whether it was true or not remained to be seen.

  “No,” she whispered, accepting the mug in both hands, taking a healthy gulp and wincing.

  “I see.” He pulled out a chair opposite and sat, watching her for signs of distress. “Your name then?”

  “I…I don’t remember.”

  She took another sip, her body shaking less, though it still gave a violent jerk now and then.

  “You don’t remember?”

  As she shook her head and turned away from him to stare at his back door, he wondered if she was getting ready to bolt. If she did, there wasn’t much he could do about it, short of holding her prisoner while he called the police then let them deal with her.

  “Hmm,” he said, his need to fill the silence strong. “Do you know why you were outside with no coat on?”

  “No,” she said, sipping, still staring outside.

  “Are you happy to stay here until the morning? Until we can figure out what to do? I doubt an ambulance or the police—”

  “No!” she said, snapping her head to face him. “Don’t call anyone. No one at all. I’ll be all right. If I can just stay here until…until I know who I am, then I can go back home.”

  How long would that take? He wasn’t versed in the medical field, but he knew amnesia could sometimes last years. At some point she would have to leave, he’d have to let the authorities take care of her, but despite her having no apparent recollection of who she was, he skated on thin ice with regards to keeping her here. As a lawyer, he knew if she was aware of who she was, she might not want to stay here at all, and if he allowed her to stay when she wasn’t sure of her own mind, he could be in a heap of trouble.

  Monday. She can stay until Monday.

  “All right,” he said, scraping his chair back and wincing at the harsh sound it made on the slate floor tiles. “We’ll leave it over the weekend, but only on the condition that as soon as you remember who you are, you must tell me. People could be worried about you.” He decided to push it a little more. “And considering your…appearance, it doesn’t look like you’ve been eating too well recently.”

  She let a small smile touch her lips and drank more coffee, gaze straying back to the door.

  “Do you want to leave?” he asked, giving her the option despite his instincts shouting that she couldn’t walk back out there tonight.

  “No,” she said. “No.”

  “Are you looking at the door for any specific reason?”

  “Yes. Wondering if it’s locked.”

  “Yes, it’s locked. It’s night-time and I live in the middle of nowhere, so it needs to be lock—”

  “Good.” She nodded. “Good.”

  She relaxed, her shoulders slumping, and Harry wondered what the bloody hell had happened to make her so skittish, so obviously afraid of something.

  “I’ll need to call you something while you’re here,” he said.

  “Anything. Call me anything you like.” Her voice was so thin, so…quiet.

  He regard
ed her for a moment, seeing her as he’d found her—asleep in the snow, her mouth blue, legs so red.

  “Ruby,” he said. “That all right?”

  “Yes,” she said, her smile growing a little wider. “That’ll do just fine.”

  Chapter Two

  What the fuck have I just done?

  Ruby—she liked the sound of that—closed her eyes and sipped her coffee, loving the hot liquid rushing down her throat. Running out in the snow had been a really fucking stupid idea, but at a time like that, the weather hadn’t been on her mind. Not only had it been bloody stupid, now she was trapped with another man and there was no way on this earth she was going back outside and freezing her tits off. It was not happening, not today.

  “Once you’ve finished your coffee, I’ll show you to the spare room, then you can take a bath. I’ll get your clothes laundered.”

  The hot guy in front of her kept trying to reassure her, but no matter how strong she tried to be, her attention kept straying to the kitchen door, with her expecting to see him.

  She touched the collar at her neck and a shiver ran through her body. What would happen if he found her? No, she couldn’t think like that. Against all odds, she was free…and intended to stay that way.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The man who’d taken her in stood and moved out of her space but within distance—she suspected in case she suffered with any after-effects of the cold. A really sweet gesture, and one Ruby would keep in her heart always.

  Ruby. It was a rather fitting name and one she was going to keep for a while. Her real name, Margaret Savage, left a lot to be desired. A horrible thing to have lied about her memory, but the less he thought she knew about herself, the less it was likely he’d go running to the police. Keeping a low profile was all that mattered at the moment.

  “Harry.” His voice was direct and left no room for argument every time he spoke.

  Ruby sipped from her cup and took the time to look at him.

  Harry, her protector, was a tall and striking man. ‘Built like a brick shit house’, her mum would say, but to her, Harry was sex on legs. Top notch, the dog’s bollocks.

  He stared down at her as if commanding her to his will, and from years of abuse—sorry, training—she averted her eyes and drank the rest of her coffee. The liquid burnt another welcome path. Although his gaze didn’t unnerve her like his had, she needed to get away from this stranger and have a shower. Touching the collar again from months of habit, she waited for the usual commands of her body. Then, realising her Master was no longer with her, Ruby lifted her head and smiled at the man before her.

  No longer a dog to be kept and ordered around, she was free to live her life.

  Unless he found her.

  “Do you have a last name?” she asked.

  “Not one I’m willing to divulge at the moment, no.”

  His voice, for some unknown reason, made her feel protected. And wow, was he ever posh. He must be one of those toffs working in a high-end job. With a house like this, and the obviously well-cut clothes he wore, he inhabited a world she’d only ever seen on TV. The type of person who looked down on the likes of her, unless they wanted a bit of rough with a common girl from a council estate.

  Ruby cursed her life and her upbringing. A standard education, and brought up in an area considered ‘rough’, Ruby believed she’d made a decent way in her life despite the pitfalls. Long before meeting the bastard, devil incarnate, that was. A library assistant didn’t pay very well, but she loved her job. Though, the library had been the place the bastard had found her.

  More than five years had passed since he’d come into the library, wooed her and taken her away from her life. No more second-rate flats or dead-end boyfriends. No, she’d fallen in love with who she’d thought was a decent man. Then it had turned out he wasn’t so decent, and her life had turned to shit.

  Another thing—she really needed to stop swearing.

  “I’m ready for the bath or a shower,” she said.

  He nodded. She smiled and followed him out of the kitchen, clutching the soft blanket around her. How she managed to contain her gasp of surprise was beyond her. The house was more like a mansion.

  “Do you actually live here?” she asked. “You know, own this gaff?”

  Harry turned abruptly and gave her a funny look.

  “I was only asking.” Jesus, what got his goat?

  She looked away from him and gazed at the walls in the hallway—a hallway bigger than her mum’s living room. How the other half lived! The paintings alone must have cost more than she’d made in a year. They were so beautiful—classic art she reckoned. She’d seen some in books and wasn’t sure if she believed they were the real deal—artwork of the universe and interpretations of still life so breathtaking that she fell behind to look closer.

  She was brought out of her awe when he cleared his throat—in a very uptight kind of way—and tapped his foot.

  Strange man.

  “I’m so sorry. Your artwork is amazing.” She pointed behind her and wondered why the hell she was trying to show him when it was obvious where his bloody art was.

  He simply moved on towards the uncarpeted stairs, some kind of polished dark wood that shone from the light of a chandelier.

  What the fuck’s his deal?

  Instead of over-thinking his rejection and obvious dislike of her, she took the time to admire his arse.

  How long had it been since she last appreciated an arse where Master wasn’t present to yell at or ridicule her?

  Too long.

  Harry’s was tight, hard, and for a split second she imagined sinking her fingers into the flesh, holding him closer to fuck her harder. The image, shocking and sudden, shook her to the core. No man had made her feel that way. Those times and images were long gone, banished by the greater fear of the whip or far harsher punishments. Whips brandished not to give her pleasure-pain but to hurt, to make her know her place. On the surface, to anyone who might have been watching, the whippings looked like any other normal play, but when his temper had been really rife and she’d been unable to scream or break free, she’d suffered unimaginable pain. Oh, she didn’t need to imagine the pain now—she knew first-hand how a badly wielded crop could make you want to die rather than feel another strike. Some scars were still present on her back, faded as they all became with time, but still there.

  The scars inside her heart and mind, though, they were another matter.

  She trailed Harry up the stairs.

  Times when she thought about her past—because it was her past now, and her present was here for however long Harry let her stay—she wondered why Master had picked her. Out of so many other women—other women who’d gladly do as they were told with no second guesses—he’d chosen her, someone who had spoken up when she wasn’t supposed to, who questioned him.

  He’d soon beaten that out of her.

  Her life, her very upbringing, had hindered any positive relationship she could’ve had with him. Growing up on a council estate where you got bullied for being different made her, as a child, steer away from making many friends. She didn’t go out much, and when Master had come into the library, with his kind words and soft gestures, she’d thought she’d found her equal, someone who enjoyed a woman who wanted to learn, wanted to understand every aspect of BDSM.

  She soon found out it wasn’t her job to learn. Not the kind of lessons she’d had in mind, anyway. Her job was to learn a totally different lesson—do as you’re fucking told. After a time, she’d realised he manipulated things so she was in the wrong and he had an excuse to punish her.

  Fuck, don’t cry now. Keep it all together.

  At the top of the stairs, Ruby followed Harry down a long corridor filled with several doors.

  “Well, is this your house?” she asked again.

  Please tell me I haven’t just stumbled upon one of the richest men alive. Tell me you’re looking after this place. I so don’t need my life
to go to shit like that, getting involved with another damn toff.

  He stopped suddenly and she collided with his back. Her gasp and inhale brought a giant whiff of his wonderful, natural scent. Harry Something-or-Other had it going on in all departments.

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, stepping away from him.

  Crap. A blush was spreading to her cheeks. She tried to cover it with some of her hair, but he reached his hands out and stopped her.

  “Don’t shield any of yourself from me,” he said gently.

  Her vocal cords went into retreat, and she stood still as he pushed her hair off her face, his fingers brushing across the sides and back of her neck. Goosebumps erupted on her skin and she gasped, the tightness in her muscles doubling against the onset of arousal—arousal so quick and unexpected Ruby couldn’t account for it. Not daring to look up, she kept her gaze firmly on his hard chest. A wide, protective chest, one that would surround her as he made love to her.

  Where were these erotic thoughts coming from? Master only evoked fear and loathing. This—the thick pulse of warmth between her legs and the tingling sensitivity on her arms and body—could only be described as the instant arousal she’d experienced too long ago to remember.

  Her solace to the situation with Master had been to bring herself to orgasm. Had she ever reached orgasm with him? She did once or twice, and was truly amazed at her inability to recall all the amazing sensations lovemaking could bring to a woman—until now. Even when pleasuring a man, she’d found some form of happiness in the act.

  “Of course I own this house. What did you think? I was some stray off the street?”

  His words struck a chord with her. She was a stray off the street. Biting her lip, she kept her eyes downcast, her usual defence against seeing derision and repulsion in someone’s eyes.

  “You never know, stranger things have happened at sea,” she muttered.

  “We’re not at sea and the reference is completely irrelevant.”