Second Chances (Blood Brothers #3)

by Manda Mellett

  Now he’s playing a game, trying to see how much pain I can take. Each day he becomes crueller, and I’ve can no longer deny that to stay will be the death of me. And he’ll get away with it. He can get away with anything. I have to escape.

  I nod back at my reflection with renewed determination then, looking down at my wrist, I see it’s swollen and worse, out of shape. It looks broken. But I doubt Ethan will let me get treatment for it, leaving it to heal as it is as a permanent reminder of what happens when I defy him.

  As always, I need to look after myself, there’s no one else to help me. Rummaging around to see what I can find to bind it with, I reach down for a container, the one holding medical aid for the guard dogs that patrol the grounds at night—they’re better cared for than me. I find some Vet-wrap. It sticks to itself, so I can wrap it around my injury easily enough with the other hand, making it tight enough to hold it in place, hoping that I’m keeping it in a good enough position to heal, gritting my teeth as I do so. When I’ve finished, it still throbs, but the bandage is at least stopping that jarring bolt of agony every time I move. I’m right handed, I try to think positively, it could have been worse.

  Finished, I switch off the light and leave the kitchen, making my slow, painful and weary way up the staircase and through the hallways of the vast house until I come to the master bedroom, dreading going inside. The very last place I wish to sleep tonight is in Ethan’s bed, but that’s where he’ll expect to find me in the morning.

  Without even the energy to brush my teeth, I remove my clothes awkwardly and struggle out of them using my one good hand. Naked, as he likes me, I ease myself under the covers, swallowing my gasps of pain as the sheets rub on the fresh bruises from my earlier beating, lying on my side to try to find a comfortable position which doesn’t hurt too badly. He snorts in his sleep, rolls onto his back and begins to snore loudly. I hate him.

  Aches course through my body; I don’t think there’s any part of me that doesn’t throb or sting. It’s impossible to sleep. So I lie, my eyes open, plotting how I’m going to leave, determined, this time, I’m going to get away, but all the while knowing I’ll need all my wits about me. If I escape, he’ll come after me. Nothing and no one gets away from Ethan St John-Davies. But I will. The pain makes me determined.

  To escape, Zoe Baker has to disappear off the face of the earth.

  Seventeen months ago

  We’d missed a couple of weeks for one reason or another, but when our next girls’ night out came around I was so eager to see my best friend I arrived early. Tonight I’d got news of my own, and I was almost bouncing in my seat with excitement, impatient to share. Being terrible at keeping secrets, as soon as Sophie walked into the pub and slid up the bench next to me in our normal booth, she noticed something was different and threw me a sharp look.

  “Well! You’ve either got fucked or fucked up!” she announced, as she took a sip of the vodka and coke I’d already bought for her and grinned widely, “Spill!”

  I almost spat out my mouthful of wine, and a short laugh burst out of me at her crudeness. Taking a tissue out of my bag, I blotted it over my lips to dry them.

  “Come on! Which is it?” She looked at me carefully, “Or have you just been playing too hard with your BOB.”

  “Sophie!” Admonishing her, I quickly glanced around to make sure no one heard her reference to my vibrator, then put her out of her misery, “Ethan St John-Davies has asked me out on a date!”

  Her gasp is loud, “He fucking what?”

  “Shush!” I chided her again, noticing heads turn at her exclamation, “Calm down a bit and I’ll tell you what happened.”

  “Well come fucking on then, don’t leave me hanging!” Her eyes were wide open; she was as shocked as I’d expected her to be.

  Grinning, happy and pleased with myself, I think back to that day and explain how it all came about. “It was last weekend.” In my head, I’m back there, “It was Sunday” I start,“ Sundays are the crew’s day off. So I decided to take advantage of the peace and quiet, going back to the site alone to see how things were coming along.” I had a mental picture of the scene. There I was, sitting on the raised bank, enjoying the warmth of the sun utterly engrossed in the drawings I was holding; glancing up now and then as I compared the diagrams to the restoration already completed. I was smiling to myself, happy that the work all seemed to be moving ahead at a good pace, pleased with the progress. Thinking I was all alone, unexpected footsteps approaching on the gravel path startled me. I jumped, and turned so quickly I dropped my papers, and they went flying everywhere in the slight breeze. Trying to gather them up I tripped over a clump of grass landing on my knees. Frigging hell! I’d literally fallen at Ethan St John-Davies’ feet. Could I have looked more of a clot if I tried?

  Sophie was laughing her head off. “You fell at his fucking feet? Way to go, Zoe! What happened next?”

  “He helped me up.” I could see it all again. As a hand reached out to assist me, I looked up to greet my employer, immediately regretting this yet another inauspicious meeting. My rags to riches dream rapidly fading into the distance; I summoned up a polite greeting, “Mr St John-Davies! Good afternoon.” Brushing the earth from my legs, I felt blood rushing to my cheeks turning them red with embarrassment. Trying to regain some measure of dignity, I forced myself to meet his eyes, and used my most professional voice, “I’m just taking a look to assess how things are coming along.”

  He studied me carefully; his head cocked and an appreciative smile on his face, “Excepting the dirty knees, Miss Baker. I prefer today’s look.”

  “Zoe, please,” I grinned, taking his words as a compliment, even enjoying his brief allusion to my clumsiness. Apart from the aforementioned knees, I was turned out quite well today, wearing a simple yellow sundress which I knew was flattering, emphasising my narrow waist and adequate breasts and well as the flared skirt serving to hide my overly wide hips. I’d left my blond hair loose, so it hung in a cascade reaching just below my shoulders. And, simply because it was a lovely day, I’d put a flower in my hair. I looked very different from the mud-covered urchin he’d first met.

  His steady appraisal, followed by a slow, careful nod of approval suggested he liked what he saw. A fact made apparent when he dropped the formality with his direction, “Call me Ethan.” Then he raised a quizzical eyebrow and pointed at the blueprint in my hands. I passed it over to him, and he looked at it, glancing from the paper to the garden in front of us. “Your work?”

  “Mainly, yes. But Rod’s overseen it all.” I gave due credit to my boss while part of my mind was thinking how good my role in this project would look on my CV.

  “How much longer until it’s complete?”

  “Hmm,” I considered, mentally calculating the work remaining. The torrential rains recently had set us back a bit, hence all the mud in the trench, “If the weather stays with us, about a week to ten days.”

  “So, a week to ten days. And then I won’t have an excuse to see you again. Right.” He looked closely at me, and then another smile lit his face. “We must do something about that.”

  Tilting my head, I raised my eyebrows, not quite understanding what he was getting at and not wanting to make a fool of myself by reading in a meaning that wasn’t there. But that’s when he stunned me. Taking my hand, he brought it to his lips and kissed it then, keeping hold; he stared deep into my eyes, “When I’m no longer your, er, employer, I’d like to take you out for dinner,” he paused, “Zoe.” In a deep and oh, so sexy voice, he completed his invitation with my name, stretching it out, so it sounded like it has three syllables. My stomach dropped, and I shivered, even though the temperature was in the mid-twenties. The invitation so unexpected, at first I was unable to respond. My eyes were glued to his as I tried to think of a suitable reply.

  Well, I was certainly not going to turn him down, this rich handsome man who had occupied my thoughts so much over the last few days, particularly when I’d been having som
e time out with my battery operated boyfriend. For a fleeting moment, I wondered what he’d be like in bed. Maybe he’d be the one to show me what I had been missing. He already had my lady-parts throbbing.

  He was waiting for a reply, his brow furrowed as though he couldn’t comprehend why I was taking so long to give him my response, but I was tongue-tied unable to believe one of the richest men in England was asking me out. Fuck! Breaking our locked gaze, I managed to get some sense back. When I was sufficiently pulled together and over my shock, I told him my answer in a breathy voice that sounded nothing like my own. “I’d love to,” while mentally I was giving myself a high five. Ethan St John-Davies was asking me on a date? I knew it wasn’t a proposal of marriage, but even so. Frigging heck! It was hard to prevent myself thrusting my fist in the air and shouting, Yes!

  Sophie’s mouth had dropped open. “Fucking hell, Zoe. When you get back on that horse you do it properly, don’t you? You’ve landed yourself a fucking thoroughbred stallion!

  Present day

  The next morning I feign sleep as the bed dips signalling Ethan is rising, but I sense his malevolent presence standing by my side, and know he’s looking down at me. He’s not fooled. If he were, he’d move away or wake me, but he waits; I hear him breathing and the scent of his expensive aftershave wafts over me. Knowing it will only make things worse to continue to pretend reluctantly I open my bleary eyes. They feel swollen and sore.

  “Why do you try my patience so, Zo? You know I don’t want to punish you.” He speaks so reasonably, his voice so full of regret it would be easy to believe I bring all my beatings on myself. In the beginning, his censure had worked, and I’d forgive him, accepting that I’d been the one to try him too far, that it was me who’d pushed him over the edge. Lying here now, I scoff at myself. Who would ever have believed that I’d become that woman? The one who exonerates her man, and takes the culpability for his violence on herself? But it starts oh, so slowly; you don’t notice the trap closing until it’s snapped tight shut. At first, you think you’re must be mistaken, the man you met and put your faith in would never do something like that; that it must be something to do with you. Then, as the abuse gradually escalates you realise there are no longer valid excuses to be made, and find you’ve sacrificed your very soul into a monster’s hands.

  Experience tells me the correct response, “I’m sorry, Ethan.” My throat is dry, so my voice is hoarse.

  I see him staring at me for a long moment, but am no longer fooled he bears any remorse. He’s examining my injuries, taking pride in his handiwork and admiring the view.

  After a pause, he leans over and kisses me. I make sure to control my instinctive response to pull away. “Rest today. It’s Mrs Denton’s day off, remember? So you’ll have to get your own breakfast.”

  “That’s okay, Ethan. I’m not very hungry,” I reply, hiding my pleasure that she’ll be gone for hours. The emptier the house is, the easier it will be to put my plan into action. Not that the elderly lady could stop me, of course, but she’d report any unusual activity to her beloved Ethan immediately. She dotes on him so much I doubt she believes him capable of doing any wrong. My constant injuries? Well, I’m clumsy in her view. That’s all it is.

  As Ethan continues to watch me intently, it would be impossible for him to miss the pain I’m in, that my nose is probably broken, or I need medical help, but I know better than to ask. My nerves on edge, it seems an age before finally, he takes one last glance, then brushes his hand possessively, almost lovingly over my shoulder; the caress making want to cringe. Then, at last, he leaves.

  As his footsteps fade, my repulsion and fear gradually recede as cautious anticipation and excitement start fizzing inside. Last night was the final time he got to abuse me.

  Sixteen months ago

  “How did your date go? I can’t fucking believe you went out with the richest man in Britain? Go you, Zoe!” Sophie’s face was a picture as she leaned forwards, “Tell me he’s got friends, babe. And when I can meet them.”

  I laughed at her, “It’s early days yet, girlfriend. But I’ll keep my eye out for you. And he’s not the richest man, just one of them.”

  She waved her hand at me, “He’s way up there, babe. But come on, spill the beans. What happened on your date? Did you fuck?”

  I sighed, and gave a sad shake of my head; that was probably all she wanted to know. “It was a great evening. He was such a gentleman…”

  I proceeded to give her a blow by blow account. Ethan had been so solicitous, full of praise for the work that the team and I had done, starting off our evening by telling me, “The walled garden is magnificent! I very much admire what you’ve achieved there.”

  I’d just taken a mouthful of the most delicious salmon pate I’d ever tasted in my life, and answered him once I’ve swallowed it. “It was a team effort, Ethan. I can’t take all the credit.” I smiled at him, relishing the sight of the gorgeous man sitting opposite me in the poshest restaurant I’d ever been to. I’d known dining out with one of the wealthiest men in the country would be daunting, I mean, he wasn’t exactly going to take me to Prezzo’s or Frankie and Benny’s and expect me to select the cheapest thing on the menu or to share the bill.

  I’d been worried that I’d make a fool of myself. Choosing what to wear had been bad enough, but I also wasn’t sure I knew the right etiquette for a highfalutin restaurant. By the time he arrived to pick me up in an expensive sports car, I had worked myself up into a state of panic. But I needn’t have got myself into such a tizzy, right from the start of the evening, Ethan put me at my ease as he complimented me on my simple black cocktail dress as if it was a designer label and immediately relaxed me with his charming manner.

  He continued to act the perfect gentleman, pulling out my chair and waiting for me to be comfortable before seating himself. But his manners shouldn’t have surprised me. His family was listed in Who’s Who and could trace their ancestry back to the Norman Conquest; he’d known nothing but high society all his life. Giving an inward smile, as I sat down and let him push in my chair behind me, I recalled how I tried tracing my family tree and had to give up at the beginning of the twentieth century when finding a great-grandmother called Ann Smith had proved nigh on impossible. Idly I wondered how Ethan’s blue blood would mix with my very average red. And then gave myself a mental slap. This was just a dinner date, for god’s sake.

  And Ethan himself? Well, to say he was easy on the eyes would be an understatement. He was just under six feet tall; his short, dirty blond hair groomed to perfection, his blue eyes sparkling and bright. He was certainly fit and had to work out in some way, I could tell by the way he moved, his muscles flexing beneath his clothes. He had a rounded face, a slightly weak chin—the only down point that I noticed—and clean shaven. His grey suit was tailored to fit, nothing off the rack for him; the faint sheen of the material screaming quality and money. He was wearing a white shirt open at the collar, and no tie. Underneath his skin was bronzed, and I could see a light smattering of hair across his chest. This man had everything!

  The number of knives, forks, and spoons on the linen table cloth had me flustered until he stated he’d ordered a taster menu, a meal of seven small courses and despite my fears, I found it was pretty easy to select the cutlery following the outside-in method. The set meal allowed us to get to start getting to know each other without being sat behind menus for half the night, and provided a topic of conversation as we discussed the food we were served. Ethan dominated the discussion, but that didn’t bother me, I was quite happy hearing about a life so different and alien to my own. And who was I to debate whether the oysters were English or imported? As he spoke his voice washed over me like a silk caress; I could have listened to the cultured accent all night. No, I didn’t resent him monopolising our discussion.

  Ethan liked his food. A fact explained when I found he was all but brought up by the family’s cook, Mrs Denton, spending more time in her kitchen than he did with his
mother. I interpreted that to mean he didn’t have a particularly happy childhood and was an only child. When I asked whether he had any pets to keep him company he told me animals in his household didn’t last long, for some reason and, in the end, his parents stopped letting him have any. Though the comment struck me as strange, I was full sympathy for what sounded like a lonely, albeit privileged, life for a little boy.

  He was funny and made me laugh, playing down his role as CEO of a multi-billion pound electronics corporation specialising in communications, supplying the police and military in our country as well as abroad. He preferred to concentrate instead on relating the antics of Deena, his middle-aged secretary, for whom he seemed to have nothing but respect.

  After the meal, he drove me home and said ‘goodnight’ at my front door with no expectation of being invited in. When he did nothing more than shake my hand, I felt a glimmer of disappointment realising that was probably going to be my last chance to see how the other half lived. But with his parting words he invited me to an elite dinner and dance river cruise down the Thames the following Saturday and I jumped at the chance. Who’d have thought such a wealthy, handsome, kind and charming man would want anything further to do with me?

  “Fuck me, babe! You’re going out with him again? Jeez! Why couldn’t I have seen him first?”

  I gave Sophie a playful slap on the wrist.

  Present day

  As I lie and wait, giving Mrs Denton time to leave for the day, I realise it would be all too easy to stay, just like I’ve stayed all the other times before, telling myself, “just one more day.” But today, I know, I’ve run out of time. Another night like the last and I might not capable of going anywhere.

  Finally I think I can take my chance. Carefully I pull myself out of bed, holding onto the bedstead until a wave of dizziness passes. Hugging my hand across my stomach I go to the bathroom and wash, making sure to scrub away all evidence of what at last I admit can only be called last night’s rape; I certainly didn’t consent to it.