by Emelia Blair
It rings again, and, frustrated, I answer.
“What do you want, Philip? I’m busy.” My voice is hushed.
“Whatever you’re doing, stop it. We need to talk.” His voice always sounds like sin, low and husky. Right now, though, there is a tinge of authority to it, and he sounds a little put-off.
“We can talk later.” My voice is a bare whisper as I slowly turn the lock and pull the door open.
“Why are you whispering?” I can hear the suspicion in his voice. I restrain the growl building up in my throat.
“Because I don’t want the intruder to hear me,” I hiss. “Can I deal with one goddamn problem at a time?”
Silence on the other end, before he asks in a dangerous tone, “I’m sorry, did you just say there’s an intruder in your apartment?”
Maybe it is odd for him, seeing how he lives in such an upscale neighborhood. Break-ins are common in my area.
This is going to be my second break-in in these last few years.
There is a scar on my ankle as a reminder of what happens when someone is bigger and meaner than you and has a knife.
I grip the bat tighter.
“I’ll call you back.”
I stuff the phone in the pocket of my harem pants and wield my bat as if I actually know how to use it.
Taking a deep breath, I forcefully bring my fear under control. I make my way down the stairs to the door that leads to a small hallway. I push open that door as quietly as possible and look both ways, a door at either end of the corridor.
One leads outside, into the alley behind my building. The other leads to the inside of the bakery.
My instincts tell me to run, but I hear another crash and my hands tremble with a mixture of fear and rage. I spent years working on this shop. All my hard-earned money is invested in this shop.
How can I just walk away?
A prayer on my lips, I unlock the door and slip inside.
The heat gets stronger. Sweat pours down my temples as I realize that this is the source of the unbearable heat in my apartment.
Somebody has turned on the stoves – or at least, I hope that’s what they did.
I walk along the wall, staying within the shadows. I know all about blending in and hiding; I was doing that as a child.
Bat gripped tight in my sweaty hands, I hear someone cursing in the kitchen area, and I edge around the corner. My knees weaken when I see orange and yellow being reflected in the glass pane facing the kitchen.
Horror courses through me as I realize that someone is in the process of trying to burn down my bakery.
A movement in my peripheral vision before I get slammed into the ground, my only weapon leaving my hands. I try to get up before a heavy boot kick comes into contact with my stomach and I cry out in pain, trying to curl up, instinctively.
The shower of silent blows accompanied only by heavy breathing sends me back to a time when I was smaller, defenseless as a man with big meaty hands would lift me by my hair and rain endless blows on my face and chest.
I force my eyes open despite the pain, rage taking over.
I am no longer a victim!
I try to push back the pain and roll away, scrambling to my feet, and backing away from my attacker. I can’t see his face as I move towards the kitchen.
My ribs burn, and the fiery agony tells me that there is a very strong possibility that I might have broken one or two of them. I don’t bother with them.
I can’t.
The person advances, and my back hits the display counter. I gasp and quickly dart behind it. The light switches are at the other end of the room, and I have no hope of getting there.
If I could, there is a twenty-four-hour shop right across from the bakery, and Mr. Lionel would be alerted at seeing the lights on.
“Who are you?!” I bite out, unable to raise my voice, the pain coming in dizzying waves, as I try to breathe.
The man doesn’t say anything, just advances menacingly. I take a few steps back, until my back comes into contact with the marble counter. Light and shadow dance across the man’s face, completely covered by cloth except for his eyes.
My hands pat the counter, searching for an effective if makeshift weapon, and it comes in contact with the covered muffin rack that I just placed on the counter a few hours ago to let the muffins cool.
It is made from iron, and that is reflected in its weight. I wait for the man to come closer before I grab the rack and hit him in the face, making him howl and fall.
Taking advantage of his momentary weakness, I try to rush past him to the light switches, but I must be more badly injured than I feel, and I am not fast enough. A large hand grabs my ankle.
He yanks it, making me fall. My hands rise for protection; I hear the crack in my wrist before I feel the rush of a familiar pain.
My head is spinning – I’m dizzy with the throbbing pain that feels like liquid fire, rushing through my body. I feel his weight on my stomach as he settles on my injured body to prevent me from escaping.
I barely feel the glancing blows on my face as I fight back, my nails scratching at him viciously.
I am not going to be a victim! My mind is screaming, desperate tears streaking down my face.
I see the glint of steel, before the man raises his arms.
A knife?!
I look around for a weapon, anything, before all that weight simply disappears, as my assailant is yanked off me.
I scramble back until my head hits the display counter and I see another figure, a more familiar one beating the man.
I can’t think, my mind not focusing.
Forcing myself to my feet, I grab the fire extinguisher, gasping under the weight of it. The glass window that looks into the kitchen is now black with smoke, and I can now see the smoke seeping out from under the closed door.
Putting the mitten that hangs nearby to my nose and mouth, I use my shoulder to throw open the door, and am suddenly surrounded by black smoke.
However, I know my kitchen.
A flick of my hand turns on the exhaust fan.
The fire is raging on the stove and it’s spread to my wooden baking equipment and boards. I spray it with the fire extinguisher.
My heart in my mouth, I spray and spray, not letting go, not giving my arms any reprieve until the fire is put out. Whoever this bastard is, he hasn’t managed to complete the job. My foot knocks against a tin can on the floor, and I force myself not to think about what would have happened had he managed to pour the accelerant over the fire.
The smoke is seeping out through the fan. I hear a loud crash behind me, and I see my attacker push the man who saved me over the counter, before he rushes outside.
I run towards the front of the shop and turn on the lights.
I could recognize Philip from a mile away, and my voice is hoarse as I ask, “Are you okay?”
He is standing up, using the counter as support, and he growls, “I’m fine. What abou—” My knees collapse from under me and I sink onto the floor, finding it hard to breathe. “Charlotte!”
He rushes to my side and I bat his hands away, gasping, “Give me a minute!”
My tank top is torn but I don’t care about my half-naked, exposed body at that moment. Gritting my teeth, I press my fingers gingerly against my ribs, and after a rough examination, I determine that nothing is broken.
My face white with pain, I breathe out, “Help me up.” He does so, his jaw tight.
“I’m taking you to a hospital.”
I shake my head.
“I’m fine. I can fix this. Just let me see—”
My eyes move over my bakery and tears well up in my eyes as I see the damage to my beautiful shop. The crashing I heard was my very expensive dough maker, and even from here, now that the smoke is cleared, I can see the door of the oven hanging on a hinge, and I draw in another shuddering breath.
All my hard work…
My chest tightens with repressed tears as I stagger towards my ruine
d kitchen. I lift my fist to my mouth, trying to contain my anguished cries.
The damage is thousands and thousands of dollars’ worth, and, realizing that I am on the brink of losing my livelihood, I feel my world shatter for the second time in two weeks.
Philip steps into my line of sight, cold fury distorting his perfect features as he raises his hands to touch the bruises on my face.
“Shit. We need to get you to a hospital. That bastard did a fucking number on you.”
I shake my head, pushing back tears, trying to gather myself, trying to think.
“There’s a – a kit upstairs. I can fix this. It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad.”
But this time, it is that bad.
7
Philip
Charlotte sits, just staring at the kitchen area, her eyes lost.
I have never seen her like this, and when her wet dark eyes turn towards me when I ask for the first aid kit, I feel the urge to take her away from all of this and just hide her somewhere, where no one could ever hurt her.
She no longer resembles the woman who stood up to me a few days ago.
“On top of the TV,” she mumbles, and I realize she is telling me where the box is. I hasten towards where she points, and as I get past the doors and climb the narrow stairs, I ask myself why I am not forcing her to a hospital.
Her apartment is quite small, and so incredibly hot.
Even breathing seems to be a task here, and I can’t understand how she is able to live in such a dingy apartment. The television is blaring, and I turn it off and look around for the first aid kit.
Seeing something falling over, I lean down to pick up the box and see a carton of ramen noodles next to the cupboard.
My jaw tightens. She is living lean.
I am going to deal with all this later. There are a lot of questions I have, but for now, she needs looking after.
I carry the small box downstairs, and see that she isn’t where I left her.
“Charlotte!” I can’t veil the panic in my voice, until I see her standing in the middle of her damaged kitchen, her back towards me. Her form is tall and still amidst the destruction. She reminds me a of a lone, broken survivor standing in the center of the battlefield.
She looks so alone right now, that I can’t bear it. Moving to her, I grasp her uninjured hand, my voice uncharacteristically gentle.
“Charlotte.”
She looks over her shoulder at me, and it shakes me when I see the way she is trying her best not to cry. Her eyes are shimmering with tears that she refuses to shed, and her voice cracks as she tells me, “I spent everything I had on building and repairing this bakery. This was my whole world. It took him a night to destroy my whole world.”
“We’ll fix this, I promise!” My words are fierce.
Under normal circumstances, this woman would not have shared something she considers so private with me. But now under all this strain, she has managed to let it slip, I am going to protect this haven of hers with everything I have.
I see from her eyes that she doesn’t hold much stock in my words, and I let it slide.
“I’ve brought the box. You can clean your injuries, but then we go to a hospital.”
Charlotte opens the box and starts taking out bandages, and I am taken aback by the amount of supplies she has.
“I’m not going to a hospital,” she informs me, her voice dull.
I want grab her by her shoulders and shake her, but I don’t know badly she is bruised.
“The hell you’re not!”
She gives me a steady look.
“You’re not thinking. My face has been splashed over the papers ever since we got married. If I go to a hospital, rumors will fly of abuse. Your reputation will be shredded.”
I start, but then snarl, “Fuck the rumors!”
Charlotte moves to where there is a mirror and I trail after her, furious, my bleeding knuckles shoved in my pockets.
She avoids looking at me as she starts applying antiseptic to her wounds.
“That’s easier said than done. I want to maintain a low profile. And you need to stay away from any rumors that might affect your business. Besides—” she eyes me in the mirror, a sardonic smile on her face, “—I’ve had much worse than these.”
I flinch. If she sees it, she doesn’t say anything.
Her movements are slow and steady, and I note how she keeps her eyes averted from the kitchen.
“Can you help me out of this?”
She is gesturing towards her tank top, and I move forward.
I am much taller than her, and her head reaches my chest. As my fingers wrap around the hem of her top, I feel a stirring inside me at the intimate act, despite the situation. However, my flicker of lust dies at the sight of the large, mottling, purplish bruises spread out over her stomach.
I grow cold inside, my fury a living, breathing creature inside me.
I crouch down and lifting my hand, fingers light, I move them over her mottled skin, as if memorizing the shape and size of the bruising. Lifting my gaze to meet hers, my words are lethal as I show her a side of myself that very few know.
“I’m going to break each bone in his body, one by one, until he’s begging me to stop.”
My fingers whisper over her bare skin again, and I feel the way her stomach contracts under my touch. Her eyes are troubled.
Her voice shakes as she murmurs, “If you have time to make threats, you have time to bandage my wrist.”
I stand up and help her.
My eyes take in her bruised and battered form, and it shakes something in me to note that despite how badly she is hurt, it doesn’t faze her like it would a normal person.
At the sounds outside, I see the flash of fear in Charlotte’s eyes, and realize she isn’t as unaffected as she tries to show. I put a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s just the boys. They were on my heels.”
She knows what I mean by that, but her form is still tense.
I unlock the door and then blink when it hits me that she is half naked, in just her bra and some pants. Picking up my coat, I walk over to her, and when she gives me a confused look, I gently hang the coat on her shoulders.
“I’m not done yet,” she protests, but quiets down when my jaw tenses.
“You’re naked. I’ll be damned if I let them see you like this.” She glowers at me before turning her head to the side, and my shoulders relax.
Ian and Fergus are the first ones to enter, Zayn right behind them.
The latter whistles.
“Looks like quite a fight. Hello, Charlotte.”
I see the way his eyes soften for the woman who is legally my wife, and I have to physically stop myself from bristling.
Zayn always had a soft spot for Charlotte, and right now, as he walks over to where we stand and examines the bruises on her stomach that the coat can’t hide, I see the flare of his nostrils, and the cold look in his eyes.
He glances at her.
“You were kicked?”
She nods, her voice faint now as she replies, “He wore some kind of weird boots. Very hard.”
“Get our best team on this,” I order Ian, fury vibrating through my body. I want to rip somebody apart. Ian simply nods, before taking out his phone and retreating to a corner of the bakery.
Fergus eyes the kitchen and winces.
“That looks bad.”
Charlotte’s bandaged wrist shakes in Zayn’s hand as he tests how tight the bandage is, and my friend throws me a quick look.
“Fergus, get somebody in to see the damage and handle this. Replace whatever has to be replaced. Just get it done.”
This anger inside me needs an outlet and my friends can sense it.
“Y-you can’t do that!” Charlotte pales when my eyes snap to hers.
“Why not?”
She swallows, and I feel like a jerk when she seems to make herself even smaller.
“I can’t afford it… yet. I need some time
to get my resources together and—” I blink, not sure if I heard her right.
“You’re not paying for this.”
Her eyes narrow, despite the pain she is in, and she hisses, “I don’t want your charity, Philip.”
I let her words pass, because I know she is suffering and frustrated, but there is an inherent satisfaction in my next words.
“It’s not charity if we’re married, Charlotte.”
She glares at me, and then I see her face crumple, as the events of the night start overwhelming her. I push Zayn away and cup her face, forcing her to look at me, my words a quiet plea.
“Let me look after you, Charlotte. Even if only for these next few days. I need to know you’re okay.”
Her eyes swim with defiance and something else that I can’t identify, before they darken, and she leans her head against my chest. I take that as acquiescence. But then her form goes limp and I loop an arm around her waist, dragging her against me before she falls onto the ground.
Zayn’s lips are pursed before he speaks.
“It’s about time she passed out. I don’t know how she was holding on. Take her to your place. I know someone who’s discreet. He’ll take a look at her.”
I meet his gaze.
“Document everything here. Whoever that man was, he intended to kill her and destroy this place.”
Ian walked in, his phone in his hand.
“I told Greg and the boys to join us here. I’ll oversee them. Is she—”
The flash of concern on his face has me tightening my arms around the light bundle in my arms.
“She’s just passed out.”
Ian looks over at Fergus, who is wading through the mess in the kitchen, and then informs me, “The window in the back has been jimmied open. Once our team does a full sweep, I’ll call the police; report a break-in.”
Zayn twitches, his icy blue eyes disdainful.
“If the police get involved, the reporters will follow. We need to keep the media out of this. Get Agatha on board.”
Ian stuffs his phone in the back pocket of his jeans.
“I’ll swing by her place right now and get her up to speed.”
