“I’ll try my best. Bodie needs to take her meds,” Braun said apologetically. “She’s started being stubborn about it, so I need to go browbeat her.”
“Go see to your sub, brother.”
“Thanks, Att. For everything.”
When the line went dead, Atticus scrubbed his hands over his face. Honestly, he didn’t know how Braun held himself up under the sheer pressure of juggling his businesses, his pregnant sub, a tenuous pregnancy, and all the other Jenga blocks that consisted of his life.
Booting up his computer, he logged on to check his emails and answered half a dozen which required immediate attention. Days off were never really days off—more like short periods of uninterrupted time. Once the emails were done, he pulled up Alicia’s medical file and studied it for the tenth time, scribbling down notes he wanted to explore further, including one Doctor Joseph Fielding, the orthopedic surgeon who’d been ten-year-old Alicia’s doctor.
By all accounts, Doctor Fielding was a clever man, Atticus mused as he dug swiftly through the data he brought up on the screen. He’d been in his thirties when he’d treated Lisha, and even then he’d had a solid track record behind him. The guy wasn’t squeaky clean, but then, most people weren’t.
A couple dozen speeding tickets were his worst infraction, and Att could see why when he discovered the doctor drove a sports car worth a couple hundred thousand dollars. Bought with the proceeds of infrequent gambling wins.
Good old Joe liked to play the ponies, and when he placed his bets, he played big. Sometimes he won, mostly he lost, and his gambling debts had grown considerably over the past few years. He was lucky he still had the car, and the use of his limbs.
What were the chances he had a sympathetic bookie?
“I don’t like the way you smell, Joe.” Atticus pinged Archie with an instant message, asking her to delve into the doctor as deep as she could. He could do it himself, but his newest hacker needed some practice to refine her technique.
From there, he contacted a friend of his and asked her if she’d review Alicia’s records from back then. Julia was a neurosurgeon, well regarded in her field, and she owed him a favor…or two. She could give him answers to all the questions he had, if she had the information to work with.
Finished with those little tasks, Atticus shut down the computer and checked the time. Almost ninety minutes had passed since he’d last checked on Alicia, so he indulged his inner Daddy and stalked to her room.
She was half-twisted under the covers, her arm under her pillow. Slow, easy breathing with no signs of distress, which pleased him immensely. He was on high alert for nightmares.
The glass of juice on the tray was empty, one quarter of the sandwich and the two cookies had gone. In future, there would be no sweets before the main meal, but for now, he was just relieved she’d eaten something and started the process of refueling her body.
Content with the knowledge she was okay, Atticus went back to work.
*
Clean sheets. Soft bed. Pillows that didn’t smell like stagnant pond water.
The scent of peanut butter was strong.
Mumbling under her breath, Alicia rolled onto her back and frowned as something plopped onto her shoulder. She lifted her hand to touch the foreign object, and picked up a triangle of smushed bread smeared with peanut butter and jelly. Huh. Apparently, she’d decided to wear a sandwich in her sleep.
God, now she was a mess. She returned the mangled triangle to the plate beside the bed, then ran her fingers over her cheek, wincing as they came away covered in stickiness. And where, pray tell, was the other section of bread?
She couldn’t let Atticus see her like this. What would he think? Probably that she was a moron who couldn’t eat like an adult. The thought was demoralizing, but it spurred her into action.
The room was bordering on darkness, the last rays of light filtering through narrow blinds. She’d slept the afternoon away, hadn’t she? Atticus must be wondering what kind of creature he’d brought into his home—all she’d done was cry, sleep, and smear food over herself.
Good Lord, she was a toddler again.
With a grunt of effort, Alicia made herself sit up, gripping the edge of the bed to help. A little wiggling and she got herself into a position where she could set her palms flat on the mattress and use her arms to lift her hips, dragging herself to sit against the headboard.
After a moment to catch her breath, she leaned over and pulled the wheelchair beside her, using the handbrake to lock it in place. She’d learned that lesson the hard way—always make sure the brakes were on when trying to transfer her useless ass from a stationary surface to a mobile one.
“Okay, you can do this. It’s been a while, but you’ve been doing this for more than half your life.” But the pep talk wasn’t working. All the jibes and niggling comments from the orderlies, their tricks and cruel jokes, came back in a tidal wave. Her confidence in her independence was badly damaged. “Come on, Alicia. If you don’t get to the bathroom and wash your face, he’s going to know how fucking inept you are.”
Her hand shook as she reached for the armrest. Bile rose in her throat as she recalled Elliot’s words, his threats, if she ever tried to get into her wheelchair unassisted again. If she ever attempted to exert her independence in that hellhole where they wanted her helpless and weak.
So much as touch it and I’ll make fucking sure your arms are as worthless as your fucked-up legs. You stay in that bed, you keep your mouth shut, and you do as I tell you.
As though it burned her, Alicia jerked her hand away from the armrest, cradling it to her chest.
“I think you should tell me who Elliot is, princess.”
Blinking through a watery haze, she stared at the mountain looming in the doorway. Thick arms crossed over a broad, stunningly naked chest, Atticus didn’t look happy. No indeed, he looked as though someone had peed in his Fruit-Loops. “E-Elliot? I don’t know—”
His growl was shockingly rich. Something tingled between her legs, brought to life by a sound that shouldn’t be possible coming from a human. Uncrossing his arms, he stalked forward a step, then scowled and disappeared into the bathroom.
Okay, what the hell was that?
Connie had told her that Atticus was a man of many means—he could get information from anywhere, from anyone—but he shouldn’t know about Elliot…because if he did, what else did he know?
Her heart rattled against her ribs when he prowled from the bathroom, a washcloth in his hand. She shrank back against the headboard as he approached, her fingers scrabbling nervously against the sheets.
Atticus laid his empty hand on top of them, stilling the fearful movement as he eased his hip onto the mattress beside hers. “Is it me you’re afraid of, Alicia?”
She shook her head slowly, her attention switching onto the sheet of muscle in front of her. He was close enough to touch, the definition of his pectorals and the faint outlines of his abdominals secretly begging her to run her fingertips over them. Over the tanned skin, through the thatch of chest hair narrowing down to a thin line that went under the waistband of his jeans. “No.”
“I’m pleased to hear it.” He brought the cloth to her face, gently cleaning away the peanut butter and jelly on her cheek. “I won’t ever give you a reason to be, princess. No raised hands, no veiled threats. Don’t ever be scared of me, okay?”
She nodded in agreement, then flinched when he wiped the fingers she’d touched her face with clean. “You’re a very intimidating man, Atticus.”
“When I need to be. When it comes to pretty princesses, I’m a great big teddy bear.” He set the cloth aside and gave her a no-nonsense look with those irresistible green eyes. “When I came to check on you, you were mumbling about someone called Elliot. Something about him terrifies you—I’d like to know what.”
Alicia came damn close to spilling her secrets. Evidently, Atticus was just that good at what he did. Instead of words, a hesitant laugh left her lips. “
I’m afraid I’m a little confused, I—”
“Rule number one in this house,” he interrupted, his voice hardening as though someone injected steel into it, “is no lying. Little girls do not tell fibs to their Dad—” He stopped, cleared his throat. “Dishonesty is one of my deepest hatreds, Lisha.”
Her head cocked. Little girls don’t tell fibs to their what? Had he been about to say Daddy? Because it sure seemed like he’d been about to say that. She wasn’t shocked, per se—her parents had blackmailed numerous people over the years for their sexual habits, and kink had been a favorite moneymaker of theirs. Not to mention the small porn business they’d run on the side.
Atticus was a member of the club Braun owned, one of the higher members like Connie, if she’d done her snooping right. She wasn’t judging, because part of her found the whole concept fascinating, but she was a little taken aback by the notion of him being a Daddy Dom.
Are you really? A little voice demanded in disbelief. Are you really surprised by that possibility, after everything he’s done for you today? He calls you Princess, Alicia. He looks after you like you’re precious.
“Let’s try again, shall we? Who is Elliot, princess?”
Again and again, he wrenched her around to face the issue she had no intention of addressing—one of the people who’d made her life hell. Atticus might be the most patient man on earth, but over the years, she’d learned how to be stubborn, how to build a fort and hunker down.
How to be silent.
If Atticus didn’t want her to lie, then she wouldn’t. Her tongue would be still, her voice non-existent. Mulishly, she pressed her lips tightly together and averted her gaze.
“Poor, frightened little princess. There’s no hiding from me. Not that I’m doubting your skills,” he said gently, nudging her chin up with the side of his finger. “You’ve been given enough reasons and far too much practice in the art, but it doesn’t work. There are chinks in your armor, Alicia. Dangerous ones.”
She trembled at the surety in his tone. He wasn’t backing down, wouldn’t back down, until he got exactly what he’d asked for.
“In my experience, little girls who lock themselves away in the dark to escape the monsters break in one of two ways. The first is messy. Their walls get chipped away until whole sections come down in chunks, exposing them. There are tears, and a lot of snot. Crying. Pain, too much of it at once—far too much for them to cope with.” Atticus cupped her cheek now, smiling sadly at her. “Or they open the door. They control what they let loose, they control the pain. They trust someone enough to carry the burden for them.”
Goddamn him. The muscles in her throat worked frantically to keep it from closing, but she couldn’t stop the quiver of her mouth, or the shuddering breaths huffing through her nose. Just like she had no control over the hand she pressed against his chest, pushing him back, keeping him at bay before he destroyed her pathetic fort.
“It’s just you and me now, Alicia. I talked to Braun, told him this is it for you. No more moving, no more being shuffled around from pillar to post, not knowing if you’re coming or going from one day to the next. I’m yours, no matter what you tell me or how you think I’ll react, until you become who you need to be.”
Her jaw ached from clenching it, her teeth felt like they’d snap. “Stop.”
“This is just the beginning, Alicia. There’s no need to fight—yourself or me. Neither of us are your enemy, you just haven’t come to terms with that yet.” When she almost burst her lungs trying to hold in a sob, his eyes darkened. “Who is Elliot, Alicia?”
“An orderly,” she whispered brokenly, the walls of her fort crumbling. The sob she’d been holding back erupted noisily before she regained control. “He’s nothing. No one.”
One fingertip tapped her cheek in warning. “Be a good girl, Lisha.”
“He likes to torment us. I heard him through the walls. Hits us, swears at us, takes away our food and our aids. Our phones. His favorite thing is standing there when we call our families, our friends, silently threatening to break our fingers, our arms, if we say anything we shouldn’t.” She hadn’t meant to speak in the collective, didn’t realize she was speaking for every resident under that sordid roof.
“Alicia,” Atticus rumbled softly, “you’re not there anymore.”
“W-What?”
“You’re speaking in present tense, like you’re still there with him.” He took the glass of water off the tray and nudged it against her lips. “Drink, princess, and listen very fucking carefully.”
Dutifully, she sipped the tepid water without complaint.
“The rehab facility is being shut down as we speak. The offenders are in police custody, and you will never be left alone with a single one of them ever again. Including this fucker, Elliot. Everyone else there has been relocated back home, or to another center. They’re safe, Alicia. Just like you.” He made her drink half the glass. “Can you tell me what Elliot looks like?”
“What does a demon normally look like?” she muttered, then ran her hand over her bristled scalp. The rasp of the stubble under her palm made her stomach twist. “I’d say tall, but everyone’s tall when you’re in a wheelchair. Six feet maybe. Olive-skinned, dark hair, tattoos down his arms. Stupid little goatee.”
“Okay. Good girl.” His eyes narrowed on her face. “Is he the asshole who put the fear of God in you about getting in your chair?”
Damn giant was far too intuitive for her liking. Alicia jerked her head.
“Yeah, we’re gonna rectify that.” With one quick stroke over her cheek, he stood and angled the chair closer. “Come on, princess, your chariot awaits. Get that pretty little ass on this seat. It’s dinnertime.”
Alicia flushed. If he didn’t stop calling her pretty, her crush was going to evolve into full-blown adoration. She wet her lips, then bit the bottom one as anxiety rose. It was fine, wasn’t it? If anything, Atticus standing there meant she wasn’t alone, so she technically wasn’t breaking Elliot’s rules.
Disgusted with her conditioning, she reminded herself Elliot wasn’t here. He couldn’t smash her fingers with a hammer or snap her arm like a pencil in three different places. Besides, Atticus was big enough, fucking scary enough, to put the horrible orderly in the ground. Hell, he could put just about anyone he wanted six feet deep.
Breathing deep, she shuffled herself around to mount the chair, clutching the armrests as she dragged herself clumsily into the seat, nearly toppling it over. It rocked, then righted, and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“That’s my girl. Can you handle the bathroom by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then, go wash up and meet me in the kitchen.” Patting her shoulder, Atticus turned and walked away, offering her a look at the wide stretch of his shoulders as they whittled down to a slighter narrower waist and hips. She sighed, watching his ass flex in those jeans. “Bring an appetite with you, princess.”
Ugh. Alicia hoped he wasn’t expecting her to eat a lot of food. As hungry as she was, after forcibly missing so many meals, her stomach wouldn’t be able to handle being slammed with food, no matter how delicious. She’d either be sick, or her body would protest in other, more embarrassing ways.
Wheeling herself into the bathroom, she managed to slide herself from the chair onto the toilet. The big bossy man could have carried her in and left her to get on with her business, no question. Maybe—please, God—he realized she needed to regain her dignity and keep her modesty—her dwindling pride—intact.
For the first time in what seemed like months, she actually used a toilet instead of urinating herself. That was a huge step in rebuilding her self-confidence. She loathed the sensation of urine running down her legs, under her butt, and feeling the warmth spread through her jogging pants. She’d hated having to lay in the damn stuff as it cooled, humiliating her.
But the one thing she’d truly despised was reading the smug look on Elliot’s face when he walked into her room, sniffing like a
drug dog, knowing she’d had no choice but to play right into his sick game. Understanding the bastard got off on playing God with those in his care, manipulating them into mortifying acts to make himself feel like a king.
When she was done, she suffered a pang of anxiety as she shifted back into her chair. Her arms ached from using them, but there was a sense of achievement, too. Flushing the toilet, she washed her hands, gave her face another scrub, then pushed herself through the bedroom, down the hallway, into the kitchen.
Good God, the smell.
Mouth watering, Alicia imagined her chair floating along on the scent instead of rolling toward it. The tires hummed on the hardwood floor as she approached the kitchen island. It was a big square, with a wide ledge running around the outside, and all manner of cooking essentials in the middle—a rack of cook books, the requisite bowl of fruit which was actually half-empty, little pots of green plants, and a couple of chopping boards.
The chairs had been moved around so only one remained, next to a space wide enough for her wheelchair. Atticus had set out plates, cutlery, and glasses of juice with almost military precision.
“What is that smell?” she asked, lifting her nose to inhale deeply.
“Vegetable soup. Something to fill that tummy properly before you waste away completely.” Still shirtless, Atticus ladled something from a big pot into a white bowl, then carried it and a small plate of bread over to the island. He placed the bowl on the ledge in front of the empty space, then the bread between his place and hers. “Are your hands clean, princess?”
She held them out in front of her, palms up. “I don’t know. Are they?”
Something gleamed in the depths of his eyes, like green glass flashing in fire. He walked the few feet separating them, taking her outstretched hands and inspecting them thoroughly. Her skin was humming by the time he was done, her heart skipping beats here and there. “Perfect, good girl. Don’t wait for me, eat up.”
Walk For Me: Club Avalon Book 4 Page 5
