As I pull away from the guy who just came in my mouth, wiping the sticky substance from my chin with the back of my hand, my eyes meet Chernov’s and he smirks at me. It’s a terrifying expression, and as he opens his mouth, I know he’s going to tell his men to torture me like they tortured the girl before.
Just as I’m about to panic, there’s a sound of shattered glass and a strange noise, like an empty beer can pinging off the floor. The explosion follows not a second later, blinding and deafening, leaving me completely disoriented. There’s shouting, bright lights, and gunfire. The man who’s been fucking me shoves me, and I painfully hit my side against the coffee table. Then, because I have no idea what’s happening, I crawl under it and press my hands over my ringing ears.
I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until sharp light hits my face. Opening my eyes, I find a flashlight and a rifle aimed at me. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out, so I juststare at the faint outline of a helmet behind the flashlight and wonder if it will hurt when I die. Honestly, it would be a little unfair if it did.
There’s more shouting, but the rifle disappears, and a few moments later another masked person shows up. As she removes her helmet and mask, I realize she’s a woman. Smiling, she gently but firmly pulls me out from under the coffee table. A blanket is wrapped around me, and I’m led away.
There are flashing lights, more people, another blanket, light in my eyes, someone asking questions my sluggish mind can’t understand. Pain on the inside of my elbow. A needle? The woman applying it smiles at me, so I guess everything is okay?
I must fall asleep, or my mind is just too overwhelmed, because the next thing I know, I’m in a small hospital room, hooked up to several machines and wearing a hospital gown. The machines are silent, which feels odd. In the movies, they always beep, although I assume it would get really annoying really fast.
A nurse is talking to me, but I don’t understand her words. It feels like my ears are filled with cotton wool. I’m tired, and I risk closing my eyes. Being in a hospital is a good thing. It’s safe. I think? Something important nags at the back of my mind, but I can’t focus enough to grasp it.
When I wake up, my mind is much clearer. I lie still, taking stock of my body. Nothing aches, which is definitely new, and means that either I’ve been here long enough to heal or someone gave me pain meds. Judging by the liquid steadily dripping into the tube connected to my arm, my bet is on the drugs.
I’m in a hospital. A real, normal hospital for normal people, not a place where mobsters go to have bullets removed and their wives to get their tits inflated. The people who attacked Chernov’s place brought me here. They must have been the police, not a rival gang. Now that I think about it, they did have something written on their gear. SWAT, perhaps? Thedetails are fuzzy since my vision and hearing were affected by the explosion and my mind by the shock of everything that happened.
Chernov’s men were about to hurt me. I’m certain of that. The police came at the right time, but they were not supposed to come, were they? Mikhail was supposed to rescue me. How is he going to get to me now? I bet there are police officers around, probably waiting to talk to me. They must know who he is and what role he plays in the ring. If they see him, they will arrest him, and I can’t let that happen. Hopefully he’s smart enough to stay away, but for how long?
Will he even come back? I know he said I was his, and he said we’d be together forever, but what if he changed his mind? After all, the police storming Chernov’s house just three days after I arrived cannot be a coincidence. Someone tipped them off, and I doubt it was poor Luka. Was it Mikhail? Was it his way of saying goodbye? Having me rescued so he wouldn’t have to bother with me anymore? I should be grateful, except I’m devastated at the thought of never seeing him again.
The tears come then, sobs racking my body as I curl up on the narrow hospital bed and cry. People come and talk to me softly, telling me it’s normal to cry and that whatever I’m feeling is valid. I doubt they’d be saying it if they knew I’m not crying because I’ve been raped and tortured but because I might never see the man who raped and tortured me. I’m not stupid enough to tell anyone, though. Ending up in a psych ward is the last thing I need, not now when I’m still holding on to a tiny—and possibly naïve—hope that Mikhail might come for me.
Chapter 35
Grace
My relative peace in the tiny hospital room only lasts a day or so. The police come to talk to me, and I try to answer their questions while protecting Mikhail’s identity. As I expected, they know who he is, and when they show me his photo, I almost start crying. They must think they’re triggering my trauma because the photo immediately disappears and they leave the room.
The therapist or counselor, or whatever she is, is a sweet older woman who’s always smiling. I haven’t talked much during her visits because I was certain that a wrong word would get me labeled as crazy and locked up somewhere, but she didn’t mind. She talked about emotions, letting myself feel them, and reassured me that any reaction I have to the trauma I enduredis okay because everyone processes things differently. It helped, especially with dealing with the fact that I don’t really feel traumatized. I’m just scared. Scared that I’ll never see Mikhail again and that I’ll have to go back to my normal life and figure everything out on my own. I don’t want to figure things out on my own. I want someone to decide for me and to just…be there for me.
I guess I know why they say to be careful what you wish for, because on the heels of that thought, disaster arrives.
I know I shouldn’t talk that way about my parents. They’re my parents and they love me, in their own way. But I’m just starting to pull myself together when my mother waltzes into the room and shatters what little peace I’ve had.
“Grace Foster!” she shouts, her heels click-clacking on the floor as she saunters over to my bed
Father stays in the doorway, watching me with disapproval, and I shrink in on myself, suddenly aware of my appearance. I’m still wearing the ugly hospital gown, and my hair is all tangled up. At least I have taken a shower. Several of them, and I scrubbed myself thoroughly, desperate to wash the last traces of Chernov and his men off my body.
“Grace!” My mother scowls at the simple plastic chair next to my bed like it personally offends her, and remains standing. “Where have you been? You had us all so worried.”
I blink once, slowly. Where have I been? “I’ve been kidnapped, Mother.” Has no one told her?
“Yes, yes,” she mumbles absently, waving her hand. “What a terrible thing.”
“I told you it was a bad idea to let her stay on that campus,” Father rumbles from the door.
Mother turns her scowl on him. “Well, how was I supposed to know this would happen? The place was supposed to be safe! Nevermind that,” she says. The crease between her browsdeepens as she looks at me again. “Why are you still in bed, Grace? Here,” she thrusts a bag at me, “get dressed. And do something about that hair, will you? There are people around.”
“Yes, Mother.” Knowing there’s no point in arguing with her, I take the bag and make my way to the bathroom. Fortunately, the nurses disconnected me from the machines this morning, so I’m free to move around without having to drag an IV stand behind me. Also fortunately, Mother packed me a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of pants, which will at least hide the bruises on my arms and legs. I’m certain Mother would consider them unsightly.
There’s also a hairbrush in the bag, and tears prick at my eyes as I stare at it. When was the last time I brushed my own hair? It must have been before the kidnapping, because once I became a Doll, Mikhail always did it for me. I feel guilty as I guide the brush through my tangles, but what else am I supposed to do? Mikhail isn’t here. It’s his own fault that he doesn’t get to brush my hair.
Wearing normal clothes feels strange, like I’m doing something I’m not supposed to. After all, the rules clearly stated that Dolls are not allowed to wear clothing unless their Master commands it. But am I still a Doll if my Master isn’t here? I realize I’m probably insane for grieving the loss of my status as a sex toy, but if I’m not a Doll, then what am I?
Mother looks me up and down as I exit the bathroom, clearly not satisfied with my appearance but gracious enough not to comment on it. “Good. Come on, Grace. The parking fees here are outrageous. The sooner we get out of here, the better.”
Now it’s my time to frown. I didn’t realize we were leaving the hospital. “I’m not sure I’m allowed to leave.”
