Masters at Arms (Rescue Me Saga, #0.5)(20)

What the hell kind of security did this place have? Hell, he’d busted down her door and no one had come to check. He returned to the bedroom and crawled back into bed beside her. If any of those dickheads came around her again, he wanted to make sure he stood between her and them.

No way would he leave her here alone. He’d take his chances with the authorities, even though he knew what would happen if they arrested him. Chicanos didn’t assault rich white men and get away with it.

He looked down at her again. So defenseless. She needed him. He didn’t understand what had drawn him to her, right from the moment he saw her in the restaurant. But he knew he needed to protect her. She sure as hell didn’t make good choices when it came to men. Why would anyone subject herself to this kind of pain and degradation? Was she a call girl? Still, he couldn’t accept that she was a common puta.

“The bitch gets off on pain.”

Wrong again. She hadn’t enjoyed the pain those men had inflicted on her. So, why had she put herself in such danger? Safe, sane, and consensual. That was his ex-girlfriend’s mantra for BDSM scenes, but this one had been none of the above.

Savannah needed someone to look after her.

Well, she isn’t going to take a second look at you. Way out of your league, man.

She moaned and turned her face toward him. When she wrapped an arm around his waist, Damián felt his dick harden. She licked her full lips and he fought the urge to bend over and kiss her.

Protect her, Damián. No la moleste.

No, she didn’t need that from him, too. Just hold her. But if he was going to get rid of his hard-on, he’d better think about something other than the perfect chica sleeping in his arms. He steered his mind in a different direction. One thing he knew he could kiss goodbye—his job. Damn. He didn’t want to be homeless again. But, without this job, he wouldn’t be able to pay the rent.

Sometimes rescuing women wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

His social worker had suggested he join the Marines. They’d feed, clothe, and house him. Might get his fool head blown off in the bargain. But maybe not. Whatever he was going to do, he needed to come up with a plan and soon.

First, he needed to get this woman home safely. But if home meant taking her back to Jerk-off, then what? He couldn’t do that.

Another hour passed. Still no security or police. What the f*ck? Hadn’t the man reported him?

The woman slept in his arms as if dead. After she’d turned toward him, she hadn’t moved again. If he didn’t feel her breath on his chest at the vee in his shirt, he would have tried to awaken her to be sure she was okay.

Damián was content to let her sleep. He’d never again hold something so perfect in his arms. He closed his eyes, giving in to exhaustion. She wasn’t going anywhere. Neither was he.

She moaned and his eyelids opened in an instant. What time was it? Still dark outside. He pulled back and looked down at her. She grimaced. Without warning, she began thrashing against him, one fist slamming into his eye socket. Damián didn’t try to hold her captive because he didn’t need her screaming rape. No way did he have the money or power to fight a charge like that.

“Savannah, open your eyes.”

Surprisingly, she did as he ordered, blinking several times as she stared at him. “Orlando?”

How did she know his name? His nametag only gave his first name. When her blue eyes finally focused on him, they opened wider and she scooted away to the opposite side of the bed. Her movements were awkward due to the abuse her body had sustained. She pulled the sheet with her and covered herself.

“Who are you?”

“Damián. Do you remember what happened?”

*

The man looked familiar to Savannah, but she couldn’t place him. Why had she been sleeping with him? She never slept with clients. But he certainly didn’t look like any client she could recall either. And why, if she’d just been asleep, did she want to curl up and escape into sleep once more?

The pain slowly registered. Her body burned from the soles of her feet to her breasts, but she couldn’t remember why. Savannah looked around the room. Opulent antique French furniture. Her mother’s influence. Tears stung her eyes. The penthouse suite. Familiar. She’d been here many times in the last year.

Then the memory of her last two clients returned.

Ropes. Quirt. Electricity.

Each time she’d managed to separate her mind from the clients’ horrific scene, the two sadists had become more relentless in torturing her with whatever device they were using at the time. Sometimes two at once. They seemed determined to keep her mind emotionally invested in the scene, ruthlessly pulling her back into her body to feel each blow, each infliction of pain.

Then one of the men had pulled out his smart phone, spread her private folds, and taken several photos of her shame. They had known she’d been branded. Heat suffused her face. She closed her eyes.

What now? Lyle and her father would be furious. She’d never lost them a client before. Last night, she’d lost two. Her punishment would be severe. She opened her eyes and glanced toward the door. Where had Lyle gone? When would he be back? She supposed her father would send a car for her. They knew they didn’t have to worry about her running away. The threat of living a hellish life as a street whore would keep her tethered in her velvet chains.

Savannah began to shake.