Page 65 of Seizing Control: Part Two

And that hard.

As I cry, I recognise that I’m exhausted. Emotionally drained. Physically wrecked. From this argument and all the ones that we’ve had before and the ones still to come. My life is a sorry state. My current situation as bad as it gets.

And I know it’s only going to get worse.

Sobbing softly, I push up on to my tiptoes to alleviate the numbness that’s flooding my arms. No matter how hard I strain, I can’t unbind the leather restraints holding me captive. With my stomach in the way, I can’t scan the floor for items that might help me. My lack of mobility only hampers my options for escape. I should call out for Cub, but I don’t know if I can mentally withstand the humiliation of my childhood friend seeing me like this.

As I contemplate swallowing my pride, the outside door is pulled open.

Familiar booted footsteps reach my ears.

I bite my bottom lip until it bleeds.

Panicked.

Frantic.

If Lazarus finds me like this, he’ll lose it.

The war I’ve tried to avoid will commence.

“Fuck me.” The fury in my first love’s voice makes me shiver. “What the hell did he do to you?”

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” I hiccup through my reply. Blinking through my tears, I fix my gaze on Lazarus and silently plead with him not to leave me. He swallows deep, his lips moving like he’s counting as I say, “I hurt him, and he needed to lash out to feel better.”

“That’s bullshit.” Lazarus contests my assessment in a hard tone. He makes quick work of the leather buckles around my wrists, catching me with one arm when my legs give out under my weight. He hauls me into a bridal hold, his arms offering a safe harbour, and my head automatically seeks out his comforting shoulder as I silently weep with relief. “Don’t cry, sweet thing. I’ll kill him... you’ll never have to deal with him again.”

“No,” I plead. “He’s hurting.”

“He will be once I’m done with him.”

“You can’t touch him,” I beg as my first love snags a blanket from the reading nook and wraps it around me. When Lazarus carries me toward the door he entered through, I blubber like a crazy person, “Please, Zeke... please.... promise me that you’ll leave him unharmed.”

“Can’t promise you that, metukà shelì. He crossed a line and that can’t go unanswered.”

“You can’t kill him.”

My amended pledge is greeted with a hard nod. “I won’t kill him.”

After gently lowering me into the front seat of a blacked-out G-Wagon that I’ve never seen before, Lazarus goes to close my door. I stop him with a soft grip on his throat. The feeling of his Adam’s apple working beneath my palm gives me a glimpse into the power my husband derives from collaring me. It steadies me long enough to find the words I need.

“There’s an envelope. It’s on the floor with my things. Can you grab it for me?”

“Okay.”

While he’s gone, I pray that he won’t cross paths with Slash. The last thing I need is for them to fight. I love them both, yet my husband is making it hard to remain hopeful that things will work out in the end. My reunion with Lazarus lulled me into a false sense of security, and I began to attribute the same kind of changes that he’s made to my husband.

More fool me.

The darkness in Carter Hudson is different to the cruel lack of control that once ruled Venom.

It’s a lesson I’m fast learning—the hard way.

“Here, sweet thing.” Lazarus passes me the yellow package after he’s deposited my tattered clothing and boots on the back seat. I pull the blanket tighter around me, then accept it from him. “Is it from Slash?”

“Yes.”

I run my fingernail under the seal as Lazarus brazenly drives out of the Shamrocks gates.

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