Page 33 of Tormented Heir

Pain.

So much pain.

My eyes open, and the light explodes, burning my retinas.

Holy hell. Where am I?

I turn, and oh, that was a mistake. Sickness washes over me so sharp I bend over the bed and vomit. All over the floor. The plush carpet below me is soaked with watery bile.

Carpet. Am I at home? But no, this is not my carpet. This is thick and mink colored.

“Fucking bitch.” The deep male voice startles me. I turn and whimper as hammers pound my skull.

A man is watching me. He’s young, with a buzz cut and rings on every finger. Ink crawls all over his hands and up his throat. The white shirt he’s wearing is tight and fits his skinny body like a glove.

“That carpet is gonna be a bitch to clean, stupid cow.”

I frown. He sounds British. English, from the south. Am I back in England?

“Where am I?” I ask. My voice sounds like a frog croaking.

“In the bay,” he says. “Don’t even try to escape. You jump overboard and the cold and the currents will kill you.”

“What bay?”

God. My head!

“The San Francisco Bay, you dumb, stupid cow.”

He likes to use cow as an insult.

“Who are you?” I moan and put a hand to my head as if I can stop the pain.

“Your guard.”

“Why do I need a guard?”

He shrugs. Then he starts to bite his nails and spit them out. I must look away in case I’m sick again.

Terrified, but in so much pain, I can’t quite bring myself to care. I fall back against the sheets and close my eyes.

When I blink them open next, it’s dark. I put my hand out and yelp. There’s a warm body next to me. Oh, God. Is my guard in bed with me?

The thought has that sickness rising again.

The body next to me moans, and it’s a distinctly female sound. Thank the Lord it isn’t my guard.

I do a quick inventory of my body. I’m still sick as hell, my head still pounds, but less so, and my vagina feels normal. No pain. No stickiness from what I can tell. Surreptitiously, I slip my hands down my body and into my panties. Nope. No fluids. No soreness. Surely, I’d know if I’d been taken advantage of.

The girl next to me moans again.

“Hey,” I whisper into the dark. “Are you okay?”

She coughs, and it sounds pathetic and small. “My head hurts.”

“Did they use the cloth?”

“Yes,” she says. She sniffs and coughs again. “Who are you? Where do you think we are?”

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