Page 18 of Unleashed

"Those pain meds… okay, can you hook me up?" I'm guessing he doesn't really know that much about me. I was given to him in marriage, which doesn't actually surprise me. The arranged marriage idea is strangely familiar. Maybe it's because I was married to him, or maybe it's for another reason altogether. "I think I need a pair of crutches," I tell him. "I can't walk like this. And I really need to get out of this bed."

His phone rings. With a scowl and a curse, he shuts it off and shoves it into his pocket so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.

“What’d your phone ever do to you?” I mutter, but he only grunts in response.

"I'll get you whatever you need," he says. "For now, I'll carry you."

Panic flits across my chest. I don't know him at all, but if what he tells me is true, I know we've already shared…something. I bear his last name and his ring. This stranger of a man knows more about me than I do.

What else does he know about me?

"You'll carry me," I repeat, licking my lips. That's going to mean me coming in much closer contact with him than I'm comfortable with. But I can't walk. I'm completely consumed with pain. Something has to give.

"Do you want me to get your wheelchair?" he asks with a hint of a sneer and narrowed eyes. I can tell he's testing me.

"Absolutely not," I insist. "Fine. I suppose you can carry me, then.”

“I wasn’t asking for permission.”

Argh.Of course not.

“So where are you taking me, then?"

I feel like a child… as if everything is out of my control and I'm completely dependent on someone I don't know. But what's most disturbing of all is thatI'msomeone I don't know.

"To our bedroom. You obviously need some help. You need rest."

I nod, not trusting my voice enough to say anything else.

Our bedroom.

Our bedroom.

It feels oddly intimate, and I can't reconcile intimacy with a stranger. I’ll be alone with him, a thought that both terrifies and exhilarates me.

I stifle a scream when he scoops me into his arms, cradling me like I’m weightless. But there’s nothing even remotely gentle with the way he grips me, his fingers pressing into my skin as if branding me. I feel his strength, his power, and for one terrifying second, one wild thought arrests me: is this how it will feel when he claims me? No softness. No tenderness. Just raw power?

As his fingers brush my skin, I notice a thin, worn leather bracelet on his wrist. A charm dangles from it—a tiny wolf’s tooth. Something tells me this bracelet has significance and has witnessed things, dark secrets held by men like him.

I’m momentarily dazzled by his strong, calming, masculine scent. They say that smell is one of the strongest triggers, but I still can’t remember a thing. I’m only aware that he smells clean and strong and utterly masculine.

His arms are warm, his grip certain as he straightens with effortless ease. My leg aches, but I bite my lip and bear it. I want to get out of here.

Maybe if we don't get along, we can bury the hatchet. Maybe there's hope—no. I can't trust him. I can’t trust him.

"Do I have family?" I ask him.

Am I all alone in this world?

For some reason that I can't put my finger on, I believe that I do.

I remember being… loved. I remember laughter. I remember feeling like I belong. But I also remember being oppressed. Wanting to escape…

Is that what I did?

"I told you about your father, who sold you to get out of debt. You have no mother and no siblings."

Right. Wow. Okay, then. Just a father. I’m like Beauty fromBeauty and the Beast; only her father actually cared about her. Lucky me.

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