Page 15 of Forbidden Deviant Games

Andrei looks at me like I’ve lost my fucking mind, and shit, maybe I have. “Call an ambulance,” he says. “They’ll take the girl. What happened with the dealer?”

I settle Haley firmly in the backseat, reaching across her chest to buckle her in before quietly shutting the door and turning to face Andrei. “If you’re not driving,” I grit out, “then fucking move.”

His eyes widen as I shove him aside, gripping the driver’s side door with a fist and lowering myself inside. Just before I shut the door, he grabs ahold of it, stopping me. “Nicholas is going to want to know what happened,” he warns.

I nod. “I know.” I don’t know what he sees on my face, what expression I must be making, but it’s enough to have his brows lifting and his hand releasing the door as he steps onto the curb and away from the vehicle. I shut the door and press my foot to the gas.

My gaze snaps to the rearview mirror and Haley’s pale face. “It’s okay,” I say. “You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart.”

The words sound hollow even to my own ears. I say them, but I’m not sure I believe them. I don’t know what saying them will do, or who I’m trying to convince. The unconscious woman in my backseat … or myself.

9

HALEY

Wakingup from being drugged is like slowly rising to the surface of the deepest pool in the world. I’m aware of things around me before I’m ever actually awake. I can hear the beeping of machines. The sound of a man talking gruffly, though not who he’s talking to.

I shiver, the feeling of cold intruding on my slow ascent to the world of the living once more. That’s how I know I’m in the hospital. Only hospitals are this fucking cold. I crack my eyes open and sure enough, the sight of a hospital gown greets me as it hangs down my chest, covering my body halfway until a plain white sheet takes over for the rest of me.

My head is fucking pounding. My mouth feels like I’ve swallowed a dozen cotton balls and they left some sort of strange fuzziness on my tongue. Most of all, though, it feels as though my whole body was stretched out and flattened while I was asleep. I don’t feel particularly bad other than the headache thrumming at the base of my skull, but I do feel exhausted.

I turn my cheek, seeking out the source of the male voice. My eyes widen at what I see.

Mitchell Vikson is standing in my hospital room, framed by the light of early morning coming in through the double windows to the side of my hospital bed. He hasn’t noticed that I’m awake yet and for a brief moment in time, I’m given a rare opportunity to observe him while he’s not completely focused on me.

Shit. Life just isn’t fair to us regular people.I scan him up and down.How the hell can someone look so fucking good so early in the morning?

He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, tied at the waist, as well as a plain black shirt with the sleeves cut off. Gray sweatpants—God’s greatest gift to womankind, really. I bite down on my lower lip when he turns slightly, but it’s not enough, and just as quickly he turns away—looking out the window. I want to scream.

Come the fuck on, I think.If I’m going to be laid up in the hospital after being attacked by a drug dealer, the least the universe can do is show me a little something.

I sigh in disappointment and return to my earlier perusal of Viks’ body. His tattoos stretch down his arms all the way to his wrists, and though I know that when he’s all dressed up in one of those thousand-dollar suits of his, they cover everything, it’s kind of hard to imagine.

“I don’t care how much it’ll fucking cost.” Viks’ angry tone has me looking up towards his face in surprise. He never gets angry. At least, he never shows it. But now the muscles of his biceps bulge as he clenches his phone in his fist. “I want the new cameras installed by the end of today. End of story.”

Viks hangs up the phone and blows out a breath before turning back to me, his eyes widening when he realizes I’m awake. “Haley.” He slips his phone into the pocket of his sweats and steps up to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I was drugged by a crazy man,” I reply bluntly, wincing as my voice comes out raspy and dry. I swallow roughly before glancing around the room. “How long have I been here?”

“Only a few hours,” he answers. “They had to pump your stomach in the ER but when you didn’t wake up, I had a room arranged. Now that you’re awake, though, we can probably get you checked out. Are you in any pain?”

I reach up, frowning at the array of cords attached to my arm, before scratching at my neck. “No,” I lie, ignoring the pounding in my head and the soreness over most of my body, specifically my throat, chest, and arms. I’ll take that soreness any day because as I take stock of my body, I realize one very important thing. There’s no telltale soreness between my legs that means I was raped.There’d be soreness if I was … right?I don’t want to consider the possibility that there wouldn’t be. “I just want to go home.”

He nods and heads towards the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it taken care of,” he says before he disappears into the hallway.

Two seconds. That’s all it takes before the reality of what happened finally fucking hits me. The door to my room slides shut and the outside sounds of people talking and working in the hall are muffled. My chest tightens at the same time my fingers do in the sheets covering my legs.

I don’t feel any different. Not really. I reach down beneath the sheets, pushing them away as I pull up my hospital gown. I don’t know where my clothes are but there are no bruises on my thighs. If they pumped my stomach … does that mean they cleaned me up? Did something actually happen and Viks just doesn’t want to tell me?

I remember being drugged. I remember being held against the wall in the storage room. The dealer’s face wavers in my memory like a haunting ghost and I shake my head to try and rid myself of the image. Bile rises up my throat, but I choke it back down.

“Don’t,” I warn myself, my voice a whisper in the quiet room. “Don’t fucking think about it.”

The door opens and my thoughts recede as Viks walks in, practically dragging a tall, skinny man old enough to be my grandfather in a white lab coat. “Check her out,” he orders, releasing the old doctor. “Make sure she’s fine.”

I blink as the disgruntled man takes a step away from Viks and straightens his coat. His eyes move to me. “Miss Montgomery,” he says in what I assume is a professional manner—as professional as a man can be while obviously avoiding looking at the massive tattooed monster in the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I want to go home,” I repeat.

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