Page 45 of Savage Revenge

The last thing I want to do is ask him for anything, no matter how bad the left side of my head is throbbing. Because if I have to ask, he’s going to use that against me and think I owe him something. Men like Cash don’t do anything without expectingsomething in return. Especially from a woman. Hell, I bet he’s the type of guy to tell a girl she has to suck his dick first before he’ll go down on her then conveniently forgets his end of the deal. Selfish prick. I hate him. And right now I hate him even more for not having any ibuprofen to be found.

I squint and try to steady my breathing even as it feels like someone is pounding my skull with an axe. One of these days, I’m sure I’ll die from these migraines. It’s possible it will be today because the pain is almost intolerable at this point.

“What are you doing?”

Irritation flares at the base of my neck as I turn toward the deep voice. Kian. I’ve met him twice, the day they kidnapped me and the day I sat in Cash’s office while they questioned me. But if he’s anything like Beckett, I already hate him. Actually, scratch that. I do hate him. All of them. They kidnapped me for goodness’ sake. Fuck all of them.

“I’m looking for some painkillers.”

Kian grabs an apple from the bowl of fruit on the gleaming island and rolls it in his hand. “Why?”

Seriously? Yep. I definitely despise him.

“Because obviously I’m in pain. Do you know where I can find some in this house? Or do you have some drugs I can have? You look like a drug dealer.”

He stares at me for a second, then the corners of his mouth curl into a smirk. “Always so sassy.”

I’m too distracted by the stabbing sensation in my eye to snap back as I bring my fingers to my brows to try to soothe the pain, wincing as I do.

“Shit. You’re actually in pain.” Kian puts the apple down and moves closer to me. He’s big. They all are. And that’s saying something because rarely do I ever feel small compared to people.

“What hurts?” His voice is actually laced with concern. If it weren’t for the whole kidnapping thing, I might actually think Kian gave a shit about what’s wrong with me.

“I have a migraine. Do you know where Birdie is?”

She brought me breakfast and coffee this morning and left my bedroom door unlocked. I should have asked her for some pain reliever, but I’d hoped I was just imagining a migraine coming on. I really should know better than that.

“Haven’t seen her,” he answers. “I’ll go get Cash and tell him what you need.”

The back of my eyes throb, and my head spins. “No. Don’t bother. I’ll be fine. I’m going to go to bed.”

The last person I want to face is Cash. After last night, I’d rather avoid him for the rest of my life. And then after that as well.

I stayed up half the night planning my escape, but right now, all I can focus on is not dying from this excruciating pain. Maybe I’ll escape tomorrow. If I’m still alive.

Without saying anything to Kian, I leave him in the kitchen and head up to my room. I have no idea where Caleb is, and I can’t find Birdie. I’ve gone through every bathroom I have access to, but none of them have anything to take for pain. I can’t even find an ice pack.

Every step up the stairs adds to the pounding in my head. I use the railing and squint to keep out the bright daylight, which makes me feel worse than I already do. This won’t be the worst of it by the time it passes if I don’t find something to help, but it’s looking like I’m just going to have to deal.

No amount of pain will make me ask Cash for anything ever again.

In my luxury jail cell, a.k.a. Cash’s guest suite, I’ve already turned all the lights off and closed the curtains so it’s reasonably dark in here. Every tiny bit of light is a little slice to my brain. I’veput things in place at my apartment so I can make my bedroom pitch black for these migraine episodes. Most people don’t need complete darkness, so they don’t think about things like that when designing a space.

I stagger into the bathroom and fumble with the drawers, trying to find a clean washcloth. Just as I wrap my fingers around one, Cash rushes into the bathroom, his eyes scanning over me with what looks like terrified concern in them. I want to scowl at him and tell him to get the hell out, but I don’t have the energy.

“What’s wrong, baby?” he asks. “Kian said you’re sick. What’s hurting?”

Stupid Kian. I told him I didn’t need Cash. I don’t want anything from the asshole. Except… Since he’s here.

“Ibuprofen,” I mumble as I run cold water over the washcloth.

Instead of leaving, Cash comes up behind me and stares at my reflection in the mirror. My hands tremble under the cold water, and without speaking, he reaches down and takes it from my hands, then wrings it out.

“Tell me what’s wrong, kitten. I’ll get you ibuprofen, but do you need a doctor? What do you need this for?” He holds up the cloth in question.

“I have a migraine. I don’t need a doctor. I need meds or it’s going to get worse.”

He simply nods and hands me the towel, and then disappears from the bathroom while I let the cold cloth soothe my throbbing eyes. Only seconds later, almost running back in, Cash reappears with a small square wicker basket full of pill bottles in hand. As soon as he sets it down, he rifles through it and pulls out several bottles.

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