Page 8 of Auctioned Surrender

I try to lift my arms up, but they still feel like dead weights, and his eyes flash as he realizes my dilemma. He pulls me tight, cradled in his arms, walks me to the bathroom door, and sits me onto the toilet.

“Did you dress me?”

“I thought you’d be more comfortable in a strange place with some clothes on. All I could find was this t-shirt, and I was fresh out of panties. I’ll help with the shirt and then step out and give you some privacy, if you think you can manage on your own,” he says.

“I think I can.”

“You want me to lift the material a little bit, or would you rather do it yourself?” he asks, and I seriously don’t have an answer for him because my muscles don’t seem to be working the way they should.

“Can you hang onto me while I do it?” I ask him.

He nods, his deep blue eyes staying locked on mine as he places his hands on my waist to keep me steady. I sit up and grasp the material, pulling the hem up while still trying to keep myself relatively covered. “I’m good,” I say, starting to feel the muscles in my arms and hands. I remember his name now. “Damian,” I say.

He nods and stands, assessing me. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need anything. Nothing to be embarrassed about if you need help, okay?” he says gently, those blue orbs of his fixing onto my own.

I nod, and I don’t know why, but the kindness in his voice causes a lump to form in the back of my throat, and my eyes to burn with the strain of constantly holding back tears that threaten to fall. He stands to his full height and heads to the door. “I’ll give you a bit, but I’ll check on you if I don’t hear anything in a few minutes.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, and as soon as the door is closed I adjust the t-shirt, because my bladder simply can’t hold out any longer. When I’m done, I flex my arms and hands, thankful the numbness is wearing off enough to wipe and flush.

The sink is within arm’s reach, and I grab the side of it to hold myself steady and push upward with my legs, trying to stand, when the door suddenly opens and my legs crumple beneath me.

“Whoa!” Damian scoops me into his arms before I hit the floor and scowls at me. “You were supposed to wait for me to help you,” he says, pushing the door out of his way as he carries me through it and back to bed.

I wanted to be able to do it on my own, but the effort to tell him is too much. The back of my throat still feels parched, and talking is difficult. “More water?”

He nods, settling me into bed. “Stay here, and I’ll get you a few things,” he says, heading back into the bathroom. When he returns, he washes my hands with a warm soapy cloth, andthen pats them dry with another. “The physician who’s been overseeing your care will be back in a while to check on you.”

“Thank you.”

He takes the glass of water and lifts it to my lips. “Nice and slow. I still want you to take small sips, so you don’t get sick.” Something about the tone of his voice sends a delicious little shiver down my spine and right to my center.

The cool, refreshing liquid feels so good on my lips, tongue, and the back of my throat that it’s hard not to swallow the entire glass down in one gulp, but his eyes are laser focused on mine, watching as I drink, reminding me of his instruction.

I run my tongue over my lips, and his eyes darken. He reaches for the tube of ChapStick sitting on the nightstand. “Let me put some more on your lips, so they don’t crack.” He watches me as he caresses my lips with the soothing balm.

I rub them together gently. “Mmm, that feels so much better. Thank you,” I say after he finishes.

“Are you hungry? I have a tater tot casserole or tomato soup in the fridge that I’m willing to share,” he says.

My stomach growls, and he smiles broadly as I nod. “Casserole,” I say, because the thought of warm ground beef with soft potatoes makes me realize just how hungry I am and how little I’ve had to eat for so very long. I will away the burning sensation at the back of my eyes because if anyone sees me cry, catches on, and tries to make trouble for my captors, I know what will happen.

All of a sudden, the stark reality hits me. “Oh my God. Where am I?” I’m not in the massage parlor. I was in the massage parlor, and they’ll be expecting me to be there, and to be ready for Friday night. “Where am I, where am I?” I demand, pushing up on my weakened arms and managing to sit up on my own.

He watches me intently, but doesn’t seem fazed at all by my outburst.

“How long have I been here?” I ask, gesturing my arms around the spacious room. The sun is no longer shining, but it couldn’t have been that long, and hopefully I can still make this right.

Damian takes my hands with both of his, and his intense, deep blue eyes wash over me. “Stop, you’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You were drugged, and now you’re at my penthouse. You’ve been here for over twenty-four hours,” he says, rubbing the tops of my palms with the roughness of his thumbs.

My mind wants to focus on the exciting little prickling sensations he’s causing as he caresses my skin, but the reality of my situation has finally sunk in. I have to find a way back quickly and be able to explain why I’ve been gone before the men who captured me make good on their threats. In order to do that, I’m going to have to get past this large and very intense man.

My stomach rumbles, and it’s the perfect excuse to get him busy. “I’m so hungry, do you think I could have some of that casserole?” I ask, because I need to figure out how to get out of here and back to where they expect me to be, now.

Chapter 7

Damian

I watch as she realizes that she’s no longer with the people who drugged her and instead with me, but now she’s frantic, which tells me my instincts were correct. I wish we were able to get more out of Layla, and Dereck’s still trying, but she may not know any more than she’s already told us. They’re holding something over Bryanna’s head, or she owes them something. Either way, we’re going to settle this little debt one way or another, and Bryanna’s going to come out on top. She just doesn’t know it yet.

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