Page 19 of Fighting for Scarlett

Although seeing the marks on this woman, knowing they were caused by someone hitting her, filled him with a deep-seated rage that was as annoying as it was ridiculous.

Whatever was going on, Scarlett had gotten herself into this mess, she had no one to blame but herself if things had gotten out of hand.

Still, his touch was gentle as he turned her so he could work on cleaning the wounds on her back. They were brutal, angry, and red raw, they’d leave scars, permanent reminders of what had happened. After years as a SEAL, Tate knew the wounds were caused by a whip, and rage bubbled inside him at the thought of Scarlett being subjected to something like that.

It didn’t seem to matter what his head knew about this woman, his body could only remember the amazing night they spent together and craved more. All he wanted to do was wrap Scarlett up in his arms and kiss her until the tears shimmering in her eyes disappeared.

Irritated with himself, Tate quickly cleaned each of the wounds and smeared them with the cream. Then he pulled out a vial of painkillers and a syringe. While, in theory, he liked the idea of Scarlett suffering for her crimes, he wasn’t a monster. She’d been beaten and whipped, she was in pain, he was giving her the damn drugs.

“You allergic to anything?” he asked, doing nothing to hide the bite in his tone.

Looking over her shoulder at him, Scarlett’s eyes grew wide when she saw the syringe in his hand and tried to scramble away from him.

Thinking she was going to try to make a run for it, he gripped her wrist in a hold he knew had to hurt her. Not his intention, but he wasn’t letting her go. “Just painkillers,” he told her, wondering if she’d been drugged while she was with Raul, and that was why she looked on the verge of freaking out.

Actually, she was beyond freaking out.

He wouldn’t have thought it possible for her skin to go a paler shade than it had been when he found her, but it did. She was more gray than white, and she was panting and struggling to get out of his grip, which was ridiculous, she wasn’t getting away unless he let her, and he had no intention of doing that.

“I … d-don’t … need … th-them,” Scarlett stammered, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Need them or not, you're getting them.” He had no time for a bout of hysterics. All he wanted was to wait out the next few hours, then get on that helo, get home, and hand his prisoner over to face her fate.

Yanking Scarlett up against his body so he could hold her in place much the same way he had in the pool, he swiped the bicep that hadn't been shot with an alcohol wipe, then administered the drug.

As soon as he disposed of the syringe, Scarlett seemed to calm down. At least, he thought she had, but when he sat her down on a large rock and knelt in front of her, he realized she was holding her breath.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, not in the mood for more games.

She merely shook her head and waited. After what had to be a full minute she finally relaxed, puffing out the breath she’d been holding. “It’s okay, I'm okay,” she murmured, although more for her own benefit than his, he suspected.

“You’ll be thanking me for those painkillers in a minute because I'm going to have to stitch up your gunshot wound.” Despite it likely being the cause of the blood that had been found in her closet, the wound still looked open and unhealed five days later.

Scarlett just nodded and then tucked her chin to her chest, her other arm wrapping around her middle as she waited for him to tend to the wound, and once again he was struck by how not right this whole situation felt.

Whatever was going on, whatever he was missing, whatever was running through Scarlett’s head right now, one thing was for certain. He was not letting the little traitor out of his sight, not even for a second, because he didn't believe she wasn’t playing him and had some sort of trick up her sleeve.

CHAPTER FIVE

January 12th

7:24 P.M.

Honestly, Scarlett couldn’t care how badly it hurt stitching up the gunshot wound that had been poked and prodded so many times while Raul was holding her prisoner that she was surprised there wasn’t a huge hole going all the way through from the entry wound to the exit one.

Pain she could handle.

Pain was nothing.

Pain was easy in comparison to …

Nope.

Not going there yet. Or ever.

Because she had zero plans to include Raul drugging her in her report when they got home. It didn't serve any purpose. While she had begged and pleaded just as Raul told her she would, she hadn't given up any intel.

Nobody needed to know about it.

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