Page 3 of Her Avenging Angel

Taylynn wanted to yell. She wanted to say no. She wanted to run far and fast to get away from everyone. She was dirty. Used. She wanted to hide and not let anyone see her ever again. She tried to curl up into a ball, to pull her arms over her head and hide but she couldn’t move. Something was holding her down. Her chest felt tight. Every breath sent stabbing pain through her, but she wasn’t getting enough air. Her entire body went hot, and she tried to sit up, but her body wouldn’t or couldn’t do what she told it to.

“Take it easy, sweetheart. I’m not going to hurt you. At least not any more than I have to. I’ve already given you as much pain killer as I dare, at least for now. Give me another couple of minutes and I’ll be all done here.” The soft, even tone as the unfamiliar voice rambled on soothed her nerves, if only marginally.

He didn’t sound like the men who had hurt her, either in tone or voice. They had been cruel, taunting her about what they had planned for her and laughing about it. They had enjoyed seeing her terror, they’d gotten off on hurting her. This stranger’s tone was different. She might say he sounded caring, if life hadn’t already taught her that no one cared about anyone but themselves. Either way, there was no point in fighting. She had no way to get out of there and whatever he’d done, he’d made it hurt less. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to stay there, at least for now. Besides, what could they do to her that hadn’t already been done? What did once more matter, especially when she knew she couldn’t fight. She couldn’t stop them no matter what they wanted to do to her.

With that decision made, she could stop fighting whatever was holding her down and give in to the floaty and not quite real sensation that had been trying to take over since she woke. Voices seemed to float around her, none of which she recognized. But she had decided not to care. She let the darkness come back. At least she didn’t hurt so bad when the darkness was there.

Chapter Three

Raven sat on the oppositeside of the bed from where Freud sat, trying to stitch up a deep slash down the woman’s upper arm. He’d already been watching to make sure she wasn’t hurt more when she’d started to rouse.

He’d been impressed that even with how bad she must hurt, plus the medication Freud had given her, that she’d had enough presence of mind to try to fight them. Well, not fight, but she’d tried to get up, to leave, he was sure. It had taken himself and Playboy to hold her down while Freud had done his best to talk her down while he kept stitching. It had taken a few minutes, but eventually she’d settled. With her calm once more, Freud had finished with his stitches. Then he’d bandaged what needed it, at least that he could get to without moving her too much. And declared what she needed now was rest.

Raven didn’t know why she’d stopped fighting, if it was because she’d decided to trust them or if the pain and medication had gotten the best of her or if she’d decided to give up. He hated the last option the most. Her face was still too swollen to be identified, and like her clothing, any ID she may have had was missing. They had no way of knowing who she was, or if she had any family, any loved ones, looking for her. At least until she woke up and could tell them. From what Freud said, her waking up and being able to talk was at least several hours away. So why couldn’t Raven leave her there to sleep off the effects of the medication? Why did he feel like he had to sit there, watching over her?

He knew his men. If he ordered that she wasn’t to be touched, they would respect that. If she was off limits, then they would treat her well and take care of her without trying to make any moves she may not welcome. He didn’t need to sit and watch her sleep. Hell, even he felt a bit like a creep sitting there. But he couldn’t make himself get up and leave.

He had given her an empty room and grabbed one of his own t-shirts to put on her so at least he wasn’t sitting there with her sprawled out and naked. That would not reassure her about where she was and what kind of men they were.

Were they good men? Raven almost laughed out loud at that thought.Good?No one had accused him of that in longer than he cared to remember. That didn’t mean he and his men didn’t have a code of ethics. The thing was, their ethics didn’t meet up with the mainstream concept, at least most of the time.

His club might be called the Fallen Angels, and with good cause, but they never would have done something like this to a woman. Another man, sure. They’d even done worse in the past, and when Raven found out who had done this to her, he wouldn’t hesitate to at least do the same to him, but more likely he’d make sure that cocksucker never had a chance to do this to another woman.

Raven continued to sit in the recliner beside the bed through the night. She was covered, not just with his shirt, but with sheets and blankets, so he left the door open. His men came and went, keeping their voices low as they checked in on him and her both, then went on with what they were doing, either something he’d assigned them or their own thing.

He didn’t know how long he’d been there, only that he’d only gotten up to use the restroom since she had passed out again after Freud had finished sewing her up, splinting her arm, applying bandages and started an IV. The medic said she was dehydrated and needed the fluid. He’d also put a dose of antibiotics and more pain medication in through the same tubing.

Raven knew he needed a shower after so long on the road but couldn’t stand to leave her that long. Dax, one of the prospects, had brought him something to eat and several drinks through the night.

Now, as the sliver of sky that could be seen through the room’s small high window started to lighten, she stirred again.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You’re safe.” He kept his voice soft like Freud had, not wanting to startle her. He had to resist the urge to reach over and reassure her with a hand to her arm or somewhere else as he wasn’t sure where he could touch her that wouldn’t hurt. Her entire body seemed to be covered in bruises, and the boot print on her ribs was only part of it. There were bruised impressions of fingers wrapping around her neck, and more boot prints on her legs. She had a broken forearm, stitches on the upper arm on the same side, ribs that Freud said were either cracked or severely bruised, two black eyes, a split lip and more.

From what he’d seen of her awake since they’d brought her here, Raven knew she was a fighter. He could only wonder at how hard she must have fought, how long and how many men it had taken to do this to her. He knew it could have been done by a single man, but from the different patterns of the boot prints on her skin, he knew there had been at least two, and if there had been two, chances were there were more. He swore, if only to himself, that every single one of them would pay for it.

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