Page 23 of Dangerous Refuge

Matty rushes away and returns with a damp cloth, and I wipe my face clean. He looks annoyed and a little intimidated, maybe because I held a gun to his head. I don’t know. “What?” I snap, throwing the rag at him. I need to get out of here before the police show up because I have a record. If they know I was involved, I’ll end up back in the clink.

“Look, I lost that guy. The one you said to take out. He’s in the wind.” Matty runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair and kicks a rock. “I’m sorry, man. I totally dropped the ball.”

“And Red? Holy fuck, Matt. What the hell? I ask you to do one simple job and you screw it up!” I shove him hard and he backs away. I’m letting my anger get the better of me again. I need to walk away before I hurt my brother, so I do.

Dominic is going to ream me for sure now. All of this is coming down on my head. There is no way out of it. I storm off, heading for my car. Sirens in the distance warn me my time here is up. I pass several police cars on my way out, lights flashing and sirens blaring. The entire shipping yard is lit up like Christmas.

When I get home Allie is there. I no more than get in the door when she starts grilling me. Her feet slap on the tile as she follows me through the front foyer into my den and I shed my coat.

“You’re covered in blood. What the hell is going on? Are you hurt?” Her concern doesn’t sound genuine, but then I am coercing her into marrying me, so I don’t expect her to be nurturing just yet.

“It’s someone else’s,” I growl, reaching for my bottle of aged Scotch.

“That’s not!” she says pointing at my arm. I look down at my left bicep and notice blood there. I don't even feel pain, but I’ve been hit. With a swift yank, I tear the sleeve right off the ruined shirt and use it to wipe away the blood so I can see the wound better.

“It’s just a scratch from some metal on a shelf or something.” I lie to her because she didn't need to know what happened.

“And the blood on your face?” she snarls, arms crossed over her chest accusingly as she watches me finish pouring my drink.

“Fish blood.” I hold the cup up to her, offering her a drink and she glares at me.

“What do you do for a living, Sven? Because I can’t be with another violent man.” Her nasty tone pushes buttons I didn’t know I have. I down the entire glass of whiskey and set the glass down so hard it shatters.

“I told you last night, I’m not like him. I’m not going to hurt you.” As if the questioning last night wasn’t bad enough, she’s just rubbing salt in a wound. She has no idea what I’ve just been through so I try to stay calm, but I’m so worked up, I could literally throw her out and not think twice.

“You know I left him because he was violent. Now you have bleeding men in your house. You come home soaked in someone else’s blood. You’re injured and—”

I snap, lurching toward her and grabbing her by the neck. Before I realize what I’m doing ,she’s pinned against the bookshelf and I’m staring her down. “I said, I’m not like him.” I loosen my grip, letting her go, but I don’t back off. “Now, you can either calm the fuck down and let me relax, or you can pack your shit and go back on the street where I found you and defend yourself against that asshole.”

Her eyes search me and I can see her chest pounding, a pulsing vein in her neck throbbing as she gathers her thoughts. I will not stoop to his level. It’s the one thing I will never do. I won’t harm her or control her, but she will respect me.

13

ALLIE

“I’m sorry.” Sven has a temper—mental note of that for future reference. I know what it’s like to push those buttons. I have seen Paul erupt on a moment’s notice. At least it took Sven a bit of nudging. I need to know what he’s into though. My anxiety is too high, my fear too fresh. Whatever he does for a living is dangerous; the blood is too much evidence to the fact. For all I know he’s just a cop or a detective of some sort, and I’m just being overly dramatic, but it’s not like I haven’t been in a relationship with a violent man before. I can’t repeat that. There is no point in staying with him if he’s just like Paul.

But like Paul, Sven must have some sort of means of stress relief, some way I can help him relax and loosen up so he will talk to me. I’ve gone about this the wrong way. He clearly won’t respond to me being pushy or demanding.

“How can I help you relax? It was insensitive of me to think I could demand answers of you like that. I should have been more sensitive.” I move toward him, gently touching the wound on his arm. “Should I have a look? This needs cleaned or it will get infected.”

“It’s fine,” he grumbles, ignoring the stream of blood trickling down his bicep. He walks away, moving toward the liquor cabinet and pouring himself a drink.

“Then, maybe you want me to rub your shoulders? Maybe I can refill your drinks.” I follow him, offering to take the bottle, but he clutches it tightly in his fist and carries it to the coffee table. I follow him, amazed by how the blood that had been smeared all over this sofa yesterday is completely gone. I’d have never known a bleeding man sat here.

“A good fuck helps me relax,” he says smugly, propping his feet on the table. He downs the whiskey in the glass and sets the glass on the table, but keeps the bottle in hand. His eyes train on me as I follow him, perching on the leather armchair at the end of the coffee table. Sex wasn’t what I was offering, but I probably have no choice.

“Yeah?” I ask him nervously. It’s amazing sex, don't get me wrong; I just want answers, not orgasms right now. “You’re not hungry? Maybe a hot shower. I could help you take care of the wound.”

“You want me to relax or see a doctor?” He tips the bottle up to his lips and takes a long swig. Bubbles rise through the honey-colored liquid until he lowers it.

“Of course I want you to relax.”

“Then take off your clothes and let me watch you.” Sven leans forward, setting the whiskey down on the table and screwing the cap back on, which was clutched in his palm. I swallow hard, knowing I have to put on some sort of performance, though his demanding tone is quite arousing. I’ve always loved a very assertive man, which is probably how I ended up with an abuser.

"Take off your clothes,” he demands again, his voice low and husky. “I want to watch you.”

I swallow hard and peel off my shoes. I set them on the armchair, then unbutton my jeans and wiggle out of them. I fold those, and set them next to my shoes. I’m wearing a white t-shirt which I pull over my head. When his fingers point at my bra and panties and he flicks it to the side, indicating he wants them removed too, I obey. My body is starting to respond to this level of assertiveness in a way I don't expect.

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