Page 1 of Saving Her

Savior

1

Penny

I burrow deeperunder the covers, cocooned in luxurious silken sheets, nestled amongst extravagance.

I’m not ready to let go of sleep just yet. My mind still straddles the line of consciousness where the freedom of dreams overwhelms reality.

It’s nice here.

Peaceful.

There’s nothing but me and my imagination.

I fantasize about dragging my toes through the waves crashing against the shore in the distance. Raising my face to the sun. Swimming through crystal-clear water. I picture smiling faces beaming at me with gentle affection.

I visualize love.

“Good morning, my pretty Penny.”

I freeze, my breath catching at the deep voice breeching my mental sanctuary.

The whiplash from dream to nightmare is harsh. Sickening. I panic, like always, then force myself to calm despite the lingering threat.

The owner of that voice is the devil.

He’s the cause of my waking hell—a man without conscience or soul.

He’s also the owner of this bed, and everything in it.

“It’s time to get up.” He tugs at the covers, dragging the material down to expose my face… shoulders… breasts.

I measure my breathing, not showing an ounce of emotion as he peers down at my naked body with a leering smile.

I’d prayed I wouldn’t have to see him today. I’d begged, wished, and hoped he wouldn’t return after he’d brutalized me last night, then left the house under the cover of darkness to undoubtedly destroy more lives.

I could’ve fled to my room with his disappearance. I should’ve escaped to my own bed instead of fearing a reprimand for leaving before I was dismissed.

But my prayers went unanswered.

They always do.

God can’t help me here. Nobody can. I can’t even help myself. Not against a heartless human trafficker such as the untouchable Luther Torian.

He scours my body with his gaze, trying to provoke me with the hunger in his eyes.

“Did you sleep well?” He drags the covers farther, along my stomach… pussy… thighs… all the way to my feet, exposing every inch of me in a deliberate incremental humiliation.

“Yes.” I spare him the solitary syllable, giving the bare minimum of what he requires before I slide from the mattress, ignoring the lingering aches and pains born from his night of amusement.

“Did you dream of me?” he drawls.

I ignore the question and stare at the door, waiting for his freeing words of dismissal. He wants me to bite back—to snap—and I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

Last night, he took what he needed. He devoured my aggressive fight along with my screams. Today, routine would suggest I’m meant to be allowed to rest.

“I said, did you dream of me?” He lashes out, grabs a fistful of my hair, and drags me toward him until I stumble into his tailored-suit covered chest.

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