Nick’s head was spinning from the whiskey and the pain killers. The adrenaline rush that carried through his ordeal was fading fast and exhaustion was hitting him hard. If the way he felt now was any indication tomorrow he was going to wish Carlos had killed him.
Angel soaked the surgical kit in alcohol while she got a washcloth and towel from the bathroom. She splashed her flushed cheeks with cool water and stared at herself in the mirror. What was she doing, what was she thinking? There was no escape from here and it would be cruel to get this man killed because of her mistake.
He looked at her warily when she took the washcloth and wiped the sweat from his face and chest. She sat down beside him at the table and examined the wound while he dried off. “It’s not too bad, but it might hurt.”
Angel moved away quickly when Nick flinched. “I’m sorry,” she said.
She shook like a dog that was beaten by its master, cowering at his feet. Nick grabbed her arm gently. “I won’t hurt you. I will never hurt you.”
He got lost for a moment in the most beautiful green eyes he had ever seen, but there was so much pain in them for someone so young. He smiled when he saw the fear disappear. There had to be a way to get her out of here and away from Carlos without her ending up in prison with the rest of them.
Angel nodded and finished the stitches; he was barely conscious and needed to rest. There was no telling what other sick games Carlos had planned for him; she had seen so many die. Some days she couldn’t get away from the smell of death. Today she was more frightened than usual; first Carlos was angry at her interest in this man, and then he had her playing nurse to him.
She steadied him as he stood and led him to the bedroom. This man was all about control and power; he didn’t need a gun or an army of men to command respect or to illicit fear.
“Take your jeans off and I’ll wash them. I don’t think I can save the shirt. I’ll see if I can find you one to wear,” she said.
“Nothing silk.” Nick started laughing. “Oh, that hurt.” He wished it had been Carlos in his silk shirt lying on the concrete floor, dead.
He rested his hands on her shoulders while he stepped out of the blood-stained jeans. She stood momentarily transfixed, admiring his body; it was hard and muscled, not soft like Carlos’. What would he be like as a lover? Would he be rough and brutal or would his touch be gentle as it was now?