Page 9 of Claiming Liberty

Sure, but I’m not covered in vomit, so I’ll take that as a win.

Instead of answering, I unfold my arms and cringe as I lift myself. My body was already beaten up from the car accident long before I climbed into this thing, but the short trip didn’t help.

“Damn,” he murmurs, helping me out. His eyes are pointed at my hoodie, and I look down to see fresh blood staining the pink. Robert’s dried blood makes a splotchy pattern around it.

Oh, that’s why the smell came back.

“You need stitches,” Peter says.

I groan as he helps me to my feet. My head swims, and I wobble, but Peter puts his hands on my arms to steady me, ready to catch me if I lose my balance.

“I have a first aid kit in the bathroom.” He nods behind me. “Come on, I’ll get you fixed up.”

I turn toward the door he gestured to, blinking a few times to force away the vertigo. My equilibrium is all off, and I’m hoping it only has to do with being in the suitcase and isn’t due to blood loss or exhaustion. I can feel both, but I don’t have time for either. I have to get to Elsie.

He guides me into the bathroom, and I sit on the closed toilet lid, staring off into space as I think about Elsie and what might be happening now. I barely register when he helps me out of the hoodie, leaving my chest exposed in nothing but a black bra. He swiftly removes the bandages he patched me up with when we were still in Spain.

The sun was setting when we landed, which means the wolves are out and prowling the manor. Which one of them is sinking their teeth into Elsie right now?

I close my eyes and inhale a steady breath, unsure if I should be picturing the countless possible scenarios or not. On the one hand, it makes me sick. On the other, it fuels the anger I need to force myself back into that hell hole.

“Sorry,” Peter says, dabbing at the hole in my chest where glass went through when I wrecked the rental car.

I open my eyes to look at him, see the sympathy on his face, and realize he’s apologizing for dabbing at my wound. Not apologizing for my niece being repeatedly raped by savages.

“Who are you?” I watch him closely as he sets the alcohol pad on the sink and rifles through a black bag.

“Angel Ramos’s pilot.”

“Yes, you mentioned that.” My dry voice must catch his attention because his movements slow to a halt for a moment.

I’ve spent hours with this man, but we hardly used any of that time to talk. I cried when I called him, begged him to take me back to the island. I don’t know if he understood my blubbering about my niece, but he was in my old house in less than a minute, and we were on the road within twenty. He’d been waiting outside.

As soon as he agreed to take me back, I sank with relief, and our conversation became him telling me what to do and me blindly obeying.

He takes out a needle and thread, putting all of his attention on my cut. I grind my teeth as he presses the needle through my flesh, and my hands fly at my sides, gripping at the edge of the sink and the toilet tank cover in search of relief.

“Fuck,” I grate out, sucking in a breath and holding it.

“It won’t take long,” he says, threading the needle through my skin. My arms shake until he’s done, and the tension in my fists and shoulders finally release.

I sit back and close my eyes, taking in one large inhale after the other. I don’t have time for this. I need to get to Elsie.

I open my eyes at this thought and look at Peter turning on the bathroom sink’s faucet and running water over the needle. He retrieves a rag from a drawer.

“I need to get to my niece,” I say with an urgency that begins in my voice and sinks into my toes that start tapping on the white-tiled floor. “Please, I think she’s at the manor. Her name’s—”

“Elsie,” Peter finishes for me. He shuts off the tap, sets the rag down, and turns to me. “I know. She arrived on the island a week ago, and yes, she’s at the manor.”

I blink a few times, my lips twitching to say something, but nothing comes out.

“You asked me who I am.” His deep green eyes stare into mine while his lips fit into a hard line. He searches me for something, his eyes breaking our stare to roam my face. “Can I trust you?”

Canyoutrustme?

I force my jittery feet to still and plant both shoes flat on the floor. “Depends on what you’re wanting from me.”

“I want to help you … but I want you to help me first.”