Freeing Clara

13. Gaurdian Angels and Angry Demons

She stood up, taking her time. She made sure not to show she was in pain. Instead she acted like she was taking her time because his request was an inconvenience.

She strolled to him slowly, this illicited a cocked eyebrow of impatience.

Once within arms reach he grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly out of the room. Colt dragged her up the staircase. His hand gripping her so hard she knew bruises would be left. His nails digging into her skin as she was dragged up.

She recognized the house. The same one he has had for years, just a few houses down from her parent.

He took her up another flight of stairs in the craftsman style home. He led her to a bathroom shoving her in.

"Shower and change." He instructs.

"Are there cameras in here?"

"Why on earth would I do that? I would never want someone else to see you naked. That belong to me." He says gesturing to her body.

She forces a chuckle. "Too bad. I've been sleeping naked beside a grown man for over a month. Trust me, there isnt a part he hasnt seen of me."

She had said it before thinking. In fact in all her life she never anticipated his response.

Swiftly, his hands jolted forward, his hand on her throat, grasping so hard air seized to get through. His nails dug into her skin even more than they had her arm.

"You filthy little heathen. You whore. Selling yourself to demons in the flesh!" He screamed, his voice deeper.

"We'll make sure you are clean," he says more quietly. Calmly he lets go of her throat. She gasps for air, her arms reach for the bathroom counter to hold herself up.

"Take off the clothes. I'm going to scrub you clean."

She regreted her words in that moment.

***

Flint parked outside the large wharehouse. Its location was beside a small creek that lead to the river.

"Where are we?"

Flint sighed. "When I trained for fights. Cavenaugh hired a trainer, a friend of mine, and bought us this wharehouse to use."

Flint exits the vehicle. Najeem follows suit.

"And..."

"Cavenaugh gave the land to my friend, Lenny. Lenny has been training small scale fighters for Callum ever since. But the wharehouse is usually off limits."

Flint points to the truck parked closer to the side door of the wharehouse.

"Thats Lenny's."

"And we are just gonna ask him to use his land to house a piece of shit chef with a fake accent so we can torture him for information on your girlfriend whose half your age and has been taken by possibly a rapist's friend or her family's cult religion. What a wonderful reunion. We should have brought a gift, like a bottle of pinot."

"Shut up... he hates pinot, he likes moscato."

Flint and Najeem reach the door. Flint turns his hand to a fist, about to knock when the door opens.

"About fucking time you came by," the thick Cuban accent came to Flints ears and caused Flint to smile. The man was in his sixties. His tan skin glowed ubder the light above the door. His thick moustache neatly combed. His hair still black and thick, slicked back. His loose button up short sleeved shirt was green. His black pants werent slacks but werent jeans or sweats either. He wore a pair of faded leather shoes to put his retired, grandfather look together.