Saved by the King

Ten*

Ten days passed. Ten days, and not once did he yell. Not once did he touch me.

With every peaceful hour that went by, I grew more uneasy. What was he waiting for? Was he even waiting? Was he trying to lull me into complacency, get me to lower my guard?

But he didn't seem to be hiding anything. Which, of course, doesn't mean anything, but I didn't sense any ulterior motives. Past experience kept me from relaxing, but still, I wondered. What was taking him so long?

My bruises were almost completely faded, even the new ones from the rogue in the woods. The marks from the burns were fading, and some old ones had left behind small scars that were just paler than my skin. The cuts and gashes were fading, too, but that wasn't what perplexed me. What confused me more than anything is that no new injuries were forming—all were just healing, fading.

Clouds moved in front of the moon, and the weak light that had been filtering through the window next to my bed disappeared.

I closed my eyes. The past few days had been quiet, which was surprising but not unwelcome. I'd never heard Logan yell, at me or anybody else; he hasn't once lashed out in anger. He hasn't once gotten angry. People don't seem to fear him; in fact, they seem to respect him, admire him, even like him. For the most part, Logan has been staying with Elaine since he brought me to her house after the rogue attacked me, and people have come to see Logan to talk about pack affairs. There's always an air of camaraderie, a relaxed atmosphere. It was like these people were friends with him.

Friends. With an Alpha.

I didn't understand it in the least. Clearly, Logan's pack trusted him. Trust...something I was worried was beginning to develop. I knew it was dangerous, I knew, but I wasn't as hyperaware of every move he made anymore. I didn't flinch when he moved anymore. I even let him touch me, once or twice, and I noticed how gentle and attentive he was and I realized that I didn't always mind the contact. But then, my guard would go back up, I would pull away and scold myself for being so foolish.

I pulled the blankets more tightly around me. I was tired of thoughts like this—thoughts fraught with doubt and confusion. I wanted to sleep, but I knew that sleep was no escape. I was tired. Tired of going to sleep and meeting the men of my past. Tired of sleepless nights, of my memories haunting me in my dreams, of the nightmares that robbed me of even a moment's rest. Now, reality was better than being asleep, because at least when I was awake there were no harsh hands grabbing and pulling and hitting and bruising, no deep, drunken voices full of lust and cigarettes, no clothes ripping or swollen eyes or heavy tears or begging, begging, begging. I didn't want to go to sleep, but I wanted to sleep. I wanted to not be exhausted. To not be alone in that wide, dark room where my memories waited, ready to pounce.

But I was alone. Alone. Every night.

It was inevitable. What was I going to do? Not sleep? I had to try; maybe I would get lucky and have a peaceful night.

***

A strong force on both my shoulders. Too strong. I flew backwards, my feet scrambling to keep me upright. Then, a thud, the impact of my body against the wall; my head snapped back a split second later, and the pain made me dizzy. I cried out, but my lungs couldn't drag in any air.

A heavy body pressed against mine. Bigger, heavier, stronger than me. I didn't have a prayer of pushing him away, but I tried anyway, ineffectual arms pushing and hitting and resisting, but just like all the other times, he didn't even notice. Didn't even slow down. Just like all the other times, my clothes were ripped off of me like they were made of paper, I was lifted off the floor by a single hand around my throat. I choked, gasped, struggled harder, but my oxygen supply was effectively cut off and I couldn't inhale no matter how hard I tried. Someone screamed, and I realized that it was me, and then I heard begging, crying, and I realized that it was me, too. But the pain didn't stop, the violation didn't go away, the alcohol and anger in the air didn't dissipate. The smell of sweat filled my nose, the feeling of course, muscle-bound skin scratched against mine, dirty nails dug into my hip and drew blood.