Page 1 of Speechless
Chapter One
The night was cold, the wind bitter, and not one star could shine through the clouds smothering the night sky. Weather conditions like this called for thick sweaters, heavy jackets, several pairs of socks and a pair of gloves.
She had nothing.
Small, sharp stones dug into the bare soles of her feet as she stumbled along the road in the dark. Her heart lodged in her throat at every sound, every tiny flicker of motion in the woods lining both sides of the way.
The only protection she had against the cold was an old and torn shirt, one of Sire’s cast-offs, which was well beyond mending and six months overdue for a wash. Even that meagre protection was useless against the cold biting into her bones, freezing the breath in her lungs.
How far she’d come, she didn’t know. At first, she’d run away from hell as fast as she could, without looking back. When she couldn’t run, she’d had to walk. As her body, her legs, surrendered to the weather and exhaustion, she knew she would make herself crawl if it meant never going back to Sire.
More than anything, she wanted to lie down and just curl into a ball. There hadn’t been a sign of life since she’d run, no houses or vehicles, not even a glimmer of light.
She was scared of the dark.
She didn’t want to imagine what Sire would do once he realized she had gone. No doubt he would tear the house down to find her, ransack the shed where he’d kept her like a dog for the majority of her pitiful existence.
He would hunt her down like said dog and squeeze the life from her body, breath by dying breath. He’d told her as much, more than once, and she had no doubt he would do exactly as he promised.
After all, when you kept something captive and didn’t even give it a name, there was nothing to stop you from disposing of it at your whim. There was no affection, no love, not a shred of morality.
She couldn’t go back. The pain, the torture, the degradation. Death seemed a far better option than to be dragged from her ratty blanket by her hair, marched from her damp and rotten shed to the house where she cleaned and fetched and carried. Where pain and humiliation rolled into one until Sire beat her, broke her and shoved her back into her dark, cold hell.
The road began to curve, and she thought she could see the barest hint of light through the trees. The closer she came to the source, the tighter her fear wrapped its nasty tentacles around her.
The front of the building loomed in front of her, and she didn’t know if it would be her salvation or damnation. She couldn’t read the big word spelled out in bright, flashing red. But there were lights in the windows and the faint throb of music on the air. Trucks filled the small parking area.
She staggered forward, beyond cold now, and tripped up the three wide steps leading to a pair of massive wooden doors. It took more effort than she could spare to stop herself sliding across the deck on her face. Her hands were numb, dead as she pushed against the heavy door.
Warmth hit her first, a glorious wave of heat across her abused body. She swayed in shock, held onto the door to brace herself. Sheer force of will kept her knees from buckling.
After several long moments, she realized the room had gone strangely quiet with only the music left playing. The voices, the rumble of conversation and laughter, had died.
Something inside her shriveled up and died with it.
Her gaze flicked from chair to chair, over faces painted with curiosity and predatory stares. Her heart stuck in her throat, and she knew instinctively—as prey was programmed to know—that a single move would bring the wolves down on her before she got out of the door.
“Hey, baby!”
“Come on over, got something you’ll like.”
A barrage of cat calls, wolf whistles and derogatory comments flew at her as men began to shift, to advance on her. Her eyes locked desperately onto a face at the bar, one that looked to be friendlier than any of those surrounding her and wished fervently for help.
A hand grabbed her wrist, hauled her roughly into a sea of frenzied groping. She struggled frantically, her small hands shoving and battering at whoever came close enough.
“Aw come on now, sugar. We just wanna play. Baby wanna play?”
She stared into a pair of muddy brown eyes glazed with alcohol and shook her head insistently. The backhand connected with her icy cheek and sent splinters of pain stabbing through her face.
“You might wanna rethink your answer, little bitch. Joe don’t take no for an answer.” He leered at her, and the smell of beer and whiskey invaded her personal space. She winced, then grimaced when his hand closed around her throat.
“Baby doesn’t want to play,” a deep voice rumbled like thunder from behind her tormentor. “Daddy, however, doesn’t mind going a round or two.” One long-fingered hand circled around Joe’s throat, tightened. “Let the lass go and walk away. All of you.”
“Fuck you, Connor. Who made you boss?”
Through blurred vision, she could only just make out the incredibly tall form of a man. The grip of the hand cutting off her air supply became vicious before it dropped away completely. She sucked in a desperate breath and dropped to her already bruised knees on the wooden floor.
“You’re drunk, Joe. You’re not in your right mind. Take yourself home and sleep the booze off before you embarrass yourself further. Think about taking a swing at me and you’ll go home without your front teeth.” There was a pause, then the sickening crunch of bone on bone followed by a pained male cry. “That’s for the bitchy little backhander. I ever see you hit another woman, your time here will be severely limited.”