Captor Mine (Base Branch Series Book 13) Read online

  The sentence she’d heard as many times as she’d posed the futile question was all he left to keep her chilled until his return.

  “When my business is appeased.”

  2

  A clatter from behind sent Kat into the stratosphere. Her feet dangled in space for several seconds. Every extremity drew tight to her body ready to defend an attack. What? Was she going to blink her patient to death with her penlight? And wouldn’t that be counterproductive to the care she’d administered to bring him back from the edge of death? Her shoes found the floor again, and she whipped around from her bag with the small tool in hand to find the source of the noise.

  He laid on his side just as she’d positioned him twenty minutes ago. Not the source of the noise.

  The door chirped and then opened. Aron stalked inside with a covered tray in his hand. It hosted a fallen bottle of Creed Silver Mountain water. He stalked across the room and placed it on the coffee table between the foot of the large hospital bed she’d had delivered four weeks ago and an antique sofa.

  “I told you I didn’t need that fancy water.” She huffed and shoved her glasses up her nose. Hell, people in so many countries didn’t have access to clean water. She didn’t need or want a bottle of water that cost more than her rent. No one should.

  After weeks of having the same one-sided conversation, she knew Aron wouldn’t respond. During the first week, she’d thought him a mute until he’d been forced to ask her a question about her medical supply list. He was capable, just not willing.

  When he headed for the exit she hadn’t walked through in far too long, she tugged the hem of her scrubs and poked her tongue out at him. “Thank you.” The door closed with a thunk. “For nothing,” she added.

  The door opened, and Aron stepped back inside with a scowl tattooed on his face.

  “Yes?” Kat smiled sweetly.

  “Any change?”

  “Well, the skin at the site of the wound drain is healing nicely since removal, and his bowels are firming.” Her inner badass, the one she wanted to wear on her sleeve like a spiked leather jacket, chuckled quietly, safely inside.

  “Katrin,” he snapped.

  “What?”

  “Has he woken?” Aron growled.

  She pointed at the large, unconscious man—the dangerous man—and shrugged. “Powers of observation fail you?”

  Aron’s upper lip curled. She’d grown accustomed to his snarl by the fourth day. He wouldn’t hurt her. He also wouldn’t let her go. Father’s orders.

  “No,” she relented. “No change.”

  The brute retreated.

  “Thanks again,” she purred. When the door closed, she added, “For nothing.”

  At least, they fed and clothed her.

  Kat had heard horror stories from across the globe in and around emergency rooms for the past decade. If she knew better, she’d count her blessings, but how could she? Ever since she’d eliminated the sedatives from her patient’s doses of medication, she’d been a real-life jack-in-the-box. Touch the lever and… Ka Pow! She launched into the air. How could she not?

  The man could crush her without trying. He nearly succeeded every time she rolled him to keep his blood flowing evenly and his skin from breaking down and developing bedsores. Striated muscles stacked upon corded muscles stacked upon bulky muscles. An obviously powerful man—it would seem impossible to incapacitate him.

  What had it taken to knock him down so thoroughly? A car. A bulldozer.

  Since it was all for the best, the how didn’t matter. His body needed to heal, and frankly, he scared the hell out of her. She shouldn’t be afraid because the security here rivaled a small prison. The night and morning shifts rotated statue-imitating guards like a menstruating girl changed panties. During the day, however—the only time she asked for supplies—Aron stood watch.

  Over the years, Kat had worked in busy emergency rooms with criminals of all varieties. She’d treated them all with the same care and compassion as she did a sweet old man or a little kid. Those criminals had been in handcuffs, though.

  Her patient’s massive hands lay crossed over his chest, unencumbered except for the coma. They could do damage, if desired.

  Kat needed him to get better so she could get far from this prison and back to her life. More than that, she wanted him to get better. As lethal as he was, she shouldn’t want him to, but it was in her blood. It had been from an early age. The need to fix people propelled her.

  She removed the glasses she didn’t really need and set them aside. The snaps on both sides of his hospital gown stuck. Kat wiped away at her eyes unimpeded and yanked harder. The sticky clasps finally gave way, and she pulled the gown down, front and back to the middle of his torso. Her fingers and forearms ached from the effort of shifting his weight to get the material down. The detailed striations over his muscular chest and arms had disappeared over the past several days, yet time and his sedentation had done little to minimize their bulk. Likely, the NG tube she’d inserted through his nose into his stomach—when it’d become apparent he wasn’t waking—worked enough to maintain his body composition. A glow returned to his smooth chocolate skin. The delineation of his abdominal wall remained intact.

  Kat cleared her throat and moved to the head of the bed where she’d prepped a shave station. “Mind in the game, Kat.” If left in this state, it wouldn’t be long before his condition began to deteriorate. She smoothed her soft pink scrubs, lathered his skull, and proceeded. The razor skimmed easily over the crown of his head and even the area above his ears. His nape was the hardest to get in his prone state. From the first time she’d seen the man, whose name she still didn’t know, his hair had been tightly cropped to his head. “Sorry,” she whispered.

  In the second week after she’d removed the sedation and IV, skittishness had given way to resignation. Now, three weeks later, resignation rushed to concern, and she needed his head free of the soft tuft that had grown.

  Kat eyed the line of MRIs she’d demanded her patient have the moment she’d first heard of his condition before she arrived as well as the ones she’d ordered since. Worry that she’d missed something stole her appetite over the past two days. When she’d ordered another scan, Aron had refused her and accused her of overreacting. Maybe she was. The body had a unique way of defending itself against trauma, sometimes shutting off for years before it returned to complete and normal function.

  Each image showed a healthy brain free from lesions, tumors, and bleeds. Still, he remained unconscious, and she didn’t have years to spare.

  She’d assessed the body scans to no avail, which was why she rinsed away the shaving cream, set the grooming kit aside, and proceeded with a physical examination. Her fingers glided over the smooth surface of his bald head. Each rise and dip warranted extra exploration, but time and again, she found no softness in the bone. Her hands worked down to where his skull met his neck. Along his spine, small mountains of muscle held each vertebra in a precise column.

  “Nothing.” Kat withdrew her hands, braced her palms on either side of the bed, and groaned.

  His blood panels were clear. His leg was healing nicely. He retained flexibility in his joints and muscles, thanks to daily stretching and hourly repositioning. His pulse and blood pressure were better than hers were. Why was he unconscious? Kat had no clue. Sequestered—who was she kidding—imprisoned as she was, she couldn’t consult with other doctors or order more tests.

  Desperation pinched her nape in a death grip. The walls threatened to crumble and trap her in the collapse. She had to get out, which meant she had to get him better.

  Kat wrestled his gown back up and fastened the snaps closed. She sat on the edge of the bed and frowned at him. Coma specialist wasn’t in her bag of tricks, but she’d studied it dispassionately when she attended university. Patients with even partial brain function could hear while unconscious. They also responded positively to physical contact.

  He needed a new doctor. Kat didn’t do
touchy-feely. She didn’t coddle. The one thing she did do was freedom. Having an absentee father taught her independence from an early age. Freedom to roam the world and explore any and everything kept her sane.

  “Sir, can you hear me?” This was stupid, worse than talking to yourself because this guy wasn’t going to answer. Kat would answer herself in a Tokyo second. She repositioned, facing him.

  “Sir, my name is Katrin Royan. I’m a doctor. I’ve…” Been taken prisoner and ordered to make you well, so help me out. If he could hear her, that probably wouldn’t help his condition. “I’m here to care for you.” The man’s full lips, thick brows, and stout chin remained still. “Can you help me out a little? Wiggle something?” She assessed his body for the slightest movement. “Anything?”

  Wow, she sucked at this. Kat rolled her eyes and headed for her lunch.

  The door chirped. Kat released the hand she’d been holding, jumped off the bed, and stood a few comfortable feet away. Aron strolled in with the same overpriced water and tray of opulent food. Outside the row of windows and the door, daylight dimmed. Another day. Another disappointment. Add it to the stack of days and it equaled a month and a half of incarceration.

  “I have to speak with my father,” she announced. Where was her father’s business, and what was so important that he would lock her up ever, but for so long without checking on her? At boarding school, she received monthly letters from him. Visits hadn’t been so frequent. Yet now she was a prisoner in his house. Was he not here or just not seeing her?

  Aron ignored her and placed the tray on the coffee table.

  The impetus to do something drove her very likely to her death, but somewhere was better than nowhere. And Aron wouldn’t hurt her. Her father wouldn’t allow it.

  “I’ll take it in my room.” She smiled at the ogre.

  His scowl morphed into a sneer. Ghostly eyes rolled to the top of his head. The gesture warmed her aching heart. Knowing she irritated him was the only satisfaction she’d gotten in too long. Her gaze drifted to Coma Pete. She’d taken to calling him that last week. The nickname fit him about as well as incapacitation did—not at all—but she liked the endearment. It took off the sharp edge of his imposing size and sturdy features.

  Aron rounded the corner into the room she’d been sleeping in for the past two weeks when her neck and nerves could take no more of the couch in Coma Pete’s room. Really, she’d gone when she knew he wouldn’t code in the middle of the night or wake and smother her in her sleep.

  Kat sprinted for the only door that opened. Her hideous orthopedic clogs clapped against the hardwood, but she didn’t care. Get her out of the room and give her open space. She’d stomp the big man in a run or die trying.

  If she got away, she could send a specialist for Pete, and the police for her father as he’d clearly gone off the deep end.

  “Katrin!” Aron’s baritone shook the walls. It propelled her faster.

  Her hand reached for the handle. Every time she’d tried the door, it’d been locked, but she’d never tried it when Aron was inside. Each time he entered, he left without entering a code or putting a key in the lock. Kat’s fingers wrapped around the cold metal and wrenched.

  The latch gave way, and Kat ripped the door back. The polished wood of the oak paneled hallway and lush carpet with its scrawled design filled her view.

  “No, Katrin!” He was so close. His large frame cast a shadow over her.

  She pushed forward, feeling the warmth of the hallway against her cheek. The scent of flowers knocked down the antiseptic one embedded in her skin.

  Something hard and immovable clamped around the back of her neck. The hallway tilted and flipped. Kat’s shoulder and hip landed with a thump that reverberated through her skeleton and organs. Aron’s face appeared in front of her. His lips moved in wide, frantic movements she couldn’t decipher. The rich copper of her blood seeped onto her tongue. Veins swelled in the guard’s neck. Air refused entry to Kat’s lungs. She tried to roll onto her side and stretch her neck, but nothing relieved the void.

  Aron’s face came so close that, for an instant, she thought he might kiss her. She’d always said if she were attacked, she’d fight, but she couldn’t breathe, much less claw and kick. He belted another line of words that wouldn’t compute and then tossed her away. She hadn’t known she was off the floor. Its impact—the second with the ungiving surface—assured her that she’d been.

  Kat rolled onto her side. Aron’s boots retreated from the room. She wheezed air into her lungs, and little by little, their capacity returned until she panted. Her cheek pressed against the inlaid flower bud, which when lined up with its friends made a circle around her fetal-poisoned form. Rage bubbled to the surface. How dare he lay his hands on her? How dare her father leave her locked inside his house? How dare she lay here like a victim?

  It took more effort than she’d admit to roll onto her hands and knees. Once there, she crawled to the end of the bed and pulled herself up. Coma Pete lay in all his resplendent perfection, his large eyes hidden by lids and pouty lips waiting for the words that weren’t coming. She climbed onto the end of the bed and stared for a long time.

  “Damnit, Pete, wake up. I really need you to wake up right now.” Tears leaked from Kat’s tear ducts for the first time in as long as she could remember. She lay her head on his powerful thigh and sobbed.

  3

  If the beep, beep, beep didn’t stop soon, Hunter would lose his ever-loving mind. For hours and days, months and years, or hell, maybe seconds and minutes, the incessant noise continued. Time had no bearing in the pitch of expansive black. It stretched apart and bound together, an erratic rubber band slinging him about so ambivalently he couldn’t grasp the concept of progression. The unyielding beep, beep, beep trampled over the first string of thought he’d ever pieced together, it seemed. Damn the noise. He’d tried finding its source so many times to no avail. In the darkness, he couldn’t see anything. Bleak nothingness went on like eternal night. He didn’t mind blindness as much as the beeping. The dark was peaceful. It didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt, but like the faintest hint of light on the horizon before the rise of the sun, a twinge spoke of agony to come.

  Beep, be—

  What was that?

  Praise the good Lord. It broke through the constant shrill sound. Beep, beep, beep. No! He screamed and clawed against the darkness. At least, he tried. His arms were two massive, wet clumps of sand. Still, with all his might, he tossed them through the air, reaching and grabbing at nothing—but something—time and again. The reprieve fueled him. Please, come back. What the respite from the irritation of mind-chewing noise was, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter. It was different. It was new, and the first thing besides the beep, beep, beep in so long.

  He couldn’t find it. No matter how hard he fought, it remained just beyond his grasp. Defeat and the constant beeping sucked him beneath the viscous black.

  4

  “You look like a domestic abuse case. A high-class couple,” Kat assured herself. Men with money abused their women as much as the poor, maybe more. The thing that delineated the two castes of assholes—outside opinion. Poor men didn’t care if their ladies sported black, blue, and busted faces. Rich men hid their barbarism with gut shots and severe spankings, but every now and then, their control slipped. Those missteps usually ended with busted lips or brows that required the careful hands of a plastic surgeon, not a lowly ER doctor.

  Her blue eyes rolled in the reflection of the steam-rimmed mirror. At least, they weren’t bloodshot anymore. Crying took it out of her. Even after a full day, she still felt a tickle in the back of her throat and the pressure in her sinuses. The cold compress and sleep helped her swollen mouth form a none too gruesome scab even if it ran the width of her lower and upper lips.

  The door in the other room chirped.

  Kat’s pulse spiked, throbbing in her mucus-filled sinus cavities. She longed to slam the bathroom door, lock it, and hide from the man who’d f
orced her to confront the ugliness that had seeped into her life. Inequality, oppression, murder, rape, and worse existed in the world. Too many times, Kat witnessed its aftermath but always in someone else’s life. Aron revealed a fear and vulnerability she hadn’t known existed inside herself. The uncertainty it stirred made her constantly queasy and made her hands shake. A surgeon couldn’t have quivering hands, and a man couldn’t hold this power over her.

  She tightened her ponytail, hitched her scrub bottoms, and marched into Pete’s room. The door to the outside, the world she’d been exiled from, remained open, wide and taunting. Aron stood in the center of the room, daring her. Screw him, but she stepped away from the one thing she wanted more than anything else; freedom. He unceremoniously dropped the basket of linens he held to the floor, turned back to the gaping doorway, and walked through it without closing it. He reentered with her tray, and an evil smirk appeared where his scowl had been.

  “Thank you.” Kat forced the words through her airtight larynx.

  Per usual, he didn’t speak, just turned and left.

  Kat walked to the window and peered outside at the expansive lawn to the trees in the distance. Between them—past the locked windows and doors—stood a solid brick wall at least ten feet tall. The ornamental texture of the façade gave her hope that it would provide footholds and enough hand grips for her to scale it. But first, she’d have to get past the guards. The larger of the two she’d catalogued was propped on a wrought-iron bench at the edge of the path that led to a small rose garden. It wouldn’t be long now before he took his first of many afternoon naps. He and his slightly smaller counterpart patrolled the yard intermittently throughout the day and night. Over the past week, she’d learned that the smaller, more reliable one, made his rounds every hour on the hour. His lazy counterpart, however, didn’t abide by a schedule. The fluctuating variable would make escape more difficult but not impossible, as long as she took her time.