Chapter 6
Lisbeth clenched her fists beneath the blanket.
Her nails dug into her palms until the skin broke—raw, bloody. The pain was excruciating, but it kept her sharp. It kept her present.
Nicholas stood outside the door, watching her through the glass.
He confirmed she'd settled down. No more suicide attempts. No more screaming.
He'd won this round. But for some reason, a hollow ache sat in his chest where satisfaction should have been.
That restless, gnawing feeling crept back.
"Eyes on her. Twenty-four hours." He turned to the bodyguards. "If she loses a single hair on her head, you answer for it."
Two a.m. The hospital corridor was deathly quiet.
Adalyn arrived in a trench coat, carrying an insulated food container. She smiled at the bodyguards outside the door.
"Nicholas asked me to bring some soup for Lisbeth. You guys must be exhausted pulling an all-nighter—here, have some coffee to keep you going." Her smile was flawless. The calculation behind her eyes was not.
The two bodyguards exchanged a glance. Given who she was, they accepted the paper cups without suspicion.
Within five minutes, both men slid down the wall and crumpled to the floor, unconscious.
Adalyn snapped her fingers. Two men in baseball caps emerged from the stairwell.
"Move fast. Stick to the plan." She kept her voice low and pointed toward the bed.
The drugs had pulled Lisbeth into a deep, heavy sleep.
The men ripped the IV needle from the back of her hand, hauled her roughly into a wheelchair, threw a blanket over her, and wheeled her to the service elevator.
Adalyn surveyed the empty room, then strolled to the wall and pressed the emergency call button.
The alarm shrieked through the night.
Every light on the floor blazed to life. The nurses' station erupted into chaos.
Behind the hospital, an undeveloped stretch of wasteland sprawled in the darkness.
Cold wind knifed through Lisbeth's thin hospital gown. She shuddered and fought to open her eyes.
Gravel bit into her back. The pain was blinding.
Two men were on top of her, hands clawing at her clothes.
Fabric ripped. Buttons scattered. The torn gown exposed bandaged shoulders and the sharp ridge of her collarbone.
"Skinny little thing, but damn—look at that skin." One of the men leaned in with a leering grin, his breath foul.
Lisbeth's head swam, but the realization hit through the fog. She'd been taken.
Her dislocated wrist hadn't healed. She had no strength to fight.
She gritted her teeth and drove her knee upward. A palm cracked across her face.
Her skull rang. Blood filled her mouth.
The humiliation eclipsed the pain. She didn't even have the strength to scream for help.
Every breath was a battle.
Then a flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, blinding in its intensity.
"What the hell is going on here?" Adalyn's shocked voice rang out.
Nicholas emerged from the shadows, radiating barely contained fury.
Under the harsh light, Lisbeth lay in the dirt, clothes torn open, two men pinning her down.
The image seared itself into Nicholas's retinas. His eyes went blood-red.
"Nicholas, what is Lisbeth doing out here?" Adalyn pressed a hand to her mouth, her voice trembling with perfectly manufactured shock. "She hasn't even recovered—and she's already sneaking out to meet men like this?"
Lisbeth watched Adalyn's performance with cold, dead eyes.
She didn't struggle. She didn't explain. She just pulled the torn fabric up to cover the wounds on her shoulders.
To Nicholas, her silence was an admission.
"Lisbeth, are you that desperate for a man?" He stalked toward her, his gaze burning.
Lisbeth tilted her head up to look at him, her face full of mockery. "Yeah. I'm desperate. You already knew that, didn't you?"
The fire inside Nicholas detonated.
He turned to his bodyguards. "Drag those two away. Break them."
The men didn't even get a chance to beg. Hands clamped over their mouths, they were hauled into the deeper darkness.
Seconds later—the crack of bone. Muffled groans.
Adalyn sidled closer to Nicholas. "Nicholas, Lisbeth is just hurting. Don't be too hard on her."
"Move." Nicholas's voice was flat.
Adalyn froze. "Nicholas—"
"Go back inside."
His tone left no room for argument.
Adalyn bit her lip, turned, and headed back toward the building.
They were alone in the wasteland.
Nicholas shrugged off his jacket and tossed it aside.
He dropped to one knee in front of Lisbeth, gripped her chin, and forced her to face him.
"The hospital bed isn't good enough for you? You had to come out to the middle of nowhere for a thrill?" His voice was even, but the pressure of his fingers was savage.
Lisbeth's head was wrenched back. Her eyes held nothing but despair. "If Mr. Stuart finds me so disgusting, then don't touch me."
Nicholas laughed—a cold, hollow sound.
He tore open what remained of her hospital gown.
The night air hit her bare skin.
"You want a man? I'll give you one."
He pushed her down into the dirt. No tenderness. No warmth. Only brutal, punishing force.
When he entered her, her body was bone-dry. The pain was like being split apart.
Lisbeth sucked in a sharp breath. Her nails clawed into the earth.
Her barely reset wrist shifted again, sending white-hot pain shooting up her arm. She bit through her lip and swallowed every cry.
"Scream." Nicholas gripped her waist and drove into her harder. "You seemed to be enjoying yourself with those two just now. Why so quiet with me?"
Lisbeth turned her head and stared at a streetlamp in the distance.
"Nicholas, you're pathetic." Her voice was raw, but every word was clear.
Nicholas went still for a fraction of a second. He grabbed her chin and wrenched her face back toward him. "What did you say?"
"I said you're pathetic." Lisbeth held his gaze without flinching. "You'd rather swallow every lie Adalyn feeds you than use your brain for five seconds. I can barely get out of bed. How exactly did I escape a room with armed guards, find two random men, and drag them out to this wasteland for a good time?"
Nicholas's pupils contracted.
"So what?" He recovered quickly, his sneer returning as he increased his force. He watched her brow crease with pain. "As long as you're alive, this is what you get. Jagger's counting on you to save him. I suggest you behave."
Lisbeth closed her eyes. She stopped looking at him.
Fine.
She'd swallowed her father's blood. What did it matter whose hands destroyed what was left of her body?
Every humiliation was fuel. Every degradation fed the hatred growing in her chest.
As long as she survived—as long as she didn't die—she would carve back every debt Nicholas and Adalyn owed her. Cut by cut.
The smell of dirt and blood hung thick in the air.
Nicholas looked down at the lifeless woman beneath him. The restlessness in his chest coiled tighter.
This wasn't what he wanted.
He wanted the Lisbeth who smiled at him. The one who said his name in that soft, aching voice.
But that Lisbeth was gone.
He had destroyed her with his own hands.
It went on for a long time.
Only when Lisbeth lost consciousness completely did Nicholas stop.
He picked his jacket up from the ground and wrapped it tightly around her exposed body. Then he lifted her into his arms.
She weighed almost nothing.
Nicholas looked down.
Dirt and blood smeared her face. Even unconscious, her brow was furrowed—still guarding against him.
He tightened his arms around her and strode toward the hospital.
