Savaged Read online

  Contents

  Other Titles

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Just for the Summer Sneak Peek

  SAVAGED

  COPYRIGHT ©2014 NACOLE STAYTON

  NACOLE STAYTON PUBLISHING, LLC.

  Photography by Shutterstock

  Graphics by Perfect Pear Creative Covers

  Editing by AGC Editing

  Proofreading by Lea Burn and Michelle Eck

  Interior Design by Kassi’s Kandids Formatting

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only licensed authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Disclaimer

  This book contains adult content. Inferences of violence and mature sex are included. If you are unable to read this type of material or under age eighteen, please do not proceed with purchasing this book.

  The Upside of Letting Go

  A Graceful Mess

  In the Lyrics

  To anyone who believes that a savaged heart can be saved.

  And to the few of you that have stuck around to find out.

  SULFUROUS ODORS ASSAULT MY nose, pressed against the frigid concrete. The smell lingers and a warning flashes in my brain, cautioning me not to turn over. Refusing to listen, I regret the movement immediately as pain slices through my body. The hairs on my arms are smoldering then matting to my skin before my eyes. My mind blank, I try to make sense of the sight, barely registering my surroundings. A gust of wind blows by, and the chattering of my teeth echoes off the brick wall in front of me.

  Sweat drips off my forehead as rage seeps from my pores. Vague images of black-masked forms start playing on repeat in my head as I try not to think about the unbearable agony slithering up my side. Dragging my limp arm across my chest, I attempt to hold my throbbing ribcage, to lessen the pain.

  Viscid warmth covers my fingers as I find the wound there. Wincing, I gather all the strength I have left and apply pressure in an effort to keep from bleeding out. The pain dulls when I don’t breathe so I hold my breath, grunting with each gasp that escapes my lips. I’m lightheaded, and my weak neck can barely hold my head up.

  I close my eyes and silently pray that I’m not dying. I can feel the flesh of my face redden with color as the pain of my wounds blazes more fiercely than anything I’ve ever endured. I wonder if this is even real. As much as I hate admitting I’ve hallucinated before, nothing has ever seemed quite this vivid.

  This isn’t a dream; it is indeed a nightmare, though I’m not sleeping.

  Was I shot? Doused in acid?

  The realization of my fucking reality cuts me deep. Stabbed, beaten, burned into unconsciousness, and left to rot in a puddle of mud and my own despair.

  An ache races like a fever across my skin as sudden stinging attacks me, jarring my senses. Moving my bloodied hand, I inch it up toward my cheek. As if my face were made of breakable porcelain, I graze lightly over my skin, afraid that with even the faintest touch, I will crumble. I moan, licking my lips to ease their dryness, tasting a foul, metallic-tinged substance. I’ve been cut there, too.

  Sliced.

  From the corner of my mouth, I trace the wide path carved in my skin upward to my eye, ending right beside the brow. The open flesh burns under my touch, and in this moment, as I lie helpless, my mind freezes. My body weakens, drained of life, of hope, and I wish that they had killed me.

  Death has to be better than this.

  Death has to be better than fighting to live.

  “JAROD!” I BARK INTO THE receiver of my phone, paging my assistant, and then hit end abruptly. Clenching my jaw, I lean back in my black leather chair and take a deep breath before exhaling very slowly. It’s something I learned from watching self-improvement videos online. Sometimes it helps, but most of the time it doesn’t do anything but make me feel like a fucking idiot.

  My eyes burn from staring at the computer screen in this dim lighting. It’s been two minutes and Jarod still hasn’t returned my page. I seethe as my rage and agitation grow. Running my hand through my hair, I exhale and allow the anger trapped inside to leave my body before loosening the knot of the blue tie that’s like a noose around my neck. I’m thankful that my day is coming to an end. Running an empire is no joke, and the day’s tension builds in my temples.

  I reach into the bottom drawer of my cherry-stained desk and pull out a bottle of aged bourbon. Pouring an ample amount into a short glass, I raise the rim to my nose. As I inhale the aroma, the stout yet refined smell pleases my senses. Taking a swig, I swish the liquid around, and allow my taste buds to savor the liquor before I swallow. The alcohol is not meant to cure my anger. It is merely meant to dilute the real desire that lurks within me. My longing to get laid is like a nagging alarm clock in my body. I can tell when it’s going to go off and rings loudly in my ears.

  As the seconds pass, I grow more annoyed at Jarod’s unanswered page. I pour another drink. As I tip back the second glass, the faint sound of a creaking door alerts me that someone is coming. Finally. The beast within me ignites and begs to be let loose, but I stow the growling–the urges that prowl within me are powerless as long as I stay in control. My eyes dart from the screen in front of me as I sharply whip my head around. Glaring into the dimly lit room, I can make out the silhouette of a body.

  “What can I do for you?” Jarod asks from the threshold, appearing unbothered by my agitated state.

  As irritated as I am at Jarod for taking his sweet time, I’m more irritated at myself. I know what my body longs for, what I’m craving in this very moment, and I know the only way to make these feelings disappear is for me to give in to them. Being locked up like an animal has put a giant kink in my normally eccentric sexual tendencies, but I’ve found other ways to lure women into my home and my bed.

  I open my mouth to speak, calmness seeps out of my parted lips. “Please invite a guest for dinner.” A devilish grin spreads across my face.

  Jarod nods his head and raises his hand to grip the side of the wooden door. Silently, he takes a step backward into the hallway and prepares to shut me alone in obscurity once again.r />
  “Wait.” My voice sounds stern, demanding, and unyielding. Cocking his neck to the side, Jarod halts. “I want someone new, younger, brunette, and innocent. Make it fast too. I’ve been stressed and need to unwind.”

  I watch his Adam’s apple move up and down as he swallows and gestures okay with a bob of his head, and then he turns to shut the door. If I had to guess, he’s probably thinking too hard about my request. I’ve never asked for a brunette before. That’s usually his type of woman.

  “Grams, you’ve got to sit up and eat. Please,” I beg as I sit impatiently in a chair next to her bedside. A small metal rail rests between us. Lightly, I brush a loose curl off of her cheek. “The nurse said you haven’t eaten in two days. We’re not going through this again or so help me….”

  Tears form in my eyes, like clouds filling with rain, puffing, on the brink of leaking. Blinking them away, I stare down at my elderly grandmother’s body. She is pale and her cheeks are sunken in—another indication that this nursing home is a piece of shit, a place where people come to rot, and the workers could not care less. Their salaries are paid regardless of who lives and who dies. Knowing this is all I can afford kills me as much as seeing my grandmother suffer. It’s pure torture.

  Grams’ opens her eyes and the once full-of-life woman stares blankly back at me. A breath catches itself in my throat. I can feel the emotion in her eyes as they connect with mine. Normally, she’s too weak to even look up at me. It gives me hope that she’s holding on.

  “I love you. Now open up and let me feed you.”

  Thirty minutes pass before I kiss my grandmother’s white-hair covered head. I whisper my goodbyes into her ear and then stand and gather my belongings. Heading for the exit, I walk through the sterile hallway. The urge to run outside and breathe fresh air guides my feet forward. Nursing homes have always been known as a place where people come to die. That thought alone sends eerie chills down my spine. The temperature outside is frigid, and for a brief second, I wish I were back in the building. My teeth chatter as I hold my hands in front of my chest and all but run to my old car.

  Coffee. I need something warm. I need to feel like a normal twenty-two-year-old, even if it is just a cover, because my life is anything but normal. Music blares from the car’s speakers once I put my key into the ignition. The safety harness is cool against the exposed skin of my neck as I buckle my seatbelt. My breath is visible in the small car as I exhale and pull onto the road. Winters in Seattle are a bitch.

  The trip is short, something I’m thankful for as my frigid body shakes. My car is older than dirt and takes too long to warm up. I pull into a spot in front of the coffee shop near campus, wishing I didn’t have to defer this semester. I get out of the car and decide to make the best of the situation. My visits here have become sort of a regular thing, and I enjoy blending in with the student body lifestyle to which I used to belong. At least my student ID card ensures that I’m still welcome in this college town.

  The sound of my shoes disrupts the silence that has become my existence as I walk toward the front door of the small brick building. Not paying attention, I reach out to push the door open, and almost collide with the man suddenly in front of me.

  “Whoa. Sorry, buddy,” I say as I regain my composure. The man opens the door and gestures me inside with the wave of his hand. “Thank you,” I whisper, smiling, as I stroll by the handsome stranger.

  I haven’t seen him before. I’d remember a face that charming. The man bows his head instead of speaking and walks toward the counter. Biting my lip, I watch from afar as he pulls out a stool and sits down. He doesn’t glance back as I stand there dumbstruck. My lips part, and I can feel my cheeks reddening. Low and behold, chivalry still exists.

  Making my way up to the counter, I remove my navy blue, bubble jacket and drape it over the back of a chair. The wooden stool sways a little as I sit. Raising my hand, I wave the petite blonde barista over and order a small coffee, regular with two creams and a sugar. As I wait for my drink, I hold my cold hands up to my mouth and blow. The warmth is temporary, but it seems to help. Noise surrounds me. I glance around the room, my gaze lingering on a small crowd of college kids—their textbooks sprawled out in front of them, their faces deep in thought. My time in school suddenly seems like a distant memory. One day, I’ll get my degree, I think, half daydreaming as the sound of someone in front of me grabs my attention.

  “Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else.” The barista grins while she folds a white, freshly printed bill in half before laying it on the counter directly in front of me.

  The stress and pressure from Grams’s visit weighs heavily on my shoulders. I must look pitiful. I know I feel like it as I rub the back of my neck. I’m a survivor though. I always have been, but lately I feel like I’m in a sinking ship. I’ll do anything to stay afloat, to protect Grams and make sure she is comfortable, even if it means selling my soul to the devil to do so.

  “My name’s Jarod. What’s yours?” someone murmurs from my left. Turning my head, I notice the overzealous but courteous door opener smiling in my direction. Unconsciously, my eyes move down, to the hand he’s holding out in front of him.

  Jarod. I allow the name to silently roll off my tongue. Grinning, I take a sip of my warm coffee and pause for a moment as I welcome the heat of the caffeinated water in my mouth. I glance back up in his direction, and he is still looking at me with warmth in his eyes. He’s waiting for a response.

  “Bree,” I whisper, reaching in front of me, stretching over the seats between us to take his hand. Our flesh meets in a warm clasp, as we lace them together and then shake.

  We exchange a friendly smile, and I feel a sense of calm that radiates off of him. No sooner than learning my name, he turns to face forward, seemingly uninterested. Why spark a conversation only to ignore me afterward? Shaking my head, I take another sip of my coffee and try not to glance in his direction or feel rejected, attempt to remain cool.

  My hand fumbles around in my purse as I search for my wallet. Way to fly under the radar. I finally find it and slide out my debit card. Taking the last sip of my coffee, or more so gulping it down, committing the taste to memory, I stand up. I slide on my jacket and walk the short distance to the register, which just so happens to be directly next to Jarod. Lovely, I think sarcastically.

  “Ticket, please,” the man behind the counter requests as he holds out his hand. I watch as he huffs and shakes his head. He seems slightly annoyed by my presence. Refraining from telling him it’s his job to be here waiting on me, I place the ticket in the palm of his hand.

  The dude reads off my total with an emotionless stare. He doesn’t deserve my time of day. Asshole. He keys in the price and repeats the total out loud. Bile rises in my throat over how much a cup of black coffee costs. After he swipes my card, a concerned look spreads across his face. I’ve seen that look more often than I’d like to admit. Empathy.

  “Ma’am, I hate to break it to you,” he says, his voice sour, “but there seems to be a problem with your card. Do you have an alternate method of payment?”

  Swallowing the realization that my card got declined, my eyes widen and my lashes fly up. Washing dirty teacups and mugs is a real possibility in my near future. The thought causes my cheeks to flush with embarrassment. I fumble around in my purse again, hoping to find a miracle, and wonder how this could be happening. I checked the balance this morning, and while it was low, there was enough for a measly cup of coffee. What seems like minutes pass before I regain my composure and have the nerve to glance around the room. People are probably staring at me, feeling sorry for me. It’s like I can feel their eyes burning holes into the back of my head.

  “I’m sorry, but—” My apology is cut off, and my eyes, already swollen, gloss over with unshed tears as they land on Jarod.

  Like a knight in shining armor, he interrupts me mid-sentence, voice smooth as he lightheartedly asks, “Didn’t I tell you that your cup was on me?” I watch hi
m, my head tilted, no doubt with a flabbergasted expression on my face as his melts into a buttery smile. Standing up, he reaches into his back pocket. “Here, add her ticket to mine.”

  It’s hard to ignore his kindness. My palms are sweaty from pure nervousness. I’m scared to even offer him my hand in courtesy. I frown, thinking about this humiliating situation. No one has ever been so kind in my entire life. It leaves me wondering who this guy is.

  I stand as still as a statue as Jarod leans against the counter and, in a hushed voice, says to the rude guy, “Why don’t you go ahead and charge my card for two more cups. We’re going to be over there.” He points to a small round table in the back of the building, and the guy shakes his head before turning on his heels to prepare the order.

  “Would you like to talk, Bree?”

  I don’t move, lost in my own thoughts. I know he’s talking to me, but I’m still so shocked that he was willing to help a stranger that I’m rendered speechless. His body is suddenly next to mine as he takes a step closer. His arm extends, and he places his hand on the small of my back, a gesture that makes the skin under my many layers of clothing catch fire.

  My throat feels dry as I give him a forced smile and a tense nod of consent. Urging me to move forward, he slightly pushes on my back. All of the hairs on the nape of my neck rise as if they are saluting his touch. It’s a strange feeling, one that I haven’t had in a long time. With Grams being ill, I haven’t had much time for…dating.

  We make our way to the back of the building, out of the way of prying ears. Jarod’s mouth opens. “Sit,” he commands. The tone in his voice isn’t callous but very much in control, and I’m no dog. I don’t take orders from anyone.

  He has a blank but curious look written on his face, as I take my seat with a don’t-fuck-with-me expression on mine. Hopefully, he heeds my warning.

  “Thank you,” he says.

  As I stare at him from across the table, I notice his masculine features and I take in every aspect. My eyes rake in the wealth of blond hair that’s piled neatly on his head. It’s short, yet thick, and sticking straight up as if on purpose. Lowering my gaze, I’m captivated by his smile. With his lips parted, I can see a dazzling display of straight, white teeth. His profile is rugged, yet very well kept. He’s handsome, and oddly, I feel safe being tucked away in the small nook with him. Take away his demanding tone and he might actually be a stand-up guy.