Stabled (The Stables Trilogy #1) Page 7

  “Take her into my room, now.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the hospital?”

  “It’s hours away. Goddamnit, Raúl, just take her to my room! Now!” The authority in J.B.’s voice sent Raúl running, with Maple flopping helplessly in his arms.

  They went to the hallway of shut doors, down to the end. Raúl had to kick the door open, too desperate to set her down to bother with the knob. The door jamb splintered, but the door swung open. She found herself jostled as he rushed toward the bed.

  He laid her down softly, trying to spread her limbs out. Raúl grabbed the bitten wrist and looked at it, hissing. “Jesus.” Maple’s vision was blurring and sweat was in her eyes, but she saw that it was swelling rapidly and turning a frightening shade of red.

  Raúl pulled his belt off and made a tourniquet around her arm. Maple cried out as he cinched it tight. But there was no way he could tourniquet her back, where she’d also been bitten.

  “Fuck, Belleza,” he murmured, brushing her sweat-soaked hair from her brow. “Don’t die, I’m so sorry, just don’t die--”

  “Get away from her!” J.B. stormed over, tainted with menace. Maple managed to turn her head. He had a kit in his hand, which he flung next to her. When his eyes saw the belt on her arm, they narrowed. “What the hell are you doing?” His fingers dropped down, quickly undoing the binding. “This doesn’t help her do anything but lose an arm, too,” he spat, throwing the belt at Raúl. “Let someone who knows what they’re doing take care of her.”

  There wasn’t time to see if his rebuke wounded Raúl. Because in that moment, J.B. was all she could look at. His rugged face was lined with worry, his mouth pressed into a tight line. He opened the kit and pulled out six vials and a syringe. “I don’t have much practice with this.”

  That was all the apology she got before he opened a vial, filled the syringe, tapped the air bubbles out, and plunged it into her thigh. Next, he pulled out a saline bag, hanging it from his bed frame. He ran the tubes down to her arm. Putting on gloves, he unsealed a needle. Maple looked away. She felt him search for a vein and then the prick of the needle as the IV slid in. She heard the pull and tear of surgical tape.

  When she looked again, he was injecting the saline with the remaining five vials. Where had he learned how to do that?

  Her breathing became a little easier. Raúl came dashing in, and she managed to give him a small smile of apology. J.B. was not feeling forgiving. “Good. Now get out, you’ve got work to do--”

  “But boss--”

  “Raúl, we’ve got history, but if you don’t get out right the fuck now, you’re going to find yourself out of a job.”

  The door slammed but didn’t stick as Raúl left, bouncing helplessly back open. J.B. growled and jumped off the bed to move a chair in front of it, keeping it shut.

  Her clothes were feeling tight, her skin itching. The fabric began to hurt her. It reminded Maple of the blood pressure cuffs at the doctor, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, but there was no puff of air and release after. She was swelling, her body blowing up like a balloon. “J.B.--” she choked out, “It hurts!”

  He rushed back to her, his fingers pressing to her neck. His other hand rested on her belly and Maple wanted to focus on it, but her body was aching so much. “My clothes!” She gasped.

  J.B. must have seen it then, the buttons of her shirt strained to popping, the denim of her jeans cutting into hips and ankles. “Damn,” he hissed. He whipped a large pocket knife from his back pocket, flipping it open. It’s blade glinted, serrated and nasty looking. “Don’t fucking move.”

  The knife slid, hacking and sawing, through the arms of her shirt, the front, the flaps of fabric falling and relief screaming in her head. When the knife started cutting off her bra, Maple shut her eyes, humiliated even in her discomfort.

  Next came her jeans, her swollen thighs practically popping from the fabric he sliced away. It took work, but J.B. yanked her boots off.

  Maple lay on his bed, naked but for her panties, shivering. The cool air on her limbs and the freedom from the constricting clothing was such a relief she moaned and arched her back a little, just to feel control of her body again.

  J.B. was on the bed, between her legs. His black hair was in his face, which was paler than usual. His eyes weren’t on hers. They were on her body. Maple’s heart faltered and it wasn’t the venom. It was the look of undiluted lust on his face. His lip curled in hunger.

  Her skin prickled under his gaze and, before she could help herself, she let her knees fall a little more open. His eyes, furious with desire, darted to hers. The prickling sensation grew. Her tongue licked a lip. When it slid back in her mouth, it felt too large, making it difficult to breathe again. The prickling intensified into a bitter itching.

  “Oh God,” she moaned.

  “What?” His already gravel voice was lower, raspier.

  “My skin itches!” Her arms moved sluggishly, fingers beginning to scratch; she didn’t have enough fingers to reach her whole body at once. The itching turned torturous.

  He grabbed her hands and pinned them to the mattress. This brought his body close to hers, his chest hovering over her bared breasts, the cold brush of his buttons sending sparks through her. The bite of his hands on her wrists were twin points of pain that cut through the itch. Fuck.

  She reacted without thinking, bringing her knees up to gently press her hips to his. Her body was and was not her own; the body on the bed was being ravaged by the venom and antivenom at work. But the wall, the one she so desperately needed in her mind to keep her desires in check? Demolished. Gone without a trace. Need flooded into her and being pinned to the bed was driving her to action.

  J.B. looked at her in horror even as she felt his erection grow, pressed tight against her. “No,” he groaned, yet his hips rocked into her. “No!” Jumping away, he scrambled off the bed.

  Maple wanted to say something. To plead for forgiveness. To beg for more. But now her tongue was so swollen in her mouth it was hard to breathe again and without his hard body on top of hers, her skin flared to life again, the itching pure torture.

  He grabbed another vial from the kit and filled another syringe, pushing it into the tube connected to her arm.

  A fugue, heady and sweet, descended on Maple.

  As sleep forcefully claimed her, she thought she felt fingertips on her thigh.

  Chapter Nine

  Her mouth felt like cotton. Maple’s lips opened before her eyes, gasping for air.

  “What do you need?” His whisper was so soft and strained that Maple almost didn’t hear it through the drugged fog.

  “Water.”

  A straw slipped between her lips. She sucked, the warm water filling her mouth. She pictured the desert after a rain, how the ground greedily devoured it in seconds. That’s what it felt like. She took another sip, larger.

  She opened her eyes. When she tried to sit, though, she couldn’t. Fibers from rope cut and itched at her wrists and ankles. Maple tugged hard on instinct. She was tied to his bed, her arms pulled taut about her head and her legs spread and tied down at the foot of the bed.

  Why in the hell was she tied up? Twisting, she tried to slip a limb free, but the ropes were knotted well. They slid and burned, but they didn’t give. “Why am I tied up?” Her body felt hot as she considered how compromised she looked.

  “You wouldn’t stop scratching yourself.”

  Fuck. She hoped to God it was scratching and not touching. Because given some of the dreams she’d had of J.B., she had no trouble imagining sliding her hands between her legs as she slept. Maple couldn’t look at him.

  Compounded with her worry was knowing that this was a real and regular fantasy for her. Her hands and legs bound, J.B. relishing the varied tortures and pleasures he unleashed on her body.

  The bed dipped as he sat. He untied her ankles first. In order to untie her wrists, J.B. had to lean close over her. His shirt whispered on her skin, his smell wrapping her up like
a blanket. Maple wasn’t sure if she imagined it, but for a moment, it felt as though he lightly traced up her forearm before loosening the knots.

  Her shoulders screamed as he pulled her hands down and held them. In strong, sure strokes he rubbed life back into them. The touch was rough, but intimate, and Maple bit her cheek, fearful of groaning. “Water now?”

  J.B. was there, holding a glass to her, but his face was made of stone. Unreadable. Anxiety tried to beat its way in but whatever was in her IV held it at bay.

  “How do you feel?” Cold and removed.

  Her stomach lurched. “Like I’m going to throw up.”

  She saw the wince J.B. tried to hide as he slid an arm under her shoulders to help her up. The pine scent of his shampoo tickled her nose. There wasn’t time to enjoy it, or the hot press of his skin near hers, because the lurch turned into rebellion. She vomited, hard, into the bucket he held to her face.

  It was hard to stop, even after her stomach was empty. It fought and spasmed, uncontrollably. Tears, unbidden, slid down her cheeks as she dry heaved. J.B. slid her arms around the bucket, making her hold it, while he added something to her IV.

  Slowly the spasming stopped, leaving her breathing hard into the bucket. The sour smell of bile and its tangy, bitter taste surrounded her. Weakly, she handed him the bucket. “Thanks,” she croaked.

  “Now how do you feel?”

  Her body was tired. Beyond tired. It was sore, her arms and legs scarcely felt as if they were attached. The itching was gone, though, and the tight, stretched feeling to her skin. When she raised her arms and hands to the light, she saw they were normal sized, no longer swelling. Relief flooded through her. “Awful, but better.”

  He nodded.

  Maple was still in his bedroom. She was dressed for the most part, though the arm with the IV hung out of a large button-down shirt. He’d buttoned it along her torso and chest as high as her armpit. It was butter soft Chambray, with pearl buttons. It was his, and it was touching her skin.

  J.B.’s bedroom was simple. Like the rest of the house, she could see the money, but it wasn’t shoved in her face. The bed was simple, four poster. It was enormous. She was lying on one side and four people could have fit easily next to her. His linens were white, the comforter a dark green, filled with down. The floor was a rustic pine, but laid diagonally. Two easy chairs in distressed leather in front of a fireplace. A large window hung with white curtains. Simple. Comforting.

  He was leaning against the post at the foot of the bed closest to her. Maple saw he looked different; same cowboy style, but the shirt was clean and black. With his black hair and tanned skin, he looked cut from a magazine. J.B. had stubble that was at risk of turning into a beard.

  His jeans were designer this time, cut close and slung low on his hips. She’d seen pants like that at Tulane, on the wealthier kids.

  “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “A little over a day.”

  “What happened after the drugs you gave me? I felt almost as bad as when the snake bit me.”

  “Serum sickness. The anti-venom makes you sick, but it keeps you from dying. You had an allergic reaction to it, too. Benadryl and sleep and I think you’ll be fine. Just take it easy for a while.” He paused, a dark shadow crossing his face. “Why did you let Bane out?” His voice was soft. It sounded threatening.

  She’d forgotten what had started this. Now she remembered that powerful equine body, the feeling of closeness. J.B.’s pose and frown made her defensive.“He can be broken. I wanted to show you that he doesn’t need to be locked up.”

  “No, he can’t. He almost killed you. He’s killed before.” J.B.’s voice caught at the last statement.

  “That was an accident. It was fine, I promise. Raúl spooked him when he came running up too fast. Bane was letting me pet him. Did Raúl tell you that?”

  The silent reply told her what she needed. She pushed. “Bane needs to be out, J.B. Either sell him or let me break him, but keeping him locked up is wrong.”

  “My horse, my stable. He stays in his stall. It’s where that monster belongs.” His mismatched eyes were unfocused, seeing some memory long gone.

  “But J.B., what you’re doing is cruel--”

  Anger flashed across his features, and suddenly he was in her face. “You don’t know how cruel I can be! You don’t know what that fucking horse is!” He was seething, his chest heaving with barely contained rage. “He deserves every bit of punishment he gets! He killed my--”

  J.B.’s face blanched and Maple’s suspicions were confirmed. ‘Wife,’ unspoken, hung in the distance between them. J.B. didn’t know Raúl had told her about his dead wife, but he clearly didn’t want her to know now.

  Bane. Black as death, larger than life. Maple was torn; she’d seen the sweet side of Bane. It was there, lurking beneath the ebony hide, muscle and sinew. The horse wasn’t inherently evil. Horses weren’t like men; they didn’t hurt on purpose. They didn’t revel in another’s pain. Bane didn’t murder J.B.’s wife.

  But the horse had killed. Raúl had said it and J.B. just confirmed. How much of that was an accident? How much poor handling? Was J.B. right to punish the horse? She couldn’t know the anguish he’d experienced, losing his wife…

  “Accidents happen, J.B.,” she muttered, unable to look him in the eye. “A horse is many things, but a murderer is not one of them. You’re taking your anger out on the wrong thing.”

  Through gritted teeth, he spoke menacingly. “What do you know about it? Who should I take this anger out on? You?” His laugh was a bark, dark and incredulous. “Please, Maple. You aren’t even half prepared to handle what I need to get out.”

  She reeled, deeply lured by his harsh promise. ‘Yes!’ she wanted to scream. ‘Yes, I need it! I need everything you have!’ The allure of being the object J.B. punished with that rage appealed to her so much she could scarcely breathe. He didn’t know, couldn’t know or understand what she was beginning to realize; that maybe fate had brought her here. Unlike Bane, she really was deserving of punishment. J.B. merely needed to lift the smiting hand.

  Instead, his face, pale and strained, pulled away. He stepped back quickly.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. J.B. wasn’t the kind of man to apologize, and the words rang more like they were directed at him, at his own memories, than at her. When he managed to look at her, everything about him was haunted. The straight line of his shoulders. His ragged inhales. The sharp cut of his jaw and clenched teeth. “This conversation is over, though. If you go near Bane again, you’re fired.”

  She was making this worse. Somehow, Maple was pushing him away. Tony had seen inside her and had captured her, ensnared her. Now she was seeing inside of J.B. and she wanted to do the same to him. To seduce him and make him hers.

  The parallel between her and Tony made her sick.

  Their argument stalled, neither willing to continue. As she raced through everything that had happened, she saw J.B. lock down. Get control of his emotions. It made her envious. She’d been able to do that once. Now she was a derailed train, bent on demolishing everything.

  The memory of the bite, of being pinned under him on the bed, came back. It was filled with poison and Maple saw what J.B. had seen; a little girl, possessed by venom and lust. Disgusting.

  Who acted that way? Who, while dying on a man’s bed, spread their legs, hoping to be fucked? In the deep recesses of her memory, Tony’s toxic laugh started bubbling up. The anxious voice that she was used to hearing disappeared. His malicious one took its place.

  You wanton little slut.

  Tony was right.

  She shivered, hard. “I need the bucket.”

  Maple started vomiting again, wishing the rattlesnake had just killed her.

  Soft breaths woke her. J.B. was beside her on the bed. Oh, he’d shoved a pillow between their bodies, but she felt him, the weight of him dipping the mattress. The awareness of his close proximity wasn’t unpleasant.

  He
was sleeping, his masculine face relaxed. He’d shaved. Longing, almost irresistible, to touch his hair, forced her to clench her fists.

  Most of the nausea had passed but she still felt like she’d been tossed at sea, slammed against rocks, and thrown on shore again.

  Maple was scared to move.

  J.B. had saved her life. She should be grateful. She wasn’t sure she was anymore.

  What did he think of her now? Was he appalled? She was. She couldn’t not think of it, replaying her moaning, arching body over and over. It was a thick sludge, worming its shameful imagery through her until her stomach cramped and her skin burned. Every push of her hips to his. Her wrists ached with the memory of his rough hands.

  She’d need to call her mother and come home, of course. Maple’s heart broke. She hadn’t expected to love this job or life on the ranch. But her little room had started to feel like home. She liked her friendships with Raúl and Mariela. Maple felt comfortable here, something she hadn’t felt since Tony.