Author's Note: Spoiler alert-If there are any younger readers, this chapter is going to seem like sexual violence will happen, but it won't.
Something woke her up. She rubbed her eyes and looked at her cellphone on the nightstand. Two o'clock.
The doorknob to the hotel room jiggled. A shadow loomed under the door.
Her entire body jerked with fear, and she scrambled out of bed to the opposite side of the room. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. Snatching her phone, she tried to dial 9-1-1. Her hands practically vibrated they shook so hard. 6-2-4. "No," she whimpered and frantically deleted the numbers.
The door rattled harder.
9-1-2. Shit. She jammed a finger on Delete and 1.
"The number you have dialed is not in service."
The phone almost slipped out of her shaking hands, and her breathing grew choppy. No. This must be one of the few areas of the country that didn't have emergency services. The seventy-year-old owner would be no help. Think. Think! Her dad had said once to do this. "John! Someone's at the door!" Most intruders got scared if someone knew they were there, particularly a man.
The fiddling stopped.
Time stood still, her heart suspended in fear. Then a deep, sickening laugh came through the door. "You're alone." The knob started jiggling harder, and metal scraped. He was picking the lock.
Her blood ran cold, and she jammed a chair under the doorknob. Then she stumbled back from the door like it was a venomous snake. Tears ran down her face. Grabbing a lamp as a weapon, she tried to dial on her cell, nearly dropping it twice.
"Hello?" Stevens sounded groggy.
"S, Stevens," she whimpered. "There's some,some..." She couldn't breathe.
"Calm down. What's wrong?" He sounded wide awake now.
"A m,man is t,trying to get in." She gasped for more air. "He knows I,I'm alone." The lamp slipped from her trembling hands and shattered into useless splinters. Where was another weapon? Her eyes darted around. A trickle of sweat inched down her spine. He was going to get in and the nightmares would come alive all over again.
"Put whatever you can in front of the door. I'm leaving right now." There was rustling through the phone.
"Emmaaaaa..." came the sing-song voice through the door. The door flexed as he threw himself against it.
She stopped breathing. Oh, god. That voice. Memories came slamming back. Choking. Punches. Kicks. Clothes ripping. A knife. Pain.
"Emma? Someone's trying to get in?" Mr. Port came on the line. His voice teered between anger and panic.
She sank to the floor and sobbed in terror, "It's him."
He needed no other explanation but seemed to understand she meant her ex. "Stevens, chopper! Now! Emma, we'll be there in less than five minutes. Stay on the phone."
"Open the door!" he roared and threw himself against it. The wood creaked, ready to give away.
"The door's b,breaking," she sobbed, so terrified she couldn't think.
Silence in the hall. Silence was more horrifying not knowing what he was doing.
"Get out a window." The whirl of chopper blades screamed in the background.
She stumbled to the window and pulled back the curtains. Eyes black as midnight and a twisted smile looked back at her. She screamed, dropping the phone and stumbling backwards.
The sickening smile slithered across his lips. His greasy black hair and pale skin glowed in the moonlight like an evil demon born of the darkness.
"Emma?! Emma?!" Mr. Port yelled through the phone.
"Hello, Emma," he smiled through the window. And then he raised a crowbar.
She scrambled for the door and flung the chair away. She jerked the doorknob. It didn't budge. He'd jammed the door shut. Shit. Oh, shit. She clutched the knob and flung her weight backwards to pry it open. Her eyes flew to the window.
The glass shattered in the moonlight like thousands of crystals raining down.
"Nooooo!" she screamed and flung herself against the door in a panic to get out.
"Emma!" Mr. Port screamed through the phone. "Grab a weapon! Use anything!"
He climbed through the window.
She dove for the flimsy chair, the only possible weapon. All she could do was huddle in the corner and wait for an opportunity. Her face crumpled and tears of terror cursed down her cheeks.
Keeping his eyes on her, he picked up the phone. "Emma's gonna play."
"Emma, I'm almost-" Mr. Port yelled for her to hear.
He hung up the phone mid-sentence. "It's been a long time." He swung the crowbar from side to side as he sauntered across the room, taking his time to let her fear surmount itself with each step.
She could barely stand from the trembling. "Stop. It's j,just more jail charges." The door was her only way out with him between her and the window.
A blood-curling laugh rose up his throat. Then he lunged and caught her by the throat in an instant, pinning her against the wall. He slammed the crowbar down on the chair. It splintered like a twig.
She gasped for air and uselessly clawed at his hand and thick forearm.
"I lost three years because of you," he hissed. "This time I won't make the mistake of letting you squeal again." He brought the crowbar up to caress her cheek with it's cold iron.
She tried to kick, but caught him with her bad ankle. Searing pain shot down her foot as if weakened tendons tore. Spots began to monopolize her vision. Blindly clawing, she tried to find his eyes.
He raised her onto her toes, cutting off all air. "Do you remember the game?" He hooked the crowbar on the neck of her nightgown and jerked. It ripped down the front to her naval. His sticky, wet tongue licked up her throat to her jaw. Bile rose in her throat. Then his teeth sank into the base of her neck, sending white-hot pain shooting down her back along a major nerve. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream.
Fear died as her body began shutting down. Instincts rose up. And then panic. Then rage. Jumping the best she could, she leapt to press her feet against the wall and then propelled her legs into his stomach.
He lost his balance and stumbled back, dropping her to the floor.
She coughed and gasped for air, scrambling to her feet and blinking hard as her vision returned. The oxygen deprivation made it hard to even stay upright.
Pure anger burned in his eyes. He rushed her.
It takes more effort to hit and miss. He had said that to her the last time he had attacked. Probably the only worthwhile thing he'd ever said. She sidestepped, pressing into the corner of the room to avoid his propelling inertia, and slammed the heel of her hand up into his face. Pain jolted down her wrist at the contact.
He howled in pain and then slammed face first into wall.
She darted across the bed while he still tried to gain his bearings. Her protesting ankle was a dull pain under the adrenaline. The window. She grabbed the ledge and pulled her weight up.
A hand caught her leg and jerked her backwards. "Nooo!" She slammed onto her back. He climbed on top of her. Clawing, bucking, and kicking didn't faze him.
He pulled up her nightgown.
"Nooo! Nooo!" She screamed over and over at the top of her lung, her throat burning as she made herself hoarse. Someone outside would hear. Someone had to. Tears coursed down her cheeks. She wouldn't be a statistic again. She flailed and bucked enough to slam a hip up between his legs. It only pissed him off.
Capturing both of her hands in his, he pressed them into the floor painfully hard. He knelt on her thighs, his knees cutting into muscles. Her scream of pain sliced through the air. The more she fought, the more he immobilized her. His other hand tore off her underwear. Then he looked at her. And smiled. "Beg."
Tears ran down her face. He'd kill her in the end. There was nothing left to lose, and she'd never beg. She looked right into those vacant eyes. "Fuck yourself, Gaston."
A huge silhouette shot through the window behind him and ripped him off, throwing him into the wall like he weighed no more than a bag of potatoes. He hit with a sickening crack and collapsed on the floor.
The silhouette reached out a hand to her slowly, as if not to frighten her. A sweet woody scent filled the air. Her chest heaved as tears of relief replaced the fear. She reached up a shaking hand to take his. But Gaston roared in fury and charged.
Mr. Port spun around just in time to take Gaston's shoulder in the gut and be swept across the room as Gaston barrelled him into a wall.
She staggered to her feet, her thigh muscles refusing to cooperate from their abuse. Stevens wrapped an arm around her and dragged her back, tugging the bedsheet around her nakedness. "No-" She tried to pry his hands away to get to Mr. Port.
"He's alright," Stevens said and held her back. "The police are on their way. Mr. Port can handle himself."
The air had to have been knocked out of Mr. Port with that force. But he didn't miss a beat and clasped his hands together. He raised his fist over his head and slammed it down on Gaston's back. Gaston collapsed under the blow; Mr. Port landed on his feet. He stepped over Gaston and then turned and waited. "Get up," he snarled.
"Legally it's not self-defense until attacked. I daresay Mr. Port hopes he gets up many times," Stevens whispered and backed her up near the safety of the doorway.
Gaston pushed himself up to his hands and knees. "You want the whore? I get first dibbs."
Mr. Port didn't wait for an attack but lifted Gaston up by the shirtcollar and then slammed a knee into Gaston's gut before dropping him.
He cried out in pain and curled up in the fetal position holding his belly.
Then Mr. Port walked over to pick up the crowbar. He walked back so slowly, looking the crowbar over, that only an idiot wouldn't know the rage bubbling beneath the calm exterior. He toed Gaston onto his back. "What was this for?"
"Nothing," Gaston moaned, still holding his belly.
Mr. Port dropped to his knee so fast and whipped the crowbar down with such force that it whistled through the air. It smashed through the hardwood floor. Right next to Gaston's head.
She startled almost as hard as Gaston.
"What was this for?!" Mr. Port roared, making her ears ring.
Gaston didn't answer.
Mr. Port's rage tenfolded his strength. He hauled Gaston up with one hand and slammed him against the wall. Then he pressed the flat of the crowbar into Gaston's neck and leaned a hand on it on each side. His chest heaved with rage.
Gaston gurgled for air and clawed fruitlessly at the bar. He had seemed like such a monster moments ago, but now was as helpless as she'd been.
"So help me, you'd better pray you're locked up until I'm old and dead," he seethed. "Or I'll take you to an abandoned slaughterhouse where no one will hear your screams. If you touch a hair on her ever again, this is the first thing that goes." Mr. Port slammed his knee up into Gaston's groin.
He howled in pain. "Please. I didn't even hit her," he whimpered.
He dropped the crowbar and replaced it with his barehands. "You fucking filth! You wanted her to beg before you raped her!" he roared.
She silently stepped up beside Mr. Port and set a hand on his arm.
He dropped Gaston. "Look," he told her, glaring down at Gaston with disgust. "This is no monster to be afraid of."
She looked down. Gaston curled up on the floor crying and holding between his legs. He reached out for her bedsheet, and she stumbled back in fear.
"Don't call the police," he begged.
Mr. Port shot down and grabbed Gaston's collar. "What was not clear about not touching her?" he hissed, his voice shaking with rage.
Before she could react, his fury unleashed.
He flung Gaston across the floor away from her and then advanced to slam a fist into Gaston's face.
She startled, never having witnessed a punch so hard.
Gaston's eyes rolled back and he collapsed.
Stevens darted forward and felt for a pulse. "You're lucky that didn't kill him."
Mr. Port rubbed his knuckles. "Would've been time well spent in prison," he growled. Then he looked at her, the rage gone and replaced with gentleness. "Did he hurt you?"
She stared at him. It was like a switch had flipped off. Like insanity had lost control for a moment.
"I won't hurt you," he said softly and held out a hand to her. When she hesitated, he said calmly, "Navy SEAL training."
The hand-to-hand combat made sense now. Suddenly, the night all dropped like a thousand bricks on her, and she burst into tears, flinging herself in his arms. He held her tight as she sobbed until the police arrived.
He kept a comforting arm around her, gently encouraging when she'd lose the nerve during giving her statement to the police. Odd that no one seemed to think anything of his ski mask.
When one of the male paramedics had to look her over for injuries and she shied away in fear, he silently walked over and sat with her, keeping his eye diverted. He simply held her hand.
"Mr. Port," the lead officer said when the paramedic finished. "He's claiming assault from you." He tapped his pen on his notepad.
Her eyes flew to Mr. Port. A Navy SEAL attacking a civilian without it being self-defense surely carried heavy charges.
He looked at the officer, utterly calm. "I beat the shit out of him."
The officer suppressed a smile and wrote in his notepad. "Ms. Hoplin, do you feel that you adequately defended yourself from your attacker? Mr. Port here just punched him when he found you being attacked?"
She saw where this was going. "Yes. I think Gaston is confused."
"Alright then. I'll be in touch with any questions. He'll be back in jail just for escaping, not to mention about five more charges from tonight." He nodded and left.
"Thank you," Mr. Port said.
She looked up at him. "It's least I could do for you rescuing me."
"Let's go home. Your suitcase was confiscated as part of the crime scene." He unbuttoned his shirt.
She finally took in his appearance and saw him wearing flannel pajamas and snow boots.
He shrugged off his shirt and quickly swapped it for the blanket without exposing her. Then he started buttoning it up, keeping his right side turned away from her.
Part of her brain registered the beautiful hills and valleys of his bare torso, but most of her brain was simply numb and exhausted. "You'll get cold."
His teeth glinted through the mask. "I'll be fine." Then he helped her into her coat that had somehow magically been at hand. Curling his left arm around her, they followed Stevens out to the chopper parked in the middle of the street.
The short flight to Mr. Port's house was a numb blur.
He carried her to the bedroom, and her mind started functioning again when he set her on the bed. "Is there a shower?" She still clutched the front of her zipped coat together in a white-knuckled grip, and her hands started to ache. A tear rolled down her cheek.
He slowly squatted to look up at her. "Emma, did he force intercourse?" His voice vibrated gentle and steady and safe.
She shook her head.
Gently guiding her hand away from the coat, he held it and searched her eyes. Concern, worry, and fear clouded his eye. "When he attacked you before, did he rape you?"
Pulling her hand away, she wrapped her arms around herself tight. Her eyes slid from his to stare blindly at the floor. Numbness felt better than the fear, than the memories.
"You're safe here. You have the only key to your room too." He scooped her up when she didn't respond and carried her out. "There's a shower in my room."
He brought in everything she'd need. "I'll be out here if you need anything." Then he shut the door.
She scrubbed under hot water until her skin glowed red. Then the aching in her chest started. It grew and swelled, refusing to be suppressed any longer. She wouldn't cry this time. It'd taken too long to put her life back together. Then her hand bumped the thick scar on her thigh. It was too much. The pain and fear bubbled up. She drowned in it, unable to escape. Slowly sinking down, she huddled under the streaming water and curled her knees up to her chest. Tears started flowing. Soon, gut-wrenching sobs wracked her, making it hard to even breathe. She buried her face in her hands and rocked, weeping so hard she made not a sound for seconds at a time.
Footsteps entered. "Emma?" Worry filled his voice from the other side of the shower curtain. "Come out so you're not by yourself." He flung a towel to hang over the shower rod.
She barely processed his words.
The shower curtain opened a minute later, with his blind side turned to her. He turned off the water and draped a large towel around her before scooping her out. "He's gone," he promised. "It's alright."
She wrapped her arms around his neck and wept, soaking his shirt. But he didn't seem to mind because he sat on the edge of the bed and set her in his lap. He didn't let go.
She jerked hard and woke up in a dark room. Her heart raced. Where was she? The aroma of roses filled the air. Mr. Port's home. It was just a nightmare. The thundering of her heart calmed a fraction, and she looked around. The shadows twitched and taunted in the moonlight of the unshrouded windows. She hunkered down in the blankets. Her hands started shaking. Shapes took forms. Eyes glowed. Tree branches turned into claws. An owl hooted. A branch tapped the window, and she jumped out of her skin. Flinging back the covers, she tore down the hall, willing to brave the darkness in return for the promise of safety at the end.
The hall seemed to never end, and she took a turn to the right into the other wing of the house. His room had to have been this way. The soft glow of a dying fire flickered into the hall, so she ran toward it, ignoring the terrible pain it caused her ankle.
A large body lay under the blankets, with deep, even breathing filling the room. His mask rested on the nightstand. She crept closer to see him shirtless and lying on his right side. Not wanting to betray the man who had done so much for her, she tiptoed around the bed and didn't look at his face as she slipped under the sheets and kept her back to him.
He stirred. "Emma?" Sleep wove through his voice.
She tensed, remaining on her side facing away from him. "I didn't look. I dreamed about him and couldn't sleep." Her face burned with embarrassment at getting caught. Who crawled into her boss's bed from a nightmare like a five year old? She pushed back the blankets and sat up.
"You don't have to go. Just stay there for a moment." The sheet rustled. "Alright." He caught her hand and tugged her back into bed. He wore the mask and a nightshirt. "Do you want to talk about it?"
She shook her head and laid down as close to the edge of the bed as possible and faced away.
"You'll fall off the bed." His arm wrapped around her and pulled her back to rest against his chest. "Is this alright?"
No, it was perfect. She relaxed against him, and his arm wrapped around her. "Thank you," she whispered.
"You can sleep now," he whispered and kept her cocooned in the safety of his arms.
The sun shined through the drapes the next morning. She stretched and yawned, the previous night seeming like a faded nightmare. Then she rolled over in bed to see a note on Mr. Port's pillow with a large blossom white rose.
You may lounge as long as you like. If you're not up by ten, Trudy will bring up breakfast if I'm unable to get away from business conference calls.
White roses mean promise, sincerity, purity, and loyalty. This is my promise that you will never have reason to fear me; I would do anything to keep you from harm.
Strength comes in many forms, the strongest of which is surviving. You are as pure and flawless as this bloom, Emma. Even in your darkest moments, never forget that.
Jason
The letter blurred as tears welled. His words were a beautiful balm on old wounds that had refused to heal.