The doctor sighed but examined me from head to toe. He hesitated, glancing back to Arthur when he said, “Have you been compromised, señorita?”
It took me a moment to understand his meaning. When it hit home, I shook my head. “No,” I said, seeing Arthur’s jaw clench again. The doctor stood and started putting his equipment back in his bag.
“Bathe, then place ice on your cheek for the swelling. I will leave pain medication for you to take. There is no lasting or significant damage. You will be fine once the bruising fades.”
“Thank you,” I said, and the doctor left the room. A man dressed in a dark suit came to lead him away. I looked down at my torn and bloodied dress and felt disgust and the residual embers of fear roll through me.
What would have happened if Arthur hadn’t found me?
“Shower is through there.” Arthur pointed to an en-suite bathroom. When I struggled to get up from the bed, he held out his hand. Our palms kissed, and my heart doubled its beat and shivers raced through the very marrow of my bones. Arthur helped me off the bed. There was no reason I couldn’t go and shower next door on my own yacht. But I didn’t want to go back there alone. That thought forced me to remember something, and I felt my stomach cave in.
“They knew my name,” I whispered, meeting Arthur’s eyes. His hand held me a fraction tighter at that information. I sucked in a stuttered breath. “They called me a spoilt Harlow cunt.” I swallowed back the bile that was clawing up my throat. “Arthur … they knew who I was. They knew I was a Harlow.” The fear I had felt from the attack increased tenfold at knowing I was targeted. That they had followed me to the alley. That they had been waiting for the right time to capture me. To hurt me. To take me …
Arthur stepped closer, so close I smelled the fresh water notes of his aftershave and the spice of what must have been his bodywash. “They won’t get you here,” he said, and I felt the truth of that statement wash over me like a refreshing summer rainfall. He nudged his chin toward the bathroom. “Get in the shower. Get the smell of those fuckers off your skin.”
At his curt attitude, I walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Before I did, I saw Arthur take his phone from his pocket and start calling people. I moved to the shower and turned it on. Steam filled the luxurious space, and I stripped off my dress, avoiding the mirror. When I was naked, I went to move under the spray, but I caught my reflection in my peripheral vision.
I had to see it. Had to see what those monsters had done to me. My stomach rolled—I had red welts from their grips, and my cheek was slightly swollen and sore from the strike to my face. But, bizarrely, what held my focus the most were the finger marks Ollie Lawson had left on my arm. A fissure of unease trickled down my spine as I thought of how he had changed in a second from the kind and attentive friend he had always been to the controlling and aggressive boy he’d morphed into at the club.
And he hated Arthur. Arthur who had just saved me.
My legs were weak as I entered the shower, the hot spray crashing down on my head like holy water piped in from Lourdes. Shock must have still had me in its grasp; my legs buckled and I hit the tiled floor.
Those men knew my name. They had come after me.
Who were they? What did they want with me?
Shivering, I tried to get to my feet, but my pathetic legs wouldn’t move, residual shock from the attack rendering them useless. The door to the bathroom suddenly slammed open, and there Arthur stood, backlit by the dim bedroom light, appearing like a fallen angel.
“I can’t get up,” I whispered, despising the tremble in my voice.
Arthur walked toward me. He didn’t look at my naked body once as he picked me up in his arms. “Have you cleaned yourself?” He looked at my half-damp hair and still-dirty skin and must have decided for himself that I hadn’t. He removed his glasses and put them on the side of the sink. I couldn’t take my eyes from his face, the unobstructed view