The Anchor Holds – Jupiter Tides Read Online Anne Malcom

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, BDSM, Erotic, Mafia Tags Authors: Anne Malcom Advertisement

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Blood pooled in my mouth.

That came first, before the pain—the taste. One that I’d taste on my tongue for months, no matter how many martinis I sucked, hoping to sterilize my mouth, to erase it.

It was the taste I still woke up with sometimes, just as visceral as it was that day. Most people likely wouldn’t believe it, given the situation. But it was the taste that came first. Then the crunch. Of a fist against my face.

For someone who thought she was always cognizant of her surroundings, someone constantly on guard, someone who would never become a victim, I sure became one quickly.

I didn’t have time to fight back, which I had been certain I would in a situation like that. And situations like that were something I’d considered as a real possibility. I lived in New York. I did business with powerful men who became bitter when defeated by me. I had a weapon, multiple weapons, throughout my apartment. I usually wore one strapped to my inner thigh in meetings with more unsavory clients. I’d trained with the top martial artists in the country.

Powerful… That’s how I’d been sure I would be. That if a situation arose where I’d have to physically defend myself, that it would be as easy as it was in the boardroom.

I was aware of the possibility and prepared to be assaulted. Or I had assumed that I was prepared. Arrogant. Terribly arrogant of me.

Almost deathly arrogant.

There was no such thing as preparedness for being assaulted.

Especially not while in the apartment I considered a sanctuary, even though I barely spent any time in it. I had paid an exorbitant amount for it, it was secure, with a doorman, with cameras, codes, locks, alarms.

I opened my door dressed in sweats, no makeup on, no knife at my thigh, just a fist plowing into my face.

And I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t.

I fell backward, allowing him to storm inside, closing and locking the door behind him. My ears were ringing, my eyes filling with tears as I struggled to comprehend what was happening.

I smelled him. He wore expensive aftershave, but the bitter, rancid scent of his sweat overpowered it.

Then my blood. I hadn’t thought blood had a smell. Maybe it didn’t. But to me, it tasted like copper and smelled of iron and pennies.

The pain registered after the second punch. That one was to my midsection. In hindsight, it was likely to ensure that I couldn’t recover enough to fight back. He was large, the man. I didn’t initially take in any of his features beyond his sheer size.

I’d bet he put all of his strength into the punch to my midsection. The pain of it made tears spill from my eyes, made my organs scrunch. The agony exploded in my stomach, powerful to the point where I was sure there had to be internal bleeding.

It was the violence that shocked me.

And there was plenty more violence to come. Fists. Kicks. Rough hands tearing at my clothes. Violation so personal, so intimate it tore at what remained of my soul.

The beating was one thing. Tearing my skin with his rings. Breaking my fingers. It made me feel small, weak. But didn’t take away my power. Not entirely.

Not until he raped me.

My surprise rapidly gave way to a grim resignation. I didn’t leave my body, go somewhere else like some victims of assault said they did. I was there the whole time, forcing myself to be present every second until he left me naked on the floor in a pool of my own blood.

I’d eventually pulled myself off that floor. Put broken fingers back into place, stitched together my torn skin with a sewing kit. I’d chewed on valium, painkillers and compartmentalized. I'd ignored the need to call someone, anyone for help. Ignored the desperation to call my father, feel safe in his arms, go running home.

There was no going home for me.

There was only forward.

Only war.

I was in that apartment one second, yet in the next, I was in Elliot’s living room, with him across from me. I swallowed thickly, trying to rid the taste of blood from my mouth. I silently reminded myself it was not from any kind of physical harm, just what my brain conjured up when it was presented with trauma it didn’t know how to process.

I forced myself to take slow, deep, calming breaths. My hands didn’t shake. My eyes didn’t well with tears. Though I’d been lost in the memory of the event, I was fairly certain that my cadence didn’t change, and my voice had been even, strong. No hiccups, no sobs, nothing to substantiate just how wholly the event had decimated my insides.

I’d been staring Elliot in the face, but I hadn’t seen him, not really. My rapid heartbeat was the only thing that betrayed my fear of looking into his eyes and seeing how he looked at me after everything I said.


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