Her Lieutenant Protector. Lara Lacombe

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СКАЧАТЬ as she fought against the unexpected paralysis. What was happening to her?

      She tried again and managed to shift her leg to the side. It was heavy, the movement sluggish and difficult. But it was a start.

      Her eyelids were twin weights trapping her in darkness. Opening her eyes proved too much of a challenge, so she tried to call for help instead. Her tongue was a thick obstruction in her mouth, but she managed to make a sound—a moan, really, but hopefully it was enough to draw attention.

      The tugging stopped and a blast of cool air hit her skin. Another strangled sound escaped her throat, and suddenly there was warmth spreading across her torso.

      “Shh.” The whisper was hot against her ear, an urgent command that made her catch her breath. Someone was here! They were going to help her!

      A split second later a weight descended on her body, pressing her flat. Mallory tried to move away, to ease the pressure on her chest that made it hard to breathe. But the effort was like trying to swim through syrup, her limbs stiff and uncoordinated.

      “Just relax. It’s okay.”

      It was a nice thought, but her body refused to consider it. She thrashed around as much as she was able, trying to dislodge the crushing burden pinning her down. No matter what this voice said, something was very, very wrong.

      “Stop it.” Sharp pain at her wrists cut through her confusion, and she froze. The pain eased, leaving behind a dull ache that throbbed in time with her heart.

      “That’s good. Just like that. We’ll be done soon.”

      The words swam in her mind, mixing and churning together until she almost lost their meaning. The fumbling started up again, a new hint of violence in the clawing and pulling. She heard the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping, and the noise made her heart stall.

      She tried to move, but it was too late.

      “No!” She screamed the word over and over again, but all that came out was a muffled sob...

      * * *

      Mallory jerked awake with a roar of protest, limbs flailing as she fought off the imaginary assailant. She blinked several times, trying to clear her vision and shake off the fog of the dream that clung to her mind like sticky cobwebs.

      I’m okay. It was only a dream.

      She lifted a trembling hand to brush her hair back from her face. The tendrils clung to her cheek and neck, damp with sweat. A vile, bitter taste coated her tongue, and she reached for the glass of water beside her bed, drinking deep in an effort to wash it away. She focused on the cool liquid as it filled her mouth and slid down her throat, using the visceral sensations as a lodestone to help her navigate back to reality.

      Her heart fluttered like a panicked bird against her rib cage, the feeling unpleasant and troubling. Mallory took a deep breath, trying to recall the meditation techniques she’d learned over the years in therapy. Clear your mind, her therapist had said. Empty it of all thoughts and just breathe.

      “Easier said than done,” she muttered to herself. She pictured a bathtub, imagined herself pulling the plug and watching the water drain. But that reminded her of the aftermath of the rape, when she’d spent what had felt like days in the tub, scrubbing and soaking in a desperate attempt to wash the stain of her violation away...

      Nope, don’t go there. She shied away from the memory as if burned, searching for an image that didn’t carry so much emotional baggage.

      Her gaze caught on the red numbers of her alarm clock, and she focused on the color. Red was a nice, bright, happy color. The color of apples, of roses.

      Of the marks on her body, and the bloodstains on her...

      Stop it!

      Another deep breath, another attempt to walk back from the cliffs of panic. It was too early to call Avery and Olivia, so she shoved off the bed and began to pace. The carpet was soft under her feet, and she curled her toes into the fibers with every step. There wasn’t a lot of room—it was seven steps from one wall to the other—but she made do.

      Fuzz built up under her toes, a testament to the newness of the carpet. Of everything, really. The Abigail Adams was hot off the assembly line and was the most luxurious ship to sail in recent memory. She was also the first ship to have been constructed in the United States in years, which meant she would sail under the US flag, a rarity among cruise ships. It was an honor for Mallory to have been selected to work as the ship’s doctor on the Abigail’s maiden voyage. She closed her eyes, picturing the spacious sick bay with its state-of-the-art equipment, gleaming counters and crisp, white linens. It was a wonderful facility, befitting this crown jewel of cruise ships.

      She let her mind wander, reviewing supply lists, protocols, storage locations. It was always a bit of a challenge coming onto a new ship; it took her several days to get familiar with the staff and the facilities. But the people she’d met today had seemed professional and polite, and she knew they were the best of the best. With so many VIPs scheduled to come on board, the company wanted everything to be perfect.

      And they picked me.

      The reminder filled her with pride and banished the last vestiges of the dream. She was no longer a helpless, scared college student. She was Dr. Mallory Watkins, chief medical officer for the most exclusive ship on the seas. She had overcome the tragedy in her past to rise to the top of her field, and she wasn’t about to let an annoying dream shake her confidence now.

      Another glance at the clock told her it was too late—or too early—to go back to bed. She knew from experience she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep easily again, so she might as well start her day. The gym on board was open, and it would be good to get a workout in before the day truly started and she got too busy. Not only did she have a long prelaunch checklist, but her best friends, Olivia Sandoval and Avery Thatcher, were arriving today for the cruise.

      Mallory was excited to see them both and to meet the new men in their lives. She was happy her friends had found love, even though it did make her feel a little wistful. In the years since her assault, she’d worked to overcome her fears regarding men and dating, but with limited success. She’d made a few awkward attempts to connect, but it hadn’t worked out. The men she’d tried to date had started out patient and understanding, but they’d all grown tired of her issues with physical intimacy. Her therapist had told her not to stress about it, but that was easier said than done.

      “Don’t force yourself to engage in sex until you’re ready,” Dr. Givens had said, her brown eyes warm and kind behind the rims of her tortoiseshell glasses. “Everyone recovers at their own pace, and you can’t judge your progress against artificial benchmarks.”

      The logical part of Mallory understood and agreed with Dr. Givens, but her emotional side wondered if she would ever feel safe enough to sleep with a man again.

      “Someday,” she muttered, shaking her head as she pulled a T-shirt and yoga pants from the built-in dresser. “I just haven’t met the right man yet.”

      It was a juvenile fantasy, the idea that there was some kind of Prince Charming out there for her. Nevertheless, it gave her comfort to think that she wasn’t permanently broken, that she would be able to enjoy intimacy with someone out there.

      Avery and Olivia seemed to have found their happily-ever-afters. Maybe it was time Mallory started looking for hers.

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