Enemies To Lovers: Pain

On the train Joanna sat beside Schiller, and the two dour-faced Nazi officers sat across from them. Nobody said a word as the rustic scenery flew past. Joanna couldn't help but enjoy her comfortable seat, view to the outside and, most important of all, adequate fresh air to breathe. She could feel Schiller's arm pressing against her own, his muscles firm against the material of their clothing, and inside she felt a faint flicker of the desire that had flared inside her at her first sight of his naked chest.

They took their meals silently, none of them saying a word. Joanna's eyes stared steadily down at her food, not daring to look up. She wondered whether Schiller's were on her. One of the Nazi officers made a crude remark to her as they were leaving the dining car. Joanna knew that, as their prisoner, Schiller couldn't defend her, even if he wanted to.

At night she slept in a sleeper car with the other female passengers. Even in the tiny car, it was the freest she'd felt in ages. It occurred to her that, if the train came to a complete stop, she could simply find an unattended opening and slip away into the night.

Yet where would she go? She had no idea where she even was! Chances were if she survived at all, she'd find herself in an even worse situation than the one she was in now.

She thought of her mother, all alone at the previous camp, and the pain in her gut was visceral. She couldn't bear to think she'd never see her again but knew she had to admit that, even if they both survived, which was highly doubtful, the odds were astronomically against such an occurrence.

Several days later, she got off the train to find herself standing in a dusty barren yard reminiscent of the one she'd found herself standing in when she'd first arrived at the previous camp a year before, but things were different this time. There was no stench of unwashed bodies and waste, no long lines with Nazis at their head barking orders. Yet the sense of dread was the same as she followed her captors to the building that housed her new quarters.

Jurgen knew he should consider himself lucky. The punishment for strangling a Sturmscharfuhrer to death could have been, and in almost any other case would have been, execution; yet his superior evaluations and previously spotless record had spared him.

His new living quarters were far smaller and dirtier than the tidy cabin he'd previously occupied. They were little better than a prison cell, which Jurgen supposed was what they really were. To think of what his life had been a mere six months before brought tears to his eyes, and the sight of the slight young girl he'd brought with him, blonde wig covering her raven locks, filled him with rage. If not for her, he'd never had to do what he'd done. He'd taken her in, given her shelter, fed her, allowed her to work for him, tolerated her mistakes, and even allowed her to give him sexual pleasure.

How could he have been so blind, so stupid? How could he have allowed his growing feelings for her to even exist, let alone to impact his work? Now his career was in shambles, and it was all because of her!

As soon as they were alone, he gave her a slap across the face that sent her reeling into a corner, there to gaze up at him with terrified eyes.

"If it weren't for you, this would never have happened!" he bellowed. "But I had to go soft, had to ask about her, had to find her and see that she'd be kept safe. They had no business whatsoever to reassign her to gardening!"

The expression in Joanna's eyes changed from terror to confusion.

"When I saw him beating her, I just couldn't stand it!" Jurgen groaned. "I had to stop him. I didn't mean for him to die, but I just couldn't let him beat her to death. I just couldn't."

Her gasp, the way all the blood drained from her face, told him he'd said too much, far too much. He turned and walked away without another word.

Joanna was washing the rags that served as her clothes when she heard it. The explosion ripped the air like the blast of a cannon, and before she knew it, her feet were running across the floor and then out into the sunshine.

She saw others running as well, from all directions. Great wafts of black smoke belched from the exploded tank, and everyone was talking, crying, or screaming at once as the medics arrived with a stretcher.

Although Joanna was standing a good ways away from the disaster, she recognized the unconscious, bleeding victim who was being loaded into the vehicle.

The first thing he was aware of was the pain. It was searing, agonizing, overwhelming him, threatening to drive him mad. He'd never experienced anything remotely like it before. Even the worst of his father's beatings was nothing by comparison. He heard tortured groaning and was shocked to find it was coming from his own lips. It merged with the cacophony of sounds of anguish surrounding him.

He opened his eyes to stare up at a dingy white ceiling with a light fixture in which only a couple of bulbs were lit. From the antiseptic smell, he knew he was in a hospital. Through the haze of pain he heard muffled voices, nurses comforting patients or asking for supplies.

"Oh, you're awake, Sergeant Schiller." The nurse's voice was crystal clear, and her concerned blue eyes were staring down at him. Reddish blonde hair framed a broad, freckled face, and on her head was a white hat.

"What happened?" he managed to croak.

"The tank you were driving exploded," she told him. "We weren't able to save your left arm and your right leg. I'm very sorry."

It couldn't be! Why, he could still feel his fingers on that hand! He tried to wiggle them but couldn't, then raised his left arm and saw the bloody bandage covering the stump.

Horrified, he let out a blood curdling scream.