Chapter 10
Slowly,I drift back from the inky blackness of unconsciousness. My whole body aches, especially my throat. I swallow, but my mouth is dry, so there is no relief. My eyelids feel like they weigh a million pounds. Giving up on that, I use my other senses to figure out where I am because I instinctively know I”m not at Mecca. My mind is foggy, and I can”t quite grasp onto any memories of how I got wherever I am.
I”m lying on a bed. It”s softer than anything I”ve laid on since I was taken. The room smells like a mixture of lemon and fresh linen with an undercurrent of something metallic. I easily recognize the scent of blood. It seems out of place here—wherever here is.
Finally, the weight on my eyelids lifts, and I blink them open. The room is dimly lit, so I can”t make out much of it. I move to sit up, but something tugs at my arm. I”m hooked to an IV, which further confuses me because they never give any of us real medical attention. We only get the type of first aid we can do ourselves.
I swallow again, the pain in my throat causing me to whimper. Memories of what happened crash through my mind. My time in the cage. Being sold at auction. Attacking the man that bought me.
Kisten.
It was Kisten that bought me. He helped me and the other girls escape the mansion. Pushing myself to run through the woods even though I was exhausted. Then someone screamed… running towards the screaming and finding two men attacking Lucy and Stacia. I tackled one of the men, then shot him twice.
I killed him.
I should feel bad about taking a life. There should be some kind of guilt or shame attached to taking a life, but I don”t feel anything. It was him or us. I would do it again without hesitating. Things get fuzzy after that… I was attacked by the second man. I remember his body pinning me to the ground as he wrapped his hands around my neck. I remember the crazed look in his eyes as he squeezed the life out of me. Then there was blood everywhere. So much blood.
We ran again… the feeling of desperation fueled me as I pushed myself beyond my limits. Kisten found us. I recall seeing him and feeling so much relief that I staggered straight into his arms.
Then… Nothing.
Kisten must”ve brought me here. It would explain why I”m not in some shitty room or a cage like I”m used to. I try to sit up, but my body protests the movement. I let out a groan that turns into a pained whimper.
”Beauty,” Kisten”s voice comes from my right. He rises from his chair and crosses the room to the bed. He looks exhausted, and I wonder how long he”s been sitting there.
”W-where?” I force the word from my damaged throat.
He grabs a glass from the bedside table and helps me drink. The cool water is a balm to my throat. It still hurts like hell, but it”s no longer dry.
”Where are we?” I say hoarsely.
”Somewhere safe.”
”You saved me…”
”I would do anything for you, my beauty.”
I try to sit up, but this time, the room spins. Kisten helps me, plumping the pillows behind me. He”s so gentle, touching me like I”m delicate and could break at the slightest touch.
”Careful, love. You”re probably going to be dizzy for a while. I”ll get the doctor so she can look you over now that you”re awake.”
A frisson of fear runs through me at the thought of him leaving me. I feel safe with him. What if he doesn”t come back? I”m more scared of him walking away now that I”m supposedly safe than I was of walking on stage to be sold. I knew what to expect with the auction. I had a plan to fight back. I had accepted my fate and was ready for death. Now I don”t know what”s happening next, and I”m freaking out about it.
My breaths come faster, and I recognize the first signs of a panic attack. I haven”t had one in years. Not since the first week after I was taken. Training myself to become numb to what was happening to me didn”t take long. Compartmentalization became my salvation. My body still responds appropriately to pain. I feel and react to it, but my mind detaches from reality.
Kisten cups my face in his big, warm hands. ”Breathe, beauty. You”re safe. I promise.”
I believe his words, and I feel safe with him, but if he leaves? I can”t handle it. I don”t want him to disappear, and even if it isn”t rational, my mind is convinced that if he leaves me now, he”ll be gone forever.
”Don”t leave me,” I whimper, my voice is rough, and it hurts to speak.
He brushes my hair away from my face. He looks at me with understanding. ”I”m not going anywhere,” he reassures me.
He pulls out his phone and sends a text.
”The doctor will be in soon. I”ll be right here,” he says, indicating the chair a few feet away.
I grab his arm so he can”t walk away. I gently tug him until he sits on the edge of the bed. I grip his hand, not wanting to let go yet. I have questions I want to ask, and I want to say so much, but I don”t know how to find the right words. Especially when he”s looking at me like I”m something special. Like I mean something to him.
It fills me with unfamiliar warmth and a great deal of confusion. I don”t understand why he cares about someone like me. I”m nothing. A damaged slave. None of this seems real. I can”t help but wonder what his angle is. Or is he just a good man?
No, there”s an air of danger surrounding him. He isn”t someone to mess with. The way he handled all those men at the mansion proves that. I”m sure the world sees red flags and warning bells where he”s concerned, but I don”t see any. All I see is safety. I feel protected in a way I haven”t felt since I had my dad watching over me. I definitely don”t feel anything paternal when it comes to Kisten. In fact, it”s the opposite. I”m attracted to him. I haven”t felt like this since my teenage crush on Gus Greenwood in the ninth grade.
The way I feel when Kisten is around is so much more than that. I don”t feel like giggling and doodling our names together in all my notebooks. This is so much deeper than that—stronger than anything I”ve ever felt for anyone.
It scares me.
These feelings are disproportionate to the time I”ve spent with him. My fantasies while in the dark have tricked my mind and body into feeling things I shouldn”t for a man I don”t know. I know nothing about him other than his name and that he runs in the same circle of people who participate in the auctions. He was at Mecca, too.
He could be evil to his core, just like the rest of them, and I wouldn”t know. If that were true, would he have stopped the beating at Mecca? Would he have paid ninety-three thousand dollars for me just to free me? And he freed the other women that were sold, too. None of that seems like the actions of an evil person.
Before I can analyze it further, the door opens, and a woman strides into the room. She”s tall for a woman with dark brown hair pulled into a severe bun. Her eyes are warm, with slight wrinkles at the corners as she smiles gently at me.
”So glad you”re awake. How are you feeling?” she asks.
”My throat hurts,” I say, my voice ragged.
Her smile falls. ”I”m sure it does. I need to take a better look at things now that you”re awake. Is that okay with you?”
I want to say no. I”ve spent years having strangers” hands on me. It shouldn”t bother me, especially since it”s a woman and a doctor. Kisten seems to trust her, which says a lot because I get the feeling he doesn”t trust easily. The doctor misreads my hesitance as my being uncomfortable with Kisten.
”Kisten, could you step outside while I examine my patient?”
”N-no! Stay. Please,” I say loudly. My throat aching from forcing the words out so fast and loud.
”I”m not going anywhere, beauty. Will you let Dr. Wolfe examine you? I need to know you”re okay.” The worry is clearly etched on his face. Kisten turns his hand, threading his fingers through mine.
”Okay,” I whisper.
Dr. Wolfe takes my blood pressure, which she says is slightly better than when I first came in but still lower than it should be. I don”t have a fever, and my oxygen level is good. She gently prods at my neck, causing me to wince. She has me swallow several times while she feels my throat.
”Everything feels okay. You”ll be sore for a while, so you”ll want to talk as little as possible while your vocal cords heal. You”re severely dehydrated and, I”m guessing, malnourished. The IV is fluids for the dehydration and has vitamins to help replenish what you”re lacking. I”d like to run a blood panel on you to check for underlying illnesses.”
She doesn”t have to say it outright. She”s not just talking about cholesterol and iron counts. She means STDs. Probably pregnancy, too. Part of me wants to decline, but the worried look in Kisten”s eyes makes me agree. I have a feeling I would agree to almost anything to remove that look from his face.
Dr. Wolfe takes several vials of blood for the various tests. She tells me everything she wants to check for, but I tune her out in favor of watching Kisten as he listens to the doctor.
”The last thing we need to do is a pelvic exam?—”
”No,” I say firmly.
”We really need to make sure you”re okay,” she says, trying to reason with me.
”I”m fine. I don”t want a pelvic exam.”
She looks at Kisten for help, but he”s still watching me closely. ”I understand that you don”t want to be examined. I don”t blame you one bit, but you need to have a pap smear. I have an exam room down the hall. It will be over quickly. Or if you would rather do it at a regular doctor”s office, that can be arranged, but it”s something you don”t want to ignore after what you”ve been through.”
I hate that she”s being so rational. I hate the thought of having anyone examining me down there. She”s right, though. One of my owners bought me to replace a woman who had gotten sick… He was fond of his girls and took decent care of us. He had a doctor come in and run tests. She was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Of course, even though he was fond of her, and she wasn”t even thirty yet, he still got rid of her.
A sick slave is a worthless slave. I tried not to think about what happened to her because I knew she wasn”t just set free to live her life. That wasn”t in the cards for any of us. I wasn”t a fool, but I still tried to imagine that she lived the rest of her days free and happy. Deluded as it was. I have no such delusions anymore. Not after all I”ve seen and endured.
”Fine,” I whisper.
”I”ll get everything set up,” Dr. Wolfe says.
She leaves us alone, and some of the tension melts away once she”s gone. I relax back into the pillows and close my eyes. I”m exhausted, and even though all I did was lay here while she looked me over, I feel like I ran a marathon. My emotions are all over the place, and my entire body aches. I could sleep for days but also don”t want to close my eyes. I”m more scared that Kisten will leave me than the nightmares that are sure to plague my sleep.
Kisten”s thumb gently caresses my hand, soothing my frayed nerves. I reach for the water glass on the table, but he gives me a scolding look and grabs it himself. He holds the glass to my lips, helping me drink. The cool liquid feels good on my throat but sloshes in my empty stomach, making me feel queasy. My stomach gurgles. The last time I had an actual meal was before I was locked in the cage.
”You need to eat,” Kisten says, his eyes flashing angrily. ”I”ll go get you something.”
Before he has the chance to leave, Dr. Wolfe returns. ”I”m all set up. Let me disconnect the IV.”
”Can you just remove it?” I ask.
”You need more fluids…”
”I want it out,” I say firmly, though it sounds weak through my damaged vocal cords.
She gives me a frustrated look but does as I ask. That goes a long way towards showing that I can trust her—them.
Kisten stands, giving me room to move. Pulling myself to the edge of the bed takes so much effort that I”m breathing heavily by the time I”m completely upright. I have no clue how I will make it to the exam room, but I want to get this exam over with, so I”ll make it happen. Kisten makes an angry sound, then picks me up bridal style.
The exam room looks exactly like any doctor”s office exam room I”ve ever been to. It”s a weird sort of comfort. Kisten sits me on the exam table and steps away.
”I”m going to give you privacy,” Kisten says.
I grip his hand. ”Please don”t go.”
He looks uncertainly between Dr. Wolfe and me. She shrugs, looking slightly exasperated. I”m guessing the other women she sees want nothing to do with men after what they”ve been through. If it were anyone other than Kisten, I wouldn”t want them near me either. Kisten is safe. He”s my protector. I should be ashamed of my desperation to keep him around, but I”m not.
”Are you sure, beauty? I don”t want you to feel uncomfortable.”
”I feel safe with you,” I murmur.
He cups my face and presses his forehead to mine. ”You”ll always be safe with me. Always.”
Kisten stands by my side through the entire exam. Dr. Wolfe is professional and quick. Which I”m grateful for because having my feet up in stirrups with someone”s face in my vag sucks.
”Everything looks healthy despite the scarring. I should have the results from the pap tomorrow. Are you on birth control?”
My brain pushes away the comment about scarring. I don”t want to think about if I look deformed down there. I have other scars on my body, but something about the thought of scars there makes me feel ashamed. I don”t want to answer the question about birth control. It”s another thing that I”ve done my best to not dwell on over the years.
”No,” I say shortly.
”Any possibility you could be pregnant?” she asks, keeping her tone professional and light.
I clutch Kisten”s hand. ”I can”t get pregnant. I was sterilized when I was taken.”
His grip tightens, and his entire body tenses. I can feel the anger radiating from him. I want to tell him it”s okay, but I know it isn”t. Nothing about doing that to a person is okay. Though I witnessed several forced abortions and a few miscarriages in my time as a sex slave, I can honestly say going through either of those is more horrifying than being sterilized.
Dr. Wolfe does an excellent job keeping her expression neutral, though I can see the turmoil in her eyes. I have a feeling she”s seen a lot of stuff she wishes she could unsee while doing this job. I can”t imagine how hard it is for someone who has dedicated their life to helping people heal to see such horrors.
”How old were you?” she asks.
”Around seventeen… I”m not completely sure. I was on the shot for a while before they removed my fallopian tubes.”
Kisten”s grip tightens again. ”How old were you when you were taken?”
”It was five days after my sixteenth birthday.”
”Fuck. Jesus, fuck,” he growls, dropping my hand and pacing the length of the room.
”So young,” Dr. Wolfe murmurs, her professional mask dropping. ”How old are you?”
”I”m twenty-one… close to twenty-two, I think.”
”When is your birthday?”
”June 13th.”
”Next month, then,” Dr. Wolfe replies.
”Are you done here?” Kisten gruffly asks.
”Yes, we”re all done. I”ll send Gladys with food for both of you,” Dr. Wolfe says. She strips off her gloves and leaves the room.
Kisten picks me up from the exam table and carries me upstairs instead of to the room I was in before. He places me on the bed, helping me get comfortable against the pillows. I try to run my hand through my hair, but it gets snagged. I try to work my fingers through the knots, then realize it”s not just knots. It feels like it”s caked in something. It takes a moment for me to grasp what it could be—blood.
I was covered in the blood of the man who tried to kill me. I”ve been strong up until now. The thought of being covered in his blood has me spiraling. My lungs constrict, and I let out a pained sound like a dying animal. It hurts my throat, but I can”t stop.
”Get it off,” I whimper, wiping my hands over my face and hair as if that will do anything to clean me.
Kisten grabs my wrists in a gentle but firm hold. ”Calm down, beauty.”
I let out a maniacal-sounding laugh. Hasn”t he ever heard that you don”t tell a woman to calm down when they are upset? Tears streak down my face as the laughter rips through my damaged throat.
”Calm down?” I choke out. ”I”m covered in blood! I almost died… calm dow—” my words cut off with a sob.
The next thing I know, I”m wrapped up in Kisten”s arms. He pulls me onto his lap and holds me close, whispering soothing words, though I have no idea what they are. The cadence of his tone is enough to soothe the raging storm that”s built inside me. It seems fitting that after everything I”ve been through, the thing that throws me over the edge is safety.
If I were back in the cage or locked in my room at Mecca, I would be calm and reserved. It was how I survived: withdrawing into myself and forcing down any feelings, keeping them bottled up and only letting myself feel them in the dark recesses of my mind. I hate that I”m safe, and that”s what breaks me.
Safe is an unknown variable to me. What”ll happen next? How will I go back to a normal life when I”ve been unequivocally changed? I don”t know what to expect, and that”s terrifying.
I”m so lost in my mind that I don”t realize we”re no longer in the bedroom until I hear running water. I look around and find we”re in a very nice bathroom. It”s got a large soaking tub and a separate shower. A long marble counter with a double sink is below a gilded mirror. I quickly look away because the brief look I get of myself is enough. My hair is a rat”s nest of knots matted with dried blood and dirt. Even though they cleaned me up some, there”s still blood on my skin… you can only do so much with a sponge bath.
”Can you stand on your own?” Kisten asks.
I honestly have no idea. My head is still spinning, and I feel as weak as a newborn fawn, but I want that shower. I want to be clean more than I care about the possibility of falling. The risk of a head injury from slipping in the shower isn”t enough to deter me from getting clean.
”Yes,” I say with far more confidence than I feel.
He puts me on my feet, holding me steady in a way that tells me he sees through my bullshit answer. The fact that he”s willing to let me shower anyway makes me like him even more. He keeps showing me that he”ll give me what I want no matter what it is, and that”s dangerous. I shouldn”t let myself get attached to him, but I fear it”s already too late. In fact, I know it”s already too late.
I was addicted from the moment I woke up in his lap at Mecca. He treated me like a person, not a thing, and that meant everything to me—so much so that my imagination created a whole world in which he did anything to keep me safe and loved me unconditionally. As idiotic as it is, I can”t seem to separate the real Kisten from the fantasy. And his doing things like this is making it even harder to live in reality.
The reality is he would never want a woman like me. I”m broken. Damaged beyond repair. He probably can”t wait to get away from me, and here I am, latching onto him like a desperate idiot. I should tell him I”m fine and that he can go, but I can”t. He”s the only thing holding me together right now.
I don”t know why he”s still here. Probably out of obligation since he bought me. I have a sick thought: I hope he keeps me. Technically, he owns me now. He bought me in that auction. I”ve not been a person for a long time. I”m a thing for men to use and abuse at their whim. What does it say about me that I want Kisten to make me his forever?
God, I”m so fucked up.
Now that the thought is in my head, I can”t dislodge it. Instead, I”m considering how I can make him keep me. What if he doesn”t want to keep me? He bought me to free me. He freed the others, too. He”s not the kind of man that owns women. He”s one of the good guys, even though he obviously does terrible things in the name of doing the right thing.
He”s a vigilante. Doling out his own brand of justice. I don”t know precisely what he does, but I can guess. He was at Mecca and interrupted my time with a client. That tells me he doesn”t like seeing men hurt women to extremes. I can only assume if he was in a BDSM club, he”s at least familiar with the lifestyle. He knew about aftercare, so that says he”s probably a dominant—a good one.
He was at the auction, but not for the same reason as the other men. Yes, he bought me, but I don”t think that was his goal. He didn”t seem like he had a plan to help us escape. Something happened that changed his plans… was it me? Warmth fills me at the thought. I push it away because it”s a stupid assumption.
I don”t know what his actual plans were, but the end result is the same. He risked his life to rescue us. He didn”t have to. He could”ve walked away and let those men rape, torture, and murder us, but he didn”t. He put his neck on the line and got us out. Then he brought us here. I can only assume the other women are getting the same medical care that was provided to me. I can”t say they are getting treated exactly the same. I highly doubt there are five other Kistens practically doting on them like he is me. Jealously roars through my veins at the mere suggestion of him doing these things for someone else.
I”m brought back to the here and now when Kisten starts pulling on the hem of my t-shirt. I should probably protest because even though I want him to keep me, I hate the thought of him seeing me naked. I”m too thin, making my breasts and hips look larger than they are. What Madame insists is an hourglass figure is actually a body half-starved and too weak to fight back.
Then there are the scars. Nothing terrible. They wouldn”t want the merchandise ruined, but there are whip marks and thin scars where men paid extra to cut me. Those scars have never really bothered me. They speak of survival. Each one is a testament to the fires I”ve walked through and come out the other side from.
It”s the small scar in my bellybutton that is the ugliest one. It”s the one I don”t want him to see. The one that took my fallopian tubes and made me unable to get pregnant. It”s the scar that permanently altered me. They took something from me that day which can never be fixed or changed. After seeing Kisten”s reaction to my telling them about the sterilization, I never want him to see it.
It”s silly because the scar is hidden—it wouldn”t do for a sex slave to have a big scar from surgery—and it”s nearly impossible to see if you don”t know what you”re looking for. Still, it feels like a glaring neon arrow is pointing to it. A physical representation that I can never have children. It”s funny how that thought upsets me since the last thing I want is to be a mother.
If I had a daughter, I would live every day of my life terrified that something would happen to her, like what happened to me. I would smother her with my protective instincts until she learned to hate me. A son? I would constantly worry that he would become a monster like the men that took me. Knowing that my clients were high-profile men wasn”t a surprise. Politicians, judges, police chiefs… all people that evil men need in their pockets to continue doing bad things. It was the seemingly ordinary men that shook me to my core.
I had a client take a phone call while he had me tied down with his cock down my throat. It was his wife. He spoke softly, like a man in love. They talked about her day and their kids. He kept his dick lodged in my throat, tears running down my face as my lungs burned for oxygen while he talked about daycare and what she was making for dinner. He hung up, promising he would leave work soon and telling her how much he loved her.
The second the call ended, he finally let me breathe. I was still gasping for breath when he flipped me to my stomach and shoved his dick in my ass so hard and fast he tore me. He was gleeful as he fucked my ass using my own blood as lube. Something he was happy to tell me all about. The sick fuck made me clean his dick with my mouth before coming down my throat.
That”s when I figured out that even the men who appeared to be good and kind were monsters underneath it all. What if the son I raised turned into that? I could do everything right and still end up with a monster for a son. The risk is something I won”t have to worry about.
It makes my pain over having the choice taken from me confusing as hell. I should be glad about it, but I”m not. I have convinced myself over the years that it was for the best, and it was while I was a slave. Seeing Dr. Wolfe and Kisten”s reactions to it reminded me of how utterly fucked up it was for someone to do that to a young woman.
”Are you okay?” Kisten asks, looking down at me with concern.
Not that I can blame him. I”m beaten to hell and keep slipping into my own mind. He probably thinks I”m crazy. Maybe I am…
”Just tired,” I say, hoping that covers my weird behavior.
”Let”s get you clean. Food will be here soon.”
I nod. Kisten leads me to the shower. He helps me inside and seems to hesitate to release me. He”s probably worried I”ll collapse when he lets go, which is a fair concern and completely probable.
I step away from him and under the water, allowing him to back away. He watches me intently like he”s ready to jump in the shower and save me if I start to fall. It makes me feel warm and squirmy inside—completely foreign feelings—ones that I don”t want to study too hard at the moment.
The hot water feels like heaven. It beats down on my back, relaxing my muscles. I tip my head back into the spray and groan at how good it feels. I never want it to end, but I”m starting to sway on my feet, so it”s time to wash up. It might be worth a head injury to enjoy an endless supply of hot water, but I don”t want to risk it.
I struggle to wash my hair. It”s not just that it”s caked in blood and dirt, but I”m exhausted. My arms feel like lead weights. I”m ready to give up on cleaning it when a strong arm bands around my waist. I gasp, my hands landing on Kisten”s broad shoulders. Naked shoulders. I gulp. Is he completely naked? I want to look down and see for myself, but I refrain. I don”t know what I would do if he is… something embarrassing, I”m sure.
”Don”t let go, beauty. Let me take care of you.”
He guides my head back under the water, running his hands through my hair. He pulls me out of the spray and shampoos my hair. His fingertips feel like heaven as he massages my scalp. He rinses the soap from my hair, then washes it twice more before he”s satisfied. He smooths conditioner into my hair and then meticulously washes my body. He doesn”t linger on any one spot, keeping things as platonic as a man washing a woman can be. Unfortunately, my mind conjures up thoughts of those hands doing much more than perfunctory washing. He guides me back under the water, rinsing the conditioner from my hair, then shuts off the shower.
Goosebumps pebble my skin at the loss of warmth. He lifts me from the shower, setting me on the plush rug. I feel like I should protest. Maybe tell him I can take care of myself even though that would clearly be a lie. He wouldn”t help if he didn”t want to, right? He doesn”t give off the vibe of a man who does anything he doesn”t want to do.
He wraps me in a soft towel and then steps away. I look at his muscular body and pray I”m not drooling. He”s a masterpiece of muscles and tattoos. I”m slightly disappointed when I see he”s wearing black boxer briefs, though as wet as they are, they do nothing to hide his thick length. He”s hard. I try not to read too much into it because any red-blooded man would get an erection when pressed against a naked woman. I want to believe it”s because of me specifically. That I turn him on, and it”s not just because I”m a naked body like all the men who paid for me saw.
Such a stupid girl thing to think.
He wraps a towel around his waist, covering his hardness, and I push away my disappointment. What the hell did I think he would do? Whip it out and show me how hard I make him? Tell me to suck him off? Fuck me?
Ugh.
Why do I want him to do all of the above?
For the first time in my adult life, I actually want a man, and he”s the most inappropriate man to want. He definitely doesn”t want me. He shouldn”t want me, and I shouldn”t want him. He saved me—that”s it. Once I know what my next steps are, I can let go of my attachment to him, and he can go back to his normal life—one where he”s not got a woman with a severe case of transference attaching herself to him.
Kisten picks me up again and carries me to the bed. He finds a clean t-shirt in the dresser and helps me put it on over the towel. If that doesn”t scream, ”I don”t want to see you naked!” I don”t know what does. He helps me get situated on the bed, then covers me with a yellow quilt.
Kisten goes back to the bathroom, closing the door without a word. I collapse into the pillow mound behind me, mentally scolding myself for every inappropriate thought I”ve had about him. The bathroom door opens, and Kisten strolls out fully dressed, looking more relaxed. My dirty, awful mind wonders if he”s so relaxed because he just jerked off. I bury that thought. He probably relaxed just from being away from me. This situation has to be stressful for him too.
There”s a knock at the door, and an older woman pokes her head in. ”I come bearing gifts.”
”Come in, Gladys,” Kisten says.
She doesn”t hesitate to push the door open. She bustles in carrying a tray full of food. I have no idea what it is, but it smells delicious. Kisten takes the food-laden tray from her and sets it on the bedside table.
”Willow, this is Gladys.”
”Hi,” I say, feeling ridiculously shy.
Gladys has short silver hair and friendly blue eyes. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth speak of years of smiles and happiness. She”s short and plump. Everything about her screams loving grandmother—not that I know what that is like. My father”s parents were dead long before I was born, and I don”t remember my mother, let alone any of her family. My dad is literally the only family I have.
”I”m so glad to see you awake. Gave us quite the scare, young lady,” she scolds lovingly.
”Sorry.”
She smiles and pats my leg. ”It”s okay, deary. I”ll leave you two to eat. If you need anything, don”t hesitate to ask.”
”Thank you,” I murmur, overwhelmed by her kindness.
Kisten picks up the tray and arranges it on my lap. I nearly drool. It”s a simple bowl of soup and grilled cheese, but it looks like a five-star gourmet meal to me. The first bite of soup tells me that it”s not chicken soup from a can. There are juicy pieces of chicken and thick noodles. The broth is delicious, warming me from the inside out. The grilled cheese is decadent. Buttery and crisp with melty cheesy goodness.
I only manage a few bites of each before my stomach is uncomfortably full. I look at the leftovers longingly. I hate to waste it. If I was at Mecca, I would hide the rest of the sandwich and force down the soup until I felt ill. I”m tempted to do it anyway. Kisten moves the tray off my lap before I have a chance to gorge myself.
I feel sick with guilt over wasting such amazing food—any food, really.
”What”s wrong, love?”
”I hate wasting food…”
He frowns, probably understanding better than most why it bothers me so much. Even though he has already eaten a large bowl of soup and two sandwiches, he picks up my bowl and finishes it before eating the rest of my grilled cheese. I watch with wide eyes.
”Why?” I ask.
”It upset you to have unfinished food. I fixed it,” he says, like it”s the simplest thing in the world and not one of the most thoughtful things another human being has done for me.
Who the hell is this man?