Chapter 4
4
D amien leads me down the hall, passing other doors until he stops in front of one.
He punches a number into the lock on the door, making no effort to hide the passcode from me, and I commit it to memory.
The door swings inward, and Damien steps inside first, then waits for me to join him.
I shuffle forward but freeze in the doorway, surprised as I take in the opulent space before me.
High ceilings soar above, adorned with intricate crown molding. The walls, painted a warm cream color, hold pictures of family. A plush sofa and matching armchairs form a cozy seating area in front of an enormous television, and every corner of the room holds the greenery of plants.
They can’t filter out the pheromones that saturate the space, though. Damien’s scent wraps around me like a second blanket, both comforting and overwhelming.
“This is my personal suite,” Damien says, confirming what I already know. “But if you’d be more comfortable in a guest suite, I can prepare one for you. They’re on the opposite side of the manor, though. This is the family wing.”
I blink up at him, struggling to process his words. The opposite side of the manor? I can’t fathom a house so large that going from one side to the other would be an inconvenience.
“I…I don’t want to be any trouble.” My fingers twist in the blanket wrapped around my body. “This is fine. More than fine.”
The idea of being separated from Damien fills me with panic. With him, I’m safe. Protected. I don’t want to be stuffed in some suite like this alone, wondering when someone will remember to check on me.
Damien’s expression softens, and I wonder if he can sense my fear, my desperate need for security. “You’re no trouble at all. I want you to be at home here.”
Home. The word sends a pang through me. I haven’t had a real home in so long. Could I belong here? Or is that hoping for too much?
Damien guides me further into the suite with slow, careful movements, as if trying not to startle a skittish animal.
He leads me to a spacious bedroom with a king-sized bed, gesturing to a plush mound of blankets and pillows. “You can sleep here. I’ll take the couch in the office.”
“I c-can take the couch,” I protest.
He shakes his head. “You’re still recovering, so you get the bed.”
Overwhelmed by his kindness, I accept in silence.
He shows me the bathroom next, and I gape at the sheer grandeur of it. Gleaming marble floors, a massive walk-in shower with multiple showerheads, and a deep soaking tub big enough to fit three people. It’s like something out of a magazine, a far cry from anything I’m used to.
Damien points out the linens stacked in a built-in cabinet and rummages through a drawer before producing a brand-new toothbrush, still in its packaging. “Here, this is for you.”
My hands tremble as I accept it, aware of my filth while surrounded by this gleaming space. I must reek. The men at the compound hosed me down when I arrived, but that was days ago, if not weeks. Time lost all meaning in that dark, dank basement.
The thought of standing under a warm spray of water, of scrubbing myself clean and washing away the grime and the shame and the fear, brings hot tears to my eyes. I blink them back, not wanting Damien to see me cry.
If he notices my distress, he doesn’t comment on it. “I’ll give you some privacy. Take all the time you need, okay? No rush.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Damien leaves the room, closing the door behind him and leaving me alone.
For a moment, I stand frozen, my heart rabbiting as I try to process everything that’s happened.
The sound of the door opening again startles me, and I whirl to find Damien with a bundle of fabric in his arms. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I realized you’d need something to sleep in.”
He holds the clothes out to me, and I hesitantly take the soft nightshirt and lounge pants, both meant for someone much taller and broader than me.
“They’ll be big on you, I’m afraid,” Damien apologizes. “But I’ll have some things in your size delivered tomorrow.”
“Is…is it nighttime?” I have no idea of the time, no sense of how long I’ve been awake or what day it might be.
“It is. You must be exhausted.” Damien rubs his palms together. “Tell you what. While you clean up and change, I’ll order something from the kitchen. Anything in particular you want?”
The question catches me off guard, and I freeze, my mind going blank. The thought of being allowed to choose my food, of having options beyond the tasteless, colorless slop I’ve been served over the past year at every place I’ve been held, is too overwhelming to process.
Damien must see my panic because he backtracks. “Actually, don’t worry about it. I’ll order a couple of things that will be light on your stomach.”
While the offer sounds kind, I flush all the same, shame prickling hot under my skin. I must appear half-starved, all sharp angles and protruding bones. Just another reminder of how pathetic, how broken I am.
Clearing his throat, Damien gestures to the bathroom. “I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need anything. I’ll be right outside.”
He leaves again, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stay where he leaves me, waiting in case he pops back in with something else he forgot. The bundle of clothes clutched to my chest holds his musky scent and something spicy like sandalwood. I breathe it in, letting his pheromones soothe the ragged edges of my nerves.
When it becomes clear he won’t be popping back in, I undress, my body shaking as I peel away the layers of blanket and hospital gown.
Inside the shower, I press the panel of buttons on the tiled wall until water crashes down from the waterfall fixture in the ceiling. I stand under the hot spray, the tears that leak down my cheeks getting swept away as fast as they fall. I never thought I’d have another warm shower.
I stand under the spray for long minutes, letting it sluice away the grime, blood, and misery of the last few days. Of the last year. If I stayed in here for hours, it still wouldn’t be enough.
Unsure how long the hot water will last, I grab a washcloth, lather it up with fancy soap, and start to scrub.
And scrub.
And scrub like I can wash away the memory of cruel hands if I just try hard enough.
Soon, my skin turns raw and red, stinging. The wound on my arm where I ripped out the IV opens back up, blood mixing with water and swirling down the drain. It takes all my self-control not to tear off the weird rubbery bandage on my bicep where I gouged the tracker from my flesh, knowing that will only hurt me more.
Tears blur my vision as I rinse off, the sweet scent of the suds a jarring contrast to the ugliness inside. Will I ever be clean again? Will I ever stop feeling so dirty, so used up?
I shut off the water and stumble out onto the bathmat, the plushness pure luxury under my aching feet. The hot water left me shaky and lightheaded, with the overwhelming need to lie down. But I keep moving. If I stop now, I won’t get back up.
Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I shuffle over to the vanity, wiping steam from the mirror.
My reflection stares back at me, gaunt and haunted, my olive-hued skin sallow from lack of sun and my black hair ragged, parts of it brushing my shoulders. Dark crescent shadows sit beneath dull hazel eyes, and a jagged scar bisects my left eyebrow from when my last owner threw a wine bottle at me.
I’ve become a stranger to myself.
With a glance toward the closed door, I ease open the vanity drawers, marveling at the array of personal grooming items. Things I haven’t seen, let alone been allowed to use, in ages. Some I’ve never used in my life and leave me unsure of their function.
I use the comb to work the tangles from my hair, wincing as it tugs on my scalp. When I finish, I pick out all the strands stuck in the teeth before washing and returning it to the drawer.
Next, I select a nail clipper, the metal cool and solid in my palm. Such a small thing, but being trusted alone in a room with a potential weapon feels monumental.
My arms tremble as I hunch over the wastebasket to trim my ragged nails, digging out the dirt beneath that the washcloth couldn’t reach. Then I sit on the toilet and do the same to my toes.
Washing the clippers, I pat them dry and replace them. A rummage through more drawers produces a bottle of lotion with a label that boasts ‘intense hydration.’ My cracked, dry skin needs it.
My legs shake as I half-sit, half-fall onto the tiled floor. Fumbling open the bottle, I squirt a generous amount into my palm, breathing in the light, clean scent. Motions methodical, I work it into my face and body, spending extra time on my abused feet and wincing when I hit sore spots.
Thick calluses cover my soles, the result of a year spent barefoot because my captors thought it would discourage attempts at fleeing. The joke’s on them, I suppose. In the end, it only made me more resilient. Though my soles ache from the mad dash through the woods and the long trek to town, I escaped relatively unscathed, with only a few minor cuts and bruises.
I massage the lotion in until it disappears, my skin drinking it up like parched earth after a rainstorm. When I flex my toes, the movement doesn’t hurt for the first time in months.
For a moment, I let myself imagine this as my new life. That I’ll do this every day, that I’m really, truly free. It seems too good to be true.
Then again, Damien promised no one would hurt me here. That I’m safe. And my poor, battered heart wants so badly to believe him.
Muffled sounds from the other room startle me, and I panic, worried that I took too long.
With trembling hands, I return everything to its proper place, erasing any sign of my presence. The toothbrush Damien gave me sits on the counter, and I use it, wincing as the fine bristles work my tender gums. When I spit, blood mixes with the foam, adding the worry of things like cavities and gingivitis that I haven’t thought about in forever.
The clothing Damien provided is several sizes too big, and by the scent, from his own closet. The shirt slips off my bony shoulder, revealing the sharp jut of my collarbone, while the oversized pants, tied tight at the waist, pool around my ankles as the slippery fabric refuses to stay rolled up.
Wrapping myself in the blanket once more, I take a steadying breath and exit the bathroom.
The moment I step out, a mouthwatering aroma hits me, and my stomach twists painfully, a hollow ache settling deep in my gut as I follow my nose to the source.
In the front room, Damien stands beside a small table, an array of dishes spread out on its glossy surface.
When he spots me, he beckons for me to join him.
I study the spread of oatmeal, soup, and bread. While simple, it’s a feast. Drawn by the chance of a full belly, I shuffle closer.
Damien gestures to the chair. “Please, sit. Eat.”
On reflex, I obey, perching on the seat. My fingers twitch with the urge to grab the bread and cram it into my mouth, but I resist. Nothing in my life has ever come without a price.
Damien misunderstands my unease and gives me an apologetic smile. “It’s not much, but the doctor said to stick to simple foods for now, after being unconscious for so long.”
Two days, he said earlier. I lost two whole days that I can’t remember.
When I still don’t come closer, Damien taste tests each dish, chewing and swallowing before he speaks again. “See? No tricks.”
Tears threaten at the gesture. No one has ever gone out of their way to reassure me like this. With a shaking hand, I lift the spoon, and Damien nods in encouragement.
The rich aroma of chicken soup fills my nose as I dip the spoon into the bowl with trembling fingers. I bring it to my lips, the salty warmth coating my tongue and gliding down my throat. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted.
Hunger takes over, and I attack the food like a starving animal. The soup vanishes in seconds, and I tear into the soft bread, stuffing piece after piece into my mouth, hardly bothering to chew.
“Whoa, easy there,” Damien cautions, but I can’t listen over the pounding need to eat before the food disappears.
Not until my stomach cramps with pain, and I lurch to my feet. Nausea crashes over me in a dizzying wave. I stumble away from the table, leaving the blanket behind as I search for a trash can, a sink, anything .
Too late, my gut heaves, and I double over, vomiting onto the hardwood floor. Shame burns through me as I retch again and again, my body rejecting the only real food I’ve eaten in over a year.
“Sorry,” I rasp when the convulsions stop, humiliation and self-loathing coursing through my veins. “Didn’t mean to. I’ll clean it up, I swear.”
“Hey, no, it’s okay.” Damien appears at my side, and I flinch away, but he doesn’t touch me, doesn’t strike me. “You don’t have to apologize. Let’s get you cleaned up, okay?”
Confused and stumbling from his kindness, I let him guide me back to the bathroom. He hands me a damp cloth, and I wipe my mouth with shaking hands, avoiding his eyes in the mirror.
When we return to the front room, the mess is gone, as if by magic. Only a damp spot on the floor shows that anything happened. Is this what it means to be rich?
Damien coaxes me back to the table, lifting the blanket from my chair and wrapping it around me without touching. “Let’s try the oatmeal instead. Slower this time, okay? Little bites.”
Meekly, I lift the spoon, embarrassed and exhausted and so grateful I could cry. This time, I force myself to eat with deliberate care, savoring each small bite. The thick, creamy oatmeal holds a light sweetness with hints of cinnamon.
“That’s it. You’re doing great.” Pride warms Damien’s voice, and something flutters in my chest, light and unfamiliar. “Stop when you’re full. We can always order more food when you’re hungry again.”
I don’t understand what’s happening, why he’s being so patient with me, so gentle. My thoughts spin in dazed circles as I lift the spoon to my mouth again and again until my stomach tightens in protest.
Half the oatmeal remains, and leaving it is a waste. But I’m full and set aside the spoon.
Damien rumbles in approval, and a strange, giddy tingle rushes through my veins, like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I peek up at Damien, wanting to please this Alpha, to be good for him.
And it terrifies me. What if I trust, and he turns on me?
Head dropping, I fidget with the blanket. “Can I… May I brush my teeth again?”
“Of course. You don’t need to ask for something like that,” he says, still soothing, still soft. “The toothbrush is yours, and you can use it whenever you want.”
Relief rushes through me, followed by a swell of panic when Damien reaches for the half-empty bowl. I half-rise from my chair. “Let me do it!”
He smiles as he collects the dishes. “It’s all right. I’m only setting these out in the hall for the staff to pick up. Go ahead and brush your teeth.”
My legs shake beneath me as I follow his instructions and stumble to the bathroom. I fumble for the toothpaste, squirting too much on the bristles. The mint, cool and sharp on my tongue, helps ground me.
A light tap on the doorframe startles me, and toothpaste dribbles down my chin.
“Hey, mind if I join you?” Damien asks from the doorway. “Figured I might as well brush mine, too.”
Afraid that I took too long, I hastily cover my mouth and spit into the sink, mortified he’ll see the blood.
“No need to rush.” Damien moves to the second sink. “That’s why there are two, after all.”
I try to slow down, but my movements still come off as clumsy and rushed, my cheeks burning. Damien’s presence fills the room like a physical weight, his pheromones filling the small space until they’re all I can breathe.
When I look up, Damien grins at me in the mirror, his teeth coated with toothpaste. A startled giggle bursts out of me before I can stop it, and I cover my mouth, my shoulders hunching. I can’t remember the last time I laughed. It sounds rusty, but familiar.
Like something I could relearn if given the chance.
Damien leans forward, spits, and wipes his mouth on a damp washcloth. “That’s a nice sound. Don’t hide it.”
I duck my head as my face heats with embarrassment.
When we leave the bathroom, Damien’s expression turns serious. “If you’re up for it, I have some questions to ask you.”
My muscles stiffen, a shiver running down my spine. Questions never lead anywhere good, in my experience. But Damien’s been so kind, so despite the anxiety churning in my stomach, I let him guide me to the sofa and sit down.
He perches on the coffee table in front of me, our knees almost touching, and my skin prickles with awareness, my pulse quickening.
From his back pocket, Damien pulls out a folded piece of paper, smoothing it open, and the sight of it sends a jolt of pure, visceral fear through me.
It’s the map of the compound. He must have found it in the clothes I arrived in.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Damien soothes, scenting my distress. “You’re not in trouble. I just need to know what this is.”
My mouth turns dry as sand. “It’s…it’s where they kept us.”
Damien’s jaw clenches, a flash of anger sparking that he suppresses. He flips the map over, revealing a series of numbers scrawled on the back. “Jade was with you? In this place?”
The mention of Jade sends a pang through me. “Yes. He’s the one who helped me escape. Told me to come here, to find you.”
Damien’s brows furrow. “Why didn’t he come with you?”
Guilt at leaving him behind claws at my full stomach. Why do I deserve to be safe here when he’s going through hell?
“The window,” I rasp. “It was too small. Jade…he wouldn’t fit. That’s why he needed me to go instead.”
I brace myself for Damien’s anger, for the accusation that I abandoned Jade. Left him behind to suffer.
It never comes.
Instead, Damien reaches out, telegraphing his movements. His fingers brush mine, the barest whisper of a touch, but it jolts through me like lightning, straight to my core. “You did the right thing. Coming here. Trusting me. I know it wasn’t easy.”
Tears threaten, and I blink them away. I don’t deserve his kindness. His understanding.
“Do you think you can find this place again?” His handsome features harden. “If you saw a map of the area?”
That tingly sensation floods my body again. “Yes.”
If it makes Damien happy, I’ll lead him straight to hell.