Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Fur. Fur underneath my fingertips, so soft. Safe. My fingers twitch of their own accord, they flutter across the familiar softness. My head tips forward, and the darkness recedes.
I blink.
My senses rush back, the cold bite of the unyielding metal chair beneath me, the sharp smell of bleach.
I’m cold. I’m hungry. I’m thirsty. My body aches. How long have I been sitting here?
I blink. The sight of cream-and-red fur fills my vision. Riddick. He sits in front of me. There’s fresh blood on his muzzle, and darker dried blood is mixed with his soft fur. Oh, no—I jolt when I see it. A silver collar is around his neck.
Shock and fear flood me, and with that potent hit of adrenalin, everything around me becomes more focused.
“Riddy,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. I lick my dry lips.
I hiss when I try to lift my hands to touch the collar and my wrists chafe against tight plastic.
My frightened gaze drops to my hands. I can’t lift them more than an inch as the vampires have secured them to the arms of the chair. I’m trapped. I’m trapped.
Oh God, I need to get out of this chair. I need to get out. I struggle in vain and thrash about until the pain of my desperate movements registers. It bleeds through my panic and I notice that my entire body is screaming in protest. Ouch.
I pause, panting. My rapid breaths whoosh in my ears and I barely swallow down a scream that wants to bubble up from inside me. I force myself not to struggle and instead I close my eyes and compel myself to breathe through my rising hysteria.
No, breathe slow. It’s okay, it’s okay. Save your energy. I want to scoff at my thoughts. Energy? Ha. What bloody energy? Just breathe.
This is happening. I have to deal with it. I have to be brave. I have to think through the desperate, raging panic that is clawing at my insides.
If I don’t, I’m dead.
Everything happens for a reason, even the horrible stuff. But why me? the little voice in my head whines. Why not you—would you really want someone else to suffer in your stead? No, I would not. Riddick needs me.
God, please give me the strength to be brave. If not for myself, then for Riddick.
I slowly count down from ten. When I get to one, I take a shuddering breath in, and then I open my eyes.
Riddick limps away from me. He offers me no further comfort; he just whimpers and then curls into a ball in the corner of the room.
He won’t look at me. My lip wobbles and my heart drops like a stone.
To see my growly, brave friend so defeated is horrific.
He is the picture of total misery. I am suddenly ashamed, and so embarrassed at my panicked reaction.
Riddick is truly suffering, while in reality I’m only tied to a chair. You are pathetic, Emma.
Hell, what have they done to him?
I know little about silver and its effect on shifters.
I know that silver stops the shift. The memory of when I first saw the hellhounds with all their silver weaponry comes to me and only adds to my confusion.
Why carry silver weapons when contact with it makes you weak?
My head throbs. What is the silver collar around his neck doing to him?
Can it kill him? If his whimpers are any sign, it must cause him pain.
“Riddy, are you okay? Is…is Eleanor okay?” In response, Riddick soulfully whines.
Oh my God.
As if his whine was a signal, a lock disengages and the bang of metal makes me flinch. The door opens behind me and the sound of heavy footsteps precedes two men as they saunter into the room.
The cell.
From his corner, Riddick growls.
My eyes flick about as I take in the bare cell-like space.
My chair is the only piece of furniture and it is positioned in the centre of the room.
I can’t help the all-over body shudder that wracks me as my eyes take in and then skitter away from the drain underneath me.
I clamp down hard on any thoughts on why they would need a drain. I shudder.
“Are you awake, buttercup?” Fingers click aggressively in my face.
“I knew a little rub from the hellhound would get your attention.” The guy who is talking has a horrific nasal voice.
He isn’t a vampire—no, he is a shifter, which is a surprise.
Dark hair and sharp features. He gives the impression, as he looks down his pointed nose at me, that I am an inconvenience on what should have been a perfect day.
I keep my expression blank, take a shaky breath, and lift my chin. I can’t help thinking: Sorry, pal, undo me so I can leave. Sorry that my kidnapping and being here tied to this bloody chair has ruined your day. But smartly, I keep those words firmly locked inside. I am in enough trouble.
“See the state of your hellhound? If you don’t answer my questions…” He smirks, leans forward, and whispers in my ear, “I’ll let you use your imagination on that one.” His fingers brush against my left hand and I flinch. His eyes light up, and almost nose-to-nose, he purrs.
Oh, now he is interested in me. I lean as far away from him as I can. “Breath,” I mumble, and I wrinkle my nose in distaste. His eyes flash in anger and he lifts his hand as if to hit me. There is an almost inaudible growl. I close my eyes in readiness for the blow, but it doesn’t come.
“Just think, I was going to go soft on you, give you a time-out and a drink of water. Let’s do this,” he snarls.
He steps away. I gasp and my heart skips a beat at the sight of the trolly. He has a trolly full of bad things.
A wheel squeaks as it rolls across the uneven floor and the things clatter, clink and knock together. They glint in the harsh overhead light. I try to shrink away, but the unyielding metal chair I am tied to keeps me firmly immobile, as it’s bolted to the floor.
I can’t speak, I can barely breathe as my mind starts to shut down. More adrenaline and fear cloud my head, and I vaguely recognise that I’m going into shock.
He claps his hands, and I jump at the sound. “Oi, you disappear again and you’ll never see him again, so stay with me.” He nods in Riddick’s direction.
Eyes gleaming, he runs his fingers almost reverently across the things on the tray. The shifter carefully separates each item so I can see them. Wide-eyed, I swallow.
His hands are delicate for a shifter, hands that are no doubt unafraid of getting dirty, bloody.
He selects a knife, and he shows me the silver blade by waving it in front of my face.
He smirks at me as he stands, his eyes now alight with cruel amusement.
I tremble. His hand drops and he taps the Rambo-style knife against his thigh.
It’s big and solid, and the edges are serrated, with a blood groove down the middle.
Tap, tap. Tap, tap.
I nod, swallow, and lift my eyes away from the blade to his face. I look directly into his mean brown eyes. He is going to use that stuff to hurt Riddick, to hurt me. Oh, God. I shake, and my teeth chatter.
In desperation, my gaze skitters away from the threat of the man with the knife. I turn my frightened eyes away from him and focus on the other man who is in the room.
Is he safer?
My bound hands' jerk. He is John-level beautiful, but he doesn’t stir me the way John’s frightening beauty does. The way John makes me feel is almost magical—and I don’t mean in a good way. Magical like a curse. It’s like I’ve been cursed whenever I’m around him.
God, I hope the hellhound isn’t angry when he realises his guards have failed. I worry for them if we’re lucky enough to get out of here, to live through this nightmare. John is another scary obstacle to overcome. The man won’t accept failure.
I drop my thoughts about John and focus back on the handsome face.
Dark hair and pale honey-coloured eyes stare intently back at me.
He stands quietly as he casually leans, resting a booted foot against the wall, arms folded across his chest as he observes me.
I do the same and observe him right back, my head tilted to the side in contemplation.
He isn’t a shifter, a vampire, or a demon.
I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I don’t think he’s fae either.
The power coming off him in waves is…familiar.
Even though I never saw his face, I’m pretty sure he is the man in the van that held me in his arms.
Angel? Could he be? What the hell is going on…
He pushes away from the wall and meanders towards me.
The shifter backs away, giving him room.
He crouches down in front of my chair. Being deliberate in not touching me, he grips the metal arms of the chair and leans forward.
His honey gaze flicks up to my eyes, to the side of my head, my cheek, and then back.
His eyes stop moving, as though he’s focusing with everything he has on maintaining eye contact.
Somehow I know he doesn’t like what I presume is the smear of blood from my head wound and the bruises that are smattered achingly across my face.
“Save the hellhound some pain and tell us what we want to know,” he says. As soon as I hear his voice, I know he is the man from the van.
I drop my eyes and look at my lap. I gnaw on my lip. It’s a simple decision: I need to do everything in my power to keep Riddick safe. I lift my eyes. “You promised you wouldn’t hurt me,” I whisper. “You lied.” His honey eyes flick again to my throbbing cheek. Someone, perhaps the shifter, hit me.
I push down my fear inside me and gather the tatters of my courage.
“I will answer your questions…if I can. But I have one of my own.” The honey-eyed man narrows his eyes in disappointment.
Like someone’s turned off a light switch, the softness in his eyes disappears, replaced with distrust. I shiver.
Crap, I’ve lost whatever rapport we had and I’ve disappointed him. Way to go, Emma.
“Go on,” he growls.