CHAPTER 8
Rebecca can barely stand on her own two legs when we get to her apartment building. It’s a struggle for her to get up the four flights of stairs, and she looks like she’s about to pass out when I unlock the door with the key I had made.
“How much have you eaten today?” I ask as I grab the lapels of her jacket from behind to take it off.
The small shake of her head tells me she probably hasn’t had anything. She’s been going on adrenaline, and with that having faded now, there’s nothing left to hold her up. Her whole system is probably in shock, and she doesn’t have any kind of fuel to run on. No wonder she’s about to collapse.
Before that happens, I take off her clothes, leaving her bra and panties, then lead her to bed.
“Please don’t hurt me,” she says in a voice so small it’s barely audible. “I—I’m sorry I tried to leave.”
She’s probably expecting some kind of punishment, but my only order is to make sure she stays put. Gabor will make sure she won’t get the inclination to leave again. He’s quite effective about such things.
I’ve offered different methods, but those usually risk breaking the girls, and he prefers to do that slowly, little by little.
I flip the comforter aside and gesture to the mattress. “Get some rest.”
She looks up at me, confusion swimming in those big doe eyes of hers. She still doesn’t believe I’m not here to hurt her. So I lean down and scoop her up, enjoying the small yelp that escapes her lips. She’s about to push against my chest when I place her on the mattress.
“Rest,” I say, and her eyes drift shut the moment I flip the comforter over her and tuck it around her slender body.
I go to her kitchen and find the shattered mug that must have caused the cut on her hand. After cleaning up the mess, I scour her cupboards and fridge for food—or clues as to what she likes so I can get her some. But all I find is a brown banana, a few cold cuts, oatmeal, and some dry bread. It doesn’t tell me much more than the poor state of her finances—which I already knew, having hacked my way to all the information I could possibly get about her online.
Opening the freezer, I find a tub of Ben and Jerry’s Caramel Chew Chew. One clue. I huff a small laugh. That’s my go-to flavor too. I pull off the lid and find a meagre inch of ice cream covered in a layer of ice. I wonder if she has been saving it for a special occasion.
With a shake of my head, I put it back in the empty freezer. Someone needs to take care of this girl because she surely doesn’t know how to do it herself.
I leave her apartment to go get something for her to eat. When I return half an hour later, Rebecca is fast asleep. I move quietly to avoid waking her as I go to the kitchen. To make sure there’s something she likes, I’ve gotten a little bit of everything. Fruit, meat, r?sti, cheese, and fresh langos with sour crème and cheese. I fill a plate with a bit of everything, then stock the rest of the food in her kitchen.
I pour a large glass of orange juice, pop a straw in, and head to the main room. She doesn’t even stir as I place the items on the nightstand and bring a chair up to the bed, and I’m of half a mind not to wake her. But this girl needs to eat. I take a seat in front of her and reach out to stroke the edges of her hair. It’s silky and soft—good genes rather than good care, I’m sure.
A soft moan slips from her lips, and I keep touching her silky tresses as she slowly drifts back to consciousness. But she doesn’t quite seem willing to return. After blinking weakly a few times and moving her head just enough to see me, her eyelids fall shut again and her head falls limp on the pillow.
“You need to eat,” I say, but she only responds with a tiny whimper. So I take the glass and press the straw to her lips. A parched cat will drink when presented with water no matter how weak. “Drink,” I say, and her lips move slightly against the straw as she takes a tiny sip. Like I figured, she’s parched, going on instinct, and soon her lips are rounding around the straw as she greedily sucks up the sweet juice.
Halfway through, she seems to regain some awareness and pauses, staring up at me. Her eyes blink as worry and confusion seem to swirl around her green irises, and she slowly pushes the straw out, although reluctantly.
“It’s just orange juice,” I say.
She glances suspiciously down at the glass, then back up at me, and her head seems to whir with a million different questions and uncertainties.
“If I wanted to drug you, I’d simply use a needle.” I poke my finger into her arm, the same place where I stabbed her with a needle when administering the contraceptive shot.
Her eyes become distant for a moment, and then she seems to resign herself, and they drift shut as she pulls the straw back between her lips and sucks anew. In barely half a minute, the rest of the glass is empty.
When I prod a piece of fruit between her lips, her eyes stay closed. This time, she doesn’t hesitate to take what I offer, but her lips move slowly, her jaw the same as if so weakened it takes more effort to chew.
Slowly, she regains some vigor, chewing faster, opening her eyes to follow my fingers as I break off pieces of food and bring it to her lips, and widening her eyes as I lick my fingers then bring them back to her lips with a new piece of food. My cock stirs at the sight of those eyes, but what has it straining against my pants is when her tongue darts out to lick her now rosy lips.
I realize my jaw has gone hard when I move my eyes from her lips and find her pausing, watching me wearily.
“Eat,” I say and shove another piece of food to her lips.
She opens up, and her obedience damn near has the same effect as her tongue, and I struggle to rein in the hunger that threatens to harden my entire face.
Once the plate is empty, I take it away along with the glass and retrieve the first aid kit I’ve brought from my car. Pushing the cover aside, I find her wounded hand and bring it into the open. She’s hesitant about letting me have it, and when I begin to peel off the bandages, she tries to pull it away.
I give her a direct glare and a shake of my head, and her lips press together in worry as her hand goes limp in mine.
“Did you do this to yourself?” I ask as I slowly take off the creased roller gauze.
I see her shake her head from the corner of my eye before she says in a weak voice, “My mug broke.”
I cast a glance up from the bandage to see if she’s lying, but there’s no trace of deceit on her face, and the broken mug did look like an accident. All I find in her face is defeat. Good. Otherwise, I’d have to punish her, and I’m not keen on hurting her when she’s this weak.
Inspecting the cut, I find a long, angry gash. It’s deep enough that I consider stitching it up, but since it’s not bleeding, I decide not to. I don’t have the drugs to sedate the area, and stitching up an open wound is enough to have me worried she’d pass out from the pain alone. The disinfecting wipe is bad enough as is. She hisses and whimpers, clenching her jaw and pressing her eyes shut as I clean the wound.
“Look at me,” I demand when her breathing turns into shallow panting and panic seems to hover at the fringes.
Her eyes shoot open, staring up at me with pain and hurt. But as always with this girl, there’s no blame or hatred directed at me. Only a plea to protect.
“You’re doing good,” I say. “Just focus on breathing and keep watching me.”
Her breath staggers past her lips as she tries to inhale deeply.
“Good girl. One more.” She repeats a few times on my command, but when I turn my attention back to her hand, she immediately draws back toward the panic she was headed straight toward moments ago. “Uh, uh,” I reprimand, looking back at her to find her eyes closed again. “Eyes on me. All the time.”
She whimpers but obeys, and I manage to keep her afloat with reassuring words and continuous reminders to keep watching me as I finish cleaning the wound. Then I patch it up with new gauze and place her hand on her stomach on top of the comforter. “All done.”
She stares at the pristine, white bandage with a strange combination of awe and wonder. “Thank you,” she whispers.
“Why?” I ask.
“No one’s ever taken care of me like this,” she says without lifting her gaze.
I cock my brow in question when she finally peers up.
“My mom would always reprimand me when I got hurt,” she says in a low voice and squeezes her eyes shut like the memory is painful. “‘That’s what happens when you don’t pay attention,’ she’d say and haul me back up whenever I fell and scraped my knees.”
“Boyfriends?” I inquire. A sweet girl like her must have attracted some benign boys—or assholes who’d take advantage. My voice holds the hint of an angry rasp when I add the next part, already knowing the answer. “They didn’t take care of you?”
She gives a small shake of her head. “They were the same—at least the ones I dared to date were.”
My jaw ticks, and I want to grab a piece of paper and demand that she jot down every name of every person who’s ever hurt her, so I can repay the favor tenfold. But then I remember that my name would be at the very top and bite back the urge.
I’m about to get up and tell her to go to sleep when she continues, still keeping her eyes shut like the words are too shameful to face openly. “The only place I ever found comfort was at BDSM clubs.” Her eyes open, and she directs them straight up at me, full of meaning. “Where men beat me, then held me and put me back together.”
I stare back at her, but don’t reply. I know exactly what she’s thinking. The men at the club provided her with comfort after having mistreated her body, and now I’m doing the exact same thing. Though I’m not sure her broken self-worth is capable of recognizing the important difference: at the club, she consented and submitted willingly; I don’t care about her consent.
“Go to sleep,” I finally say and get up. But instead of leaving like I’d originally planned, I sink into the crimson chair and aim my gaze at her. “Sleep.”
She doesn’t close her eyes immediately. Instead, she stares back at me with those wide and vulnerable eyes that make me want to stay all night and watch over her.
“What’s your name?” she finally asks.
“Janos.”
“Janos,” she repeats as if tasting the word, emphasizing the open ‘a’ as in after. Then she lets her eyes drift shut, and within minutes, I hear her breathing slow down as her head falls to the side on the pillow.