CHAPTER 23
Janos keeps his promise and is here every day. Most nights, he sleeps in the red chair, and if he doesn’t, he comes at the crack of dawn. On some days, he only stays long enough to shove the butt plug into my ass and feed me before he leaves again and is gone until dinner. Other days, he stays here, working on his computer and taking work calls in Hungarian, Russian, or English—always leaving the room when it’s the latter.
No matter what type of day it is, it’s a relief having him here or knowing he’ll be here soon. He chases away the echoes of my screams that seem to be stuck within these walls, and even when he’s gone, it’s never long enough for his presence to fade. It soothes my frazzled system, and I don’t need the escape of work as much as I did before, so I cut back on shifts, only taking three or four a week. And work really isn’t much of a refuge without the peaceful view of the castle and river, anyway.
But there’s always a little bit of anxiety buzzing at the back of my head, growing during the day. So when Janos leaves after dinner, the anxiety will flare up to a blaring volume, crackling along my spine and pounding in my head. Because those are the nights I know he’ll return to prepare me for Gabor’s sadistic games.
But even knowing what is coming, seeing him return an hour or two later is a relief. My heart may sink when I see his black suit and the lanky man following at his heel, but the mere sight of him is enough to ease the cold trickle of fear along my spine. And when Janos orders the scrawny man aside, I can close my eyes and imagine that it’s just the two of us, and I find comfort in the feeling of his hands sliding over my body as he undresses me, his hot breath fanning my skin, and his strong arms holding me until Gabor comes.
Those nights are few, though. And on the nights when he goes to the bathroom after dinner and turns on the faucet in the tub, it’s like a rock off my shoulders. Then, I know I’m safe, and peace settles over me as I sink into the hot water, listening to him type away on his laptop behind me, never leaving me out of sight while I’m in the tub. Once my skin is all wrinkly like raisins, he’ll take me out, rub me dry with a soft towel, and tuck me into bed. Then he’ll continue working in the red chair while I fall asleep.
“What are you doing?” I ask one night when I’d rather study him in the blue light of the screen than go to sleep.
“Working.” He keeps typing, aiming his sharp attention at the screen.
“Working on what?” I’m growing more relaxed around him day by day, asking more questions. He doesn’t always answer, but every now and then, I’m lucky to get some small piece of information I can add to the puzzle.
“I’m moving some things for our friends in Russia.”
“What things?”
While waiting for an answer that never comes, I stir up all kinds of horrible scenarios in my mind, imagining what he might be moving. Drugs, weapons, booze and cigarettes. Or much worse.
Fear infiltrates my mind, building and building until I can’t contain it. “Women?”
“No,” is his only response.
It does nothing to reassure me. On the contrary. Because his answer doesn’t mean he never deals in women. It only means this specific business deal doesn’t involve human trafficking.
My head spins out of control as the idea festers, making me imagine being sold off as a prostitute when Gabor grows tired of me. Then I’ll end up being pumped full of drugs, so all kinds of men can rape me in some dingy room.
I thought my situation was as bad as it could get, but that’s because I haven’t dared to think about how much worse it could get.
When sleep finally claims me, it’s restless and fitful. Horrifying scenarios play out before my mind’s eye with all too vivid images, making my chest constrict, my lungs barely able to pull in air.
***
I’m on a thin mattress in a steel bed, staring up at a cracked, concrete ceiling. Dirty, sweaty hands grab me from all sides, forcing their way inside me.
I try to fight—shove at the hands and jerk away—but I’m paralyzed. My fingers won’t even twitch. So I try to scream, but not even a yelp comes out.
The only thing I can move is my eyes. They roam over the men, searching for a kind soul I can evoke a sliver of sympathy from. But they’re all cruel and cold. I’m an object to them. A thing to be used and abused.
My eyes land on a set of steel-gray eyes at the back of the room. The man just stands there, a passive onlooker. He looks straight at me, yet he doesn’t see me. I try with all my might to beg him with my eyes, but there’s no hint of life. He’s like a lifeless robot programmed to stand guard without emotion or thought.
The hands become more eager, scratching at my skin and tearing along my inner walls.
I try to scream again, and this time, I feel the sound gather in my throat. But just as it’s about to burst into the open, fingers shove inside my mouth, blocking it. They push to the back of my throat, making me cough and gag. Then farther, blocking my throat. I can’t breathe. My lungs constrict to drag in air, but nothing happens. My stomach cramps with the effort, and black spots form in my vision.
I dart my eyes back to the passive man, begging and pleading with him silently. But he keeps watching with the same cold eyes. There’s nothing I can do as the air in my lungs runs out and the hands shove farther down my throat.
***
I jolt upright in bed. Running my fingers over the sheets, I feel the mattress. It’s thick and soft. I shoot my eyes through the darkness to see the walls. They’re clean and intact, and so is the ceiling. A loud sigh swooshes from my lips as I realize I’m alone. Except for the giant man sleeping in the armchair five feet from me.
Tears brim in my eyes at the sight. The relief is so stark that I react on instinct. Without thinking, I crawl from bed, take two steps over the floor, and drop down on his lap. I curl up there, clutching his T-shirt, and it’s only when I’m settled that I realize how boldly I’m acting.
But I don’t care.
I need to feel him. It doesn’t matter if he throws me back on the bed when he wakes. If a brief moment is all I get, I’ll take it.
His breathing changes as he comes to, and I tighten my grip with mighty strength. Suddenly, I can’t bear the idea of losing this. I need this dangerous man with throbbing desperation. It doesn’t matter what he does or lets others do to me as long as I get to feel him.
A huge hand comes up to my hair, and I expect him to yank me away. But instead of fisting my tresses, he curves his palm around the back of my head while he circles his other arm around my waist.
I mewl into his shoulder as I sink into him. The relief is so strong that tears drip from my eyes as I press myself closer to the man whose arms are my nightmare and my sanctuary.
The night remains dead silent, yet it crackles with the intensity of our close connection. I can barely hear Janos’s breaths, but I feel them in the rapid movements of his chest, and I sense the unspoken emotion in his arm tightening more with each passing minute.
Even as he compresses my lungs until breathing takes effort, the tight grip is soothing. My muscles loosen one by one. The tension drains from my shoulders, my head droops against his chest, and my fingers lose their death grip on his T-shirt. It seems to relax him in turn. His grip becomes less severe, and his hand takes up a gentle stroking along my hair. I’ve felt the same promise to protect so many times, but the difference now is that I know the comfort isn’t deceptive.
Janos might not stop Gabor from using me, but he wants to ease my pain. And he does. Everything is easier when he’s there. He makes sure I don’t break irrevocably, and he lights the spark in my eyes and gives me something worth living for.
But I have no idea how far his protection goes. I’m convinced that I’m more than just a job to him and that a part of him wants to take care of me. But would he stop Gabor from selling me if it came to it? Are whatever feelings he holds for me enough to override his loyalty to Gabor?
And how will it all end?
I’ve avoided these last questions long enough, and I can’t hold the terrible fear at bay anymore.
“What will happen when Gabor gets tired of me?” I ask with a quivering voice.
Janos strokes his hand over my arm a couple of times before leaning forward to turn on the night light. A soft glow lights up our corner of the room, and I stare at Janos as he turns his attention to me with a reassuring expression. “Most girls end up with a great place to live, free to do whatever they want.”
The word most doesn’t escape me. So even though the answer is much better than I could have hoped, I have to gulp down a knot of fear. “And the others?”
Janos’s jaw tightens as his hand stills.
I grab his T-shirt to alleviate the shaking in my hands. “What about the others?” I repeat in a higher pitch.
Releasing a heavy breath, he lets go of my arm to rake his hand through his hair. “He went too far with one of them.”
“How?” I demand.
With a shake of his head, he denies me the information.
“Tell me!” Bunching up his T-shirt in my fists, I shake it as I stare at him with a frenzy written across my face—eyes burning and nostrils flaring with my loud inhales.
Rage blazes in his eyes with terrifying suddenness as he grabs my chin. “You really want to know?”
I should cower—draw back and say no. But I can’t. I need to know. “Tell me,” I insist urgently.
He rips his hand from my chin and slams it onto my throat. The force knocks me back, but his fingers curling around my neck keep me in place. Slowly and inexorably, he squeezes, his eyes flaring as he says, “He got so caught up in controlling her breathing that he didn’t stop in time.” His words are a harsh sneer that reflects the exact ruthlessness it takes to cut off another person’s airflow for good.
He keeps squeezing, and I groan as I struggle to drag air past the restriction. I’m wheezing with every breath when he finally stops tightening, and I instinctively shoot up my hand to pull at his. But he doesn’t budge, and I go dizzier by the second.
I cough between useless gasps as I scratch at his hand. Black dots form in my vision, and the energy fades from my body. The fight drains too, leaving my fingers hanging loosely on his hand, like it will keep me conscious.
This is it,I think. He’s going to end me.
My last strength fades, and just as my hands fall into my lap, he lets go.
With a loud gasp, I suck in air and collapse against his chest. I cling to him for dear life—the same man I just thought would take my life. He reacts in the same irrational ways, pulling me to him and holding me tight as if to comfort me.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers, pressing his lips to my hair with startling tenderness. “I’ve got you, Rebecca.”
I breathe hard against his chest for a while before pulling back to look up at him. His face is impassive again. No uncontrolled violence, neither comfort nor sympathy.
But he’s not entirely closed off. Because when he sees the fear carved into my features, something flickers across his face, and his next words are meant to calm me. “Gabor doesn’t want a huge pile of dead women,” he says, stroking my arm reassuringly. “It’s much more expensive to make the police sweep a body under the rug than a mere rape or break-in. That’s part of the reason I’m here.”
Part of me wants to rage at the way he mentions rape as a trifle, but what has my heart hammering with the need for an explanation are his last words. “Why are you here?” I say.
He shrugs. “To stop him from killing another girl.”
I flicker my eyes back and forth between his, trying to find something to banish the insanity from this conversation. But I find no reassurance. No sign of remorse. I have to accept there’s nothing rational or normal about any of this. “What else are you here for?”
“To make sure things run smoothly. That you live up to his expectations—that he can use you in whatever hole he wants. Repair whatever he breaks, so he can use you again.” His tone remains casual. No hint of regret or apology. This is a job to him. But at the same time, I know he doesn’t see me as the worthless object he describes me as. So I press on.
“Is that why you’re here now?” I’ve asked the same question before and gotten the answer I hoped for. But it’s still hard to believe it’s true. Especially after those cold words.
“No.” He offers no explanation. But the answer is firm and sure. This time, it’s not because Gabor wants him here. And that’s good enough for now. So I burrow my head into the crook of his shoulder and inhale his scent with deep breaths until I fall asleep.