Chapter 51
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
EVERLY
T he water from the hose hits my naked body like a wrecking ball.
The force is so intense that it alone could steal my breath away.
But that’s not why I can hardly breathe.
It’s the freezing cold water that actually makes it impossible to suck in a lungful of air.
The cold seeps beneath my skin and causes my lungs to contract but not expand.
Which might be a good thing, given the nurse holding the fire hose doesn’t seem to be aiming anywhere in particular and occasionally pelts me in the face.
One deep inhale of that and I’ll find myself drowning while standing up.
On either side of me, there’s a nurse holding my arms out wide—forcing me to endure this torture.
My violent shivering doesn’t help warm me.
My screams, having started the minute they descended upon me as I woke on the hard stone floor at the sound of their arrival, are ignored.
When I try to fight, to curl up to avoid the water or to cringe, I’m yanked back into position.
“Alright, turn her around!” the one with the hose calls out, giving me a moment of reprieve.
“Please, stop,” I beg between clattering teeth. “ Please .”
Neither nurse at my side says a word as they force me to face the wall.
I stumble as I turn, unable to feel my legs, feet, or toes.
I barely have time to glare at the stone wall before I’m hit square in the back with the water again.
My screech is cut off as I’m thrown against it.
I squirm beneath the chilling water and, once again, attempt to jerk my arms free from the nurses’ hold.
It’s to no avail. There’s no escaping the wretched icy blast as it pelts me from behind.
I tremble violently and gasp for air like a fish out of water.
Have I ever been this cold? I’m numb all over, and even when the water stops a few minutes later, there’s no relief.
I stare at the base of the stone wall where it meets the floor, unable to lift my head.
My hair falls around my face. It gives me the semblance of privacy so as I cry, my tears are hidden from the nurse.
Not that I think they can see much as it is.
The four nurses wear old-school white scrubs and long sleeves beneath them to cover their arms. Their faces are covered in strange masks that appear to be made of a thick white gauze that wraps completely around their heads.
It’s shaped to their faces, with two small holes where their nostrils should be, but their mouths and eyes are covered.
I know three of the four are men judging by their build and strength as they hold me. The fourth is a woman, slender and tall. Since their arrival, she’s stood back and watched as her peers held me in place to soak me.
But that’s about to change. I can hear her approach now. The soft soles of her shoes sound like a metronome as she walks, each step filling me with dread. I don’t bother lifting my head, not wanting to see what comes next.
I don’t have to wait long to find out.
“Time to cleanse you, Miss Woodrow,” she announces, her words muffled through her mask.
Stiff, abrasive bristles of a thick, wide brush rake across my freezing skin, down my back, in one harsh swipe.
I throw my head back and scream. The sound echoes in the room but does nothing to make the woman stop as she repeats the motion over and over again.
With how cold and raw my skin feels each time the large brush scrubs across it—it’s like she’s ripping thick pieces of flesh off my body.
She scrubs me everywhere—my feet, between my butt crack, across my back and shoulders, and then I’m turned around for my front to be ripped apart.
Through the mind-numbing cold and pained daze, I realize I’m being scrubbed with some type of chemical.
It smells almost like bleach. The harsh scent burns my nostrils and eyes and twists my stomach until all I want to do is gag.
The scent is amplified when I’m forced to my knees and it’s used as shampoo.
“Alright, she’s clean. Hose her off,” the nurse says, stepping back.
I don’t even have time to take a deep breath before I’m hit square in the face with a torrent of cold water.
When the sterile soap is washed away, the woman snaps her fingers. The water is instantly turned off and everything goes still.
“Dry her off, then take care of her wrist, it looks sprained,” the woman says, her voice void of any emotions.
The nurses holding my arms let go and scatter around the room.
I’m torn between being able to feel nothing thanks to the icy blast of water and feeling like I’ve been burned alive due to the chemicals scrubbed all over my body.
After forcing myself to sit up, I snake my arms around my waist and gasp for air.
Feet appear in my line of vision. Before I can will my head to look up, a towel is haphazardly swiped over my back.
I hiss in pain, my skin too sensitive and raw for the thin, cheap material to be any sort of comfort as it’s dragged across my back.
Another pair of hands yanks me to my feet, and I’m held upright as the nurse holding the towel quickly dries my front.
My hair is the last to be dried before a comb is dragged through it, slicking it back to keep it out of my face.
Once my hair dries, it won’t stay like this. My curls will burst through and it’ll turn into a haystack, but I guess that’s a future me problem.
The third male steps up with a first-aid kit and opens it.
Items fall to the ground as he quickly grabs what he needs, then tosses the rest to the side.
No one seems bothered by the mess he’s making.
He grabs my left arm, just above my swollen and bruised wrist, and begins to wrap it tight.
I hiss in pain, but when he finishes, it actually feels a bit better.
“Where’s her gown?” the woman asks.
The nurse who towel dried me throws the fabric down by my feet and moves toward the door on the far side of the empty room.
He picks something up off the ground and returns a moment later.
The nurse holding me helps his buddy get the hospital gown on me when I refuse to do it myself.
Once the straps are tied in the back, the woman steps forward again and tilts her masked head left rather than right.
“She’ll do,” she declares. When she lifts her hand, the nurse that had hosed me down hands her a set of cuffs. “Wrists.”
I realize she’s talking to me too late when the nurses on either side grab my arms and force my hands up and together.
The woman cuffs me then steps back.
“She’s ready,” she declares. “Let’s?—”
“W-wait.” Through clattering teeth, I manage to ask, “W-where are my guys?”
My guys? Since when did I think of Braum, Rowan, and Maverick as all mine? It must’ve been recently because while it feels a little stilted on my tongue, it also feels right.
Braum and Rowan blew into my life and uprooted everything—like a category-five hurricane.
Their touch brings both exhilaration and comfort.
I never know what they’ll do, but by the time they’re done having their way with me, I always feel reborn.
I’m cherished by two psychopaths who believe they’ve found something extraordinary.
Braum looks at me like I’ve actually hung the stars in the sky and finds me just as mesmerizing.
There’s awe that twinkles in his eyes as he stares at me.
Like I’m something otherworldly and he can’t wrap his head around it.
It all boils down to the fact that Braum sees me .
Not a Woodrow, not a meal ticket. He sees the real me, and he adores who he’s uncovered.
Then there’s Rowan, who seeks out only the most beautiful, unique pieces to keep close to him.
He took one look at me and saw someone worth fighting for.
In the beginning his motives might’ve been twisted, but he was quick to cherish and claim me.
We tore down each other’s walls until our vulnerability was on full display.
He’s made me feel like I’ve become the center of someone’s world.
After being on the outskirts of everyone else's my entire life, I didn’t know I’d enjoy the attention.
Braum and Rowan are emotionally unstable, fiercely possessive, and unpredictably dangerous. That’s what I love about them. Their intensity is exactly what I need to truly feel accepted, cherished… adored.
And then, of course, there’s Maverick. The boy who stole my heart and never gave it back before he disappeared.
I never thought I could love someone as much as I love him.
To Maverick, I was his friend—not just his best friend’s little sister.
He made sure I was included in every adventure, made me laugh, and he was the one who made me feel safe despite the horrors going on at home. He was my first love.
The man he’s become after all these years is so vastly different from the one I originally fell for, but I think I might’ve fallen even harder for this version of him.
Mavie sees himself as broken, made up of the pieces from who he was and what he’s become.
But if that’s the case, those pieces have made a piece of art, like stained-glass.
He’s passionate and caring, like the boy I knew.
But now there’s a darkness to him, and that side of him is fierce and strong enough to face anything and defeat it. To me, Maverick is magnificent.
They may be at odds right now, but I saw what it could be like. The four of us carved out a moment of time where rivalries were put on hold and love dominated. It was beautiful, divine, and addictive. I know, if we get out of here, our future could be full and happy even if we’re on the run.
So they have to be alive, because otherwise my future will be bleak and empty. And I can’t live like that anymore. I refuse to.