Chapter 9
Mo
They lead me into a room off the living room, and that’s when I see it.
A thick iron chain bolted to the wall, connected to a cuff lined with a dark material. The kind of chain that won’t allow me to shift.
Shit.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I plant my feet and jerk backward, but Darius has a grip on my arm that might as well be a vice. “Is this your thing? Chain up every female who walks through the door? Got a real system going, huh?”
Darius’s jaw tightens. “We put that in just for you.”
“Oh, I’m flattered. Really. Top-notch hospitality.”
“It’s temporary,” he says. “Until we know you won’t bolt or slit our throats in our sleep.”
“Then you’d better get comfortable, because both of those are at the top of my to-do list.”
Elias shifts in the doorway. “I’m not sure about this, Darius. She’s not a dog.”
“She bit you only hours ago,” Darius says flatly.
“And I’ll do it again,” I snarl, thrashing against his hold. I get one arm free and swing for his face, but he catches my wrist and forces it toward the cuff. I kick, driving my heel into his shin. He grunts but doesn’t let go.
Archer steps forward. “We wanted to bring her in, not cage her.”
“She’ll gut us the second she’s loose,” Darius says. “You want to wake up with a kitchen knife in your neck?”
“I’d aim lower,” I hiss, still fighting. Silas moves behind me, and his huge hands close gently around my shoulders, holding me still. I thrash against him, but it’s like trying to move a wall. “Get off me, you overgrown—”
The cuff clicks shut around my wrist.
My whole body goes rigid. For a second, I’m not in this cabin; I’m back in a cell. The stench of mold and piss. The darkness. The sound of a lock turning and knowing nobody is coming to open it.
I yank so hard the chain snaps taut, and pain shoots up my arm. “Take it off. Take it off right now.”
My voice doesn’t sound like mine. Too high. Too thin.
Darius looks at me, and something flickers across his face, but it’s gone before I can name it. “It stays,” he says. “For now. This is for your own good, Blue.”
Elias catches my eye from the doorway. He doesn’t say anything else, but his expression is tight, jaw working. He doesn’t like this. Good. At least one of them has a conscience, even if it’s useless.
The room itself is beautiful, which makes it worse.
A double bed with what looks like soft sheets and a quilt so thick and plush I want to crawl inside it and never come out.
The room itself is simple with no clutter, but the warm woodsy colour palette makes it feel sorta cozy.
Against the east wall is a large curtained window I won’t be able to reach thanks to this chain, and next to the bed is an en-suite bathroom with an actual door.
How considerate.
I yank against the cuff again, testing the slack. The chain gives me just enough to reach the bed and the bathroom. Enough to survive. Not enough to escape.
“You can wash up,” Darius says. “And put those clothes in the trash. We’ll give you something clean of ours to wear until we can find something that fits.”
They exit without another word, but the bedroom door stays wide open. My chain isn’t long enough to close it. The bathroom at least has its own door, but I’m chained like an animal, fury burning white-hot inside me.
But the bathroom is right there.
Hot water.
Soap.
“It better be lavender, vanilla, or some fruity shit,” I yell. No way in hell I’m washing with their stuff. I don’t want to smell like alpha turd.
I can’t remember the last time I had a proper shower. Tugging the chain taut, I step into the bathroom and catch my reflection in the mirror.
Fuck. I look feral.
Matted hair falls past my waist. Dirt smudges my face, and my expression is fierce and untamed. I look older than twenty-one. I resemble my sister, but where Sophie’s eyes were kind, mine are cold.
I move back to the bedroom. “Hey, assholes! Can one of you fuckers get in here?”
Elias appears in the doorway. “What?”
I point to my tangled mane. “Cut it off. Up to here.” I hold my hand in the middle of my back.
His brows raise, but he goes and grabs a pair of scissors from the kitchen and returns. He grips a lock of my hair and hacks through it, matted brown locks falling to the floor.
“There,” he says after placing the scissors beyond my reach. “Looks good.”
I don’t answer. I stomp back to the bathroom and slam the door in his face. But it bounces back open because my chain doesn’t allow it to close all the way. His face reappears, grinning wider.
I snap.
I make a run for him and jump, my legs wrapping around his waist. He’s so surprised that his hands go straight to my ass, holding me up. He doesn’t even notice I’m wrapping the chain around his neck until it’s too late.
His eyes bulge as I squeeze with everything I’ve got.
“Take that, motherfucker,” I hiss.
Just a little longer and he’ll pass out. I’ll grab the keys and run. I won’t get that shower, but priorities.
I squeeze harder, and to my satisfaction, he starts turning red.
But something is off. Even as I’m choking the life out of him, he’s still gripping my ass and grinding himself against me.
It’s strange as fuck.
“I’m trying to kill you, asshole. Why is your dick hard?”
Someone clears their throat.
Archer is leaning against the bedroom doorframe, completely unfazed by the sight of me trying to choke out his buddy. He looks at us with the same mild expression you’d give someone who’d burnt the toast.
“Elias there loves to be asphyxiated. Makes him all hard. Keep going, and he’ll come on your leg.”
I look down at Elias. He’s turning blue, but he’s still grinning, and for emphasis, he grinds himself against me one more time. I can feel the impressive length and heat of him through his pants.
I scatter away from him so fast I nearly trip over my chain.
Elias finally takes a breath, bent double, gasping. Then he looks up at me with that stupid grin.
“Fuck, that was hot,” he wheezes.
I stare at him. I stare at Archer. I stare back at Elias.
“You’re all fucking insane,” I say, and slam the bathroom door. It bounces open again because of the chain, and I howl in frustration.
Archer’s face appears in the gap. He holds up a finger as if he’s about to say something, sees my expression, and wisely walks away.
I turn the shower on as hot as it will go. Steam billows, fogging the mirror. I step under the spray, and the heat sears my skin.
But god, it feels good.
Three years of cold creek baths. Three years of never being truly clean. I tilt my head back and let the water pour over my hair, my face, into my mouth. I swallow it down, greedy for it, letting the heat soak into muscles that haven’t been properly warm in longer than I can remember.
The chain clanks against the side of the tub when I reach for the soap—a sharp, metallic reminder of where I am and why.
“Fucking bastards!” I scrub at my skin, hard, determined to wash away every last trace of dirt and grime. The soap is luxurious and smells like peaches. Part of me wants to hate it. The rest of me groans because it feels so good to be clean.
“You pricks can’t keep me here forever, even if you have soap that smells like peaches!” I shout.
I roughly comb my fingers through my hair, trying to work the tangles out. My fingers catch and snag, and the hair pulls sharply at my scalp.
And then it hits me.
All of it. The full weight of everything that’s happened, everything I’ve been holding back for three years, everything I’ve lost. It falls on me all at once, and my knees buckle.
I blame the soap.
I crumple to the bottom of the tub, arms wrapped around myself, water pounding against my back.
The tears come before I can stop them. Not gentle, quiet tears.
These are ugly. Wrenching. The kind that comes from somewhere deep and broken, the kind I haven’t let out in years.
I don’t even care that they can all hear me.
It’s been building up so long that holding it back is impossible.
I cry for Sophie.
For the girl I used to be before everything went wrong.
For three years of cold and hunger and loneliness.
For every night I slept on the ground and told myself it was enough to be free.
It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.
The water runs cold, and the shock of it snaps me out of it.
I snarl, twisting the taps off, and haul myself upright.
The chain clanks against the porcelain. I grab a towel, soft and fluffy and infuriating, and dry myself roughly.
Refusing to enjoy it even though my skin has never felt anything this soft.
I stalk out of the bathroom, leaving wet footprints behind me. A pile of clothes sits on the bed—an oversized t-shirt, boxer shorts, socks. The door has been pulled halfway closed, giving me a little dignity. I snatch them up and dress quickly.
Then I grab my pack and shuffle through it, making sure they didn’t take anything while I wasn’t looking.
I pull back the covers and crawl into the bed, wrapping myself in the sheets. It’s a weakness, this small surrender to comfort. But I need my strength for what comes next.
I close my eyes and picture the forest.
The green. The quiet. The freedom.
Sleep pulls at me. I fight it, thrashing against the sheets, the chain rattling with every movement.
The bed is too soft. Too warm. Everything about this place is designed to make me forget what I am to them and what they’ve done.
My body sinks into the mattress, craving the comfort even as my mind screams at me to stay sharp.
“Fuck,” I say into the pillow. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I can’t let them break me, not with soap and soft sheets and hot water and a bed that feels like sleeping on a cloud.
I dream of a girl in a cave, alone, who forgot what it felt like to be warm.