10. Easy
Easy
Isla
After two weeks of this nonsense, the daily hour of training finally stops hurting quite as badly. I still barely manage to get myself up the stairs, but at least afterwards, I don't need to lie on the floor and will my legs to stop burning.
"You're getting stronger," Eamon comments before I reach my bedroom door.
"Yeah?" I breathe out, not daring to stop walking in case I can't start again.
He mhmm's, continuing, "Your punches and kicks are landing a lot harder than they were even a few days ago. It's not surprising that you recover and build muscle a lot faster than most mortals, but it is making this easier."
"Easier for who?" I laugh. "Not for me, definitely." Turning to face him, I find him standing far closer than I thought he was.
He grins, "With as hard as I push you, the fact that you can walk is nothing short of a miracle."
I mock gasp, "I thought you were going easy on me."
His gaze travels my face for the smallest second, and I feel that exploration all over my body, heat filling my veins at how he looks at me— like he needed to soak up just a moment of this easy conversation.
"If you keep this up, I might consider taking you to the baby shower," the words slip out of his mouth, and he seems as surprised by them as I am.
"Really?" The first spark of hope fills my chest.
He nods, thinking it over wholly, "There would need to be rules, of course. But if you keep progressing atthe rate you are, a long weekend under my constant supervision wouldn't be out of the question."
My eyes nearly water from the prospect of getting out of this hellhole for even just a couple days. I can't speak past the lump in my throat, just nodding, willing to agree to whatever he asks of me if he would allow me to see my friends.
A soft, warm smile lifts the corner of his lips, a sweet boyishness in his eyes as he peers down at me, the two of us not at war with each other for just a moment.
The proximity and vulnerability in his gaze leave me frozen in terror. He can't look at me like that, and I can't like it. This is still a hostage situation, and I'm still the fucking hostage. No matter how many times he encourages me, no matter the food and the coffee and the clothes and the training and the promises of a temporary reprieve, at the end of the day he still stole me and locked me away from my life.
He must see the change in mood written across my face, a mask of indifference falling over his own as he looks toward the kitchen. "You'll be on your own for lunch today. Since you never made me the list I asked you for, you'll have to make do with whatever is in there already."
"Where will you be?" I ask.
"Out."
Then he walks away, leaving me both pissed and relieved that he left before any more comradery could try to grow between us.
The workday floats by with little to no excitement. During lunch, I make myself a little sandwich and grab a bag of potato chips, laughing to myself because Eamon would be pissed if he saw what kind of meal I make for myself when he's not here to babysit me.
I finish my day, meetings and numbers and boring bullshit nearly putting me to sleep until I can finally close my computer and shut off my brain.
Without Eamon here to boss me around and tell me what to do, the only thing that really appeals to me is crawling into bed and waiting for tomorrow to come. I haven't had a quiet moment to think about everything he told me about the Sanctum and what would happen to me if they got ahold of me, unwilling to face the horrible situation I'm in.
He says I've made it worse by poking the bear, but how much worse could it be than what he's already told me? A blood fountain and a baby-making machine are about as bleak of a future as it gets.
When I think about my future, the person beside me changes constantly, but the few constants for me were a house on the coast someday and a couple of kids running around splashing and surfing. Motherhood always seemed like an inevitability, one that I looked forward to, one that I wanted.
Staring at my bed and considering sleep, I know I won't be successful with the headspace I'm in now. I'll be trapped there staring at the ceiling, thinking about all the futures I've imagined with the people I've dated. Sharon, who promised me a wedding in Italy before she changed her mind when she realized my career would always come first. Stan, who begged me for a second chance after I caught him in my bed with his yoga instructor.
There were countless others, some who stayed long enough to get me into bed, some who didn't. As soon as someone saw the real me, something drove them away. The only explanation is that it's just me.
No. We are not doing this today.
I change into my comfiest—and only clean pair of pajamas since I'm alone tonight and haven't had a chance to ask Eamon where I can do laundry. I don't even have any clean socks left, padding around with bare, freezing feet.
A quick dart into the kitchen brings me face to face with the only thing that's brought me any solace in this dank, damp hell.
Tequila.
The spread of tacos next to it that definitely weren't there an hour ago is barely a blip on my radar, even as the steam radiates off of them, perfectly fresh and hot. Eamon was here. Just long enough to drop off food and leave again. Weird.
Maybe he's avoiding me as much as I wish I could avoid him. But where the fuck do I get to escape to when he gets to be too much?
With one hand carrying the tequila and my phone in the other, I look at the couch I haven't touched since arriving. Eamon said I'm not a prisoner. Everything out here is at my disposal. I've seen him watching enough hockey to last a million lifetimes; how hard could the projector be to use?
A note next to the remote draws my attention, and I find Eamon's harsh, sloping handwriting.
BIG REMOTE: PROJECTOR
SMALL REMOTE: SMART TV CONTROL
EAT FIRST.
A small smile forces its way onto my mouth, and I try to hold back a laugh. How well he knows me after the few weeks I've been here is almost terrifying.
With a little more enthusiasm, I wander back into the kitchen for the food, taking a bite and thanking the gods above that somehow, in this wasteland, I can still have the world's best tacos. Under any other circumstance, this place would be heaven. I have a man—well, sort of— who cooks and brings me food constantly without me even having to ask. I work in isolation, no noisy neighbors fucking and banging their bed against the wall right where I'm on a conference call. I have access to a plethora of dangerous weapons downstairs should I need them.
After the delicious tacos and an hour of brainless reality TV, I start to wonder what else is downstairs. He only showed me the one room, but he said everything here is at my disposal. Does that mean every room? Did he just mean the common areas up here?
I'm sure if something was off-limits, he would have said so. He doesn't strike me as the type to mince words. Or maybe that's just the tequila making me feel a little reckless.
Try as I might, I can't focus on the TV any longer, the draw of what else might exist in this place getting stronger and stronger as the drinks I pour do. He said I would be alone for lunch but didn't say how long he would be gone. Dropping off dinner makes me think he isn't planning on coming back anytime soon. I could very easily do a little exploring. And if he catches me, I'll just explain that he never said I couldn't look around down there.
Abandoning the tequila and my phone, I slowly creep towards the terrifying staircase. Every time I see it, the survival instinct in my brain screams danger, the pitch black seeming like it's trying to reach up and swallow me whole.
Even with the lightness in my head, it scares me.
But I've faced far scarier things than the dark, so I proceed, freezing my toes on the metal as it groans an ominous warning.
One I'm obviously going to ignore.