Chapter 5
SKYLAR
I tryto count the days.
But the room has no windows, and the yellow artificial light always stays on.
When he brings me sustenance, it’s sporadic.
Some crackers here. A piece of bread there.
And every time I hear the shuffle of steps and the opening of the door, I stay behind the wall in the bathroom.
I try to stay calm.
Thankfully, I always have access to water from the sink, so I cup my hands and drink greedily throughout the day.
Crying only gives me a headache, and it wastes precious energy.
So, I spend my time sleeping, because that’s all I can do.
I rest curled up in a ball between the shower and the toilet, wrapped in the scratchy, musty blanket.
At least I have some barrier between me and him.
To stay sane, I count the linoleum tiles.
I count the cracks in the plaster.
I memorize recipes.
And I do my best not to think of April, Tammy, Landon, or River.
But sometimes I do.
Landon and River show up in my dreams, so vivid I could swear they’re real.
Then I wake up disoriented in a grimy bathroom and fight the tears.
I count the number of times I’ve slept.
By the time ten sleep cycles finish, I still don’t know what my Beta captor wants from me.
It wouldn’t make sense to just keep me here, would it?
And it’s so cold.
I only have the clothes I was wearing from that night—my pink sweatpants and grey sweatshirt.
My socks are missing, and I think I know why.
He’s keeping me cold and weak on purpose. I’ve been able to wash up quickly in the shower—scrubbing the grime off me in less than a minute each time. But there’s no towel to dry myself with. I shiver in the bathroom and bundle up in the rough blanket until my teeth stop chattering.
The chain makes me his captive—but not having enough energy to do anything is another way of keeping me compliant.
But why?
“Eat and drink. And stay quiet. That’s all you need to do.”
I nod off again, staying curled up in a ball for warmth.
I finally figure outwhat he wants from me.
It has to have been at least two weeks by now. I sleep more than I’m awake. My appetite is gone and the food he leaves me sits untouched on the bathroom counter.
I hear the door unlock and the sound of his footsteps, but I don’t have the energy to move. My face is pressed into the wall and my back aches from laying on my side awkwardly, but I try to force myself to fall back asleep even though I can sense him in the bathroom with me.
If I’m asleep, he can’t make me eat.
And all I want to do is sleep.
But rough hands grasp my shoulders and roll me until I’m facing him, and I yelp in pain. I scramble away on my butt until my back hits the wall, my eyes wide with fear as I meet his face. I wrap my arms around my knees and curl into a ball, trying to create as much space between us as possible.
His eyes are bloodshot and glassy as he gazes at me. He’s mere inches from me, sitting on his knees with his hands on his thighs. “Give me your arm,” he says.
That’s when I notice what’s on the linoleum floor next to him.
A sealed syringe. Vials. A cotton ball. A tourniquet.
And a roll of blue medical tape.
I freeze.
I’m not above begging. Whatever he wants to do is not happening.
“It’s new,” he assures me, as if that’s my worry. “You won’t get infected.”
I’m pinned between him and the wall, and I barely have time to struggle before he yanks my arm. He grips me hard enough to bruise, and I whimper as I struggle.
This isn’t happening.
“Please,” I gasp, tears filling my eyes. “Please don’t do whatever you’re about to do.”
“Shut up,” he hisses, far too close to me. “Or I’ll make it hurt.”
Leaning over me, he wraps the tourniquet around my upper arm, squeezing tightly.
“Make a fist,” he orders, still holding my arm out.
“Please don’t make me?—”
“Cooperate, and I’ll tell you where she is,” he throws out casually.
I freeze, unsure if I heard him correctly.
“What?” I whisper.
“April. Your friend, right?” he insists. His grip on my arm loosens as I slowly clench my fist. “I’ll tell you where she is.”
He could be lying. His eyes are crazed and his mood changes constantly. It could all be for nothing.
But if he isn’t…
“Stay still,” he says softly. I keep my gaze down on the scuffed tile, willing it to be over. He finds a vein easily, and tears silently drip down my cheeks as he draws my blood.
“You need to eat when I give you food,” he continues. He’s too close to me. His muted, artificial Alpha scent swirls around me, and it makes me nauseous.
When he’s finally done, he presses a cotton ball to my skin, holding it in place. Three vials of my blood sit on the floor next to my knee.
“She’s alive,” he says.
She’s alive.
April’s alive.
I want to believe him.
“Is she hurt?” I whisper.
“She’s kept like you,” he says simply.
I stare into his eyes, willing him to say more.
“Who has her?” I ask. “Why are you doing this to us? Why do you need my blood?”
His gaze is intense. “Your blood is liquid gold,” he says ominously.
I wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. Instead, he bandages the cotton to the inside of my arm with medical tape.
“Who has her?” I ask again. “Is she here?”
He shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “No, she’s not here. But she’s alive.”
He pulls away from me and stands up, leaving me pressed against the wall. “Besides,” he adds, as I look up at him. “It’s not like you’re getting out of here, anyway.” His sneaker taps the chain connected to my ankle. “So, you don’t need to worry about her.”
My heart sinks as he starts to walk away.
“Please,” I say, as black spots dance across my vision. “I need my suppressants.”
He stops at the ruined doorway and looks down at me. “No.”
I close my eyes and listen to him leave.
When the door to the bedroom shuts, I curl up into a ball and drape the blanket over me.
April’s alive.
And that will keep me going.