Chapter 8
SKYLAR
“Hey. Hey.”
A rough hand shakes my shoulder, and I try to shove it away.
I want to stay curled up against the bathroom wall under the blanket.
There’s a reason I want to stay asleep, but I can’t quite remember…
The hand is rougher this time, yanking me until I’m sitting upright.
I meet a pair of wild bloodshot eyes, and everything comes rushing back.
I turn my head, squeezing my eyes shut and bracing for whatever is to come.
How long have I been here now? I’ve lost count of the days.
My right arm is sore from where he’s taken my blood. He’s done it three times now. Today will be the fourth.
“No,” I murmur, crossing my arms around my chest. “Please.”
I just want to sleep, using the dim buzzing of the bathroom light as a lullaby.
“No, this is good,” my captor says quickly, shaking my shoulder. “I promise. It’s really good. I want you to come see.”
He sounds excited.
I’m too weak to protest when he pulls me to my feet. I stumble and lean on his shoulder for support as he wraps an arm around me.
I don’t want to touch him. The chemical scent of his fake Alpha pheromones causes my head to spin.
I start reciting recipes in my head.
Vanilla buttercream: five egg yolks, one cup of butter, one teaspoon of vanilla?—
The chain rattles as he leads me back through the dingy room and the open door.
It’s an illusion of an escape.
The chain keeps me captive here no matter how far past my room he leads me.
We stop just past the doorway, and I take in my surroundings.
I’m in a mobile home, with the same faux-wood paneling spreading across the walls. A kitchenette is a few feet in front of me, and to the right I see an open living space with a television on a dusty table. It faces a stained blue sofa with cushions haphazardly arranged. To the left is a shut door, which I assume is his bedroom.
The coffee table in front of the sofa is covered in small plastic bags. A digital scale sits on the end of it.
I swallow and turn my gaze away.
Another digital scale sits next to the stove. A glass baking tray full of…something is next to it.
“Look,” he says as he leads me to the cramped kitchen space. I make it to the cheap cream linoleum tiles before the chain pulls taut. “Look.”
Slowly, he opens the dingy fridge.
It’s empty besides a few condiments in the door and some beers.
And the vials of blood he’s taken from me, stacked neatly next to each other.
This is a horror movie.
My mouth falls open as he pats my shoulder. “Yours is the best,” he adds, shaking me a bit. “The best. You’re the purest batch of O on the market.”
It finally clicks.
He’s been making O from my blood.
The glass bakeware next to the stove, the scale on the coffee table…
“No,” I whisper in disbelief, meeting his eyes.
He grins and puts his mouth to my ear. “You’re my cash cow,” he whispers, his breath sending an awful chill down my spine. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me into some sort of awkward hug that I don’t reciprocate. “We’re rich.”
We.
I breathe in his scent and want to cry.
“You can’t keep taking my blood,” I murmur, my voice cracking.
I’ll die.
What if there’s more demand than he can keep up with?
“It’s okay, Skylar, really,” he insists, and my stomach turns when he uses my name. I don’t realize I’m crying until he reaches up and wipes a tear from my cheek. “Hey. I promise. I won’t hurt you.”
My arm still stings from his last prick.
“I used to be a phlebotomist,” he adds, as if that makes it better. “Every time I draw blood, it’s with a clean, disposable needle.”
I don’t want to be in the kitchen anymore. This is the most he’s bothered to talk to me, and the longer I’m with him, the worse it makes me feel.
The bathroom wall seems like heaven now.
I need to be anywhere but near him.
This monster that’s turning my blood into drugs.
He finally lets me go, and I take a small step back from him.
The grin doesn’t leave his face, though. His eyes are delighted, and he’s beaming at me.
“Can I have suppressants?” I ask softly.
I’ve put off requesting them. I figured the answer would be no, but my body is starting to feel the effects of being without them for so long.
Aches. Chills.
Extreme fatigue.
But now that he’s in such a great mood at my expense, maybe he could show an iota of kindness in this fucked up situation.
His face falls, and the small amount of hope I had dies.
He shakes his head. “It’ll ruin the batches,” he says, as if it’s obvious.
I blink.
He shrugs.
“If I have the medication I need, it will ruin your batches,” I repeat slowly, testing out the words.
They don’t feel real.
“Sorry,” he says, grinning sheepishly and raking his hair through his fingers. “You understand though, right? You’re not mad at me?” He takes a step forward, his arm outstretched, and I jump back, the chain rattling.
His pupils are huge.
“Don’t be mad at me, Skylar,” he insists, an edge of hysteria in his voice. “Am I not doing enough for you?”
Oh, no.
I shake my head. “No, you are,” I say softly, doing my best to placate him.
His mood swings are terrifying.
“I give you a room all to yourself, I take care of you, and you’re going to give me attitude about this?” He grabs my arm and tugs me back to him, and I stumble into his chest, bracing my hands against him.
“No,” I croak. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m so sorry.”
Nausea rolls in my stomach as I say it. My hands shake as they press against his hard chest, terror spiking in my nervous system.
“I just want you to like me, Skylar,” he whines, his bloodshot eyes filling with tears as I stare at him in shock. His mood has changed dramatically, and it gives me whiplash. “I don’t want to make you upset.”
It realize it’s the desperation for O that is making him this way.
His hands squeeze my shoulders. “I want us to be friends,” he whispers, his eyes searching mine frantically.
I can’t stop trembling. “We can do that,” I breathe, willing my heartbeat to slow.
I’ll say anything I need to, as long as he stays calm. It’s a strategy I learned when dealing with Jason. I’d rather placate him than escalate a situation.
This is so messed up, an inner part of me says.
“Okay,” he says, breathing deeply. “Okay.”
Then he releases my shoulders and steps back from me. He runs a hand through his hair and groans.
“Fuck…sorry,” he adds, squeezing his eyes shut. “Shit, I’m sorry…I’m going to have to lock you in your room again.”
My heart sinks, but I nod.
I take one last look around, memorizing everything I can. The view from the kitchen window gives away nothing—all I see are some trees in the distance and dark, lush ground.
It’s the same with the window near the television.
I have no idea where we are.
Depending on how long I was in the trunk, we may not even be in California anymore.
A tear slips down my cheek, but he keeps his distance as I walk back into the room. I curl up in my spot against the bathroom wall and sob quietly once I hear him lock the door.
I learnto deal with the mood swings.
“My name is John,” he announces the next time he brings me food. He’s dressed in a brown sweatshirt and grey sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower.
If it weren’t for his bloodshot eyes and crazed look, I would think he’s decent looking.
But his mannerisms are off. They’re wrong.
He’s high on O.
“I really like your name,” he babbles on, placing a tray of food on the bathroom counter. “Skylar. It’s like the sky. And the sky is really beautiful.”
I nod weakly. “Thanks.”
“I don’t want to have sex with you or anything,” he blurts out. “I’m not going to do that. I don’t want you to think I’m going to do that.”
“I appreciate it,” I murmur, as I feel a small surge of relief.
I have no idea what else I should say.
I wish he would just leave.
He stays in the bathroom for an uncomfortably long time, and I stare at the tile, refusing to give him the attention he wants. I drink from the water bottle he gives me, not entirely sure that he isn’t drugging it to keep me sedated.
The days continue that way.
I eat, drink, and sleep. He takes my blood, then tries to initiate conversation.
My withdrawals from the suppressants grow.
Sometimes he’s angry, and I can hear him yelling over the phone through the door. Once the conversation is over, he’ll stomp into the bathroom, draw more of my blood, then leave.
Other times, he’s overjoyed. He’ll talk about nothing of importance, and I pretend to listen.
He brings me baggy sweatshirts and lounge pants to change into, so I’m not stuck in the same clothes every day. I do my best to act appreciative and let him live in his delusion. When he’s not in the room, I use the shower at lightning speed; keeping myself relatively clean with the bar of soap he’s provided.
Finally, I’m given a time frame.
“You’ve been here almost a month,” he says, perching on the closed toilet. He nudges my knee with his sneaker. “I think I’m doing a great job of taking care of you.”
He’s in one of his good moods, so I try my best to give him a smile. I’m sure it comes out like a grimace.
A month.
A month of no suppressants.
Weeks of being in this windowless room, sleeping against a bathroom wall.
Weeks since I’ve heard from Landon or River.
When I think about them, the breath leaves my lungs.
Are they looking for me? Or am I just another Omega on the long list of missing persons?
Sorrow overtakes me, my heart breaking every time I think of them.
They’ve forgotten me.
They don’t want me.
I wonder if Vincent even remembers me.
My mating gland is sore and angry with neglect.
The fake pheromones that my captor—John—wearsmake my head spin.
“What do you think?” he asks suddenly, snapping me out of my train of thought.
“What?” I croak.
“Do you think I’m doing a good job? I could take care of an Omega, right? I’m taking care of you. Am I doing a good job?” He fires off his questions at a rapid pace, looking down at me with wide eyes.
I place my hand on my forehead, groaning.
“Oh shit, I’ll get you some aspirin. Shit,” he hisses, jumping up and stomping out of the bathroom. He curses to himself as he hurries out of the room.
I grimace and sit up, placing my head in my hands.
Nausea rolls in my gut.
“I could take care of an Omega, right?”
There’s something obvious I’m missing.
Yes, he’s a drug manufacturer, but there’s more to it.
Why does he want to smell like an Alpha so badly?
My head is killing me, I’m cold, and I can’t stay awake for long.
As I drift back to sleep, it finally clicks.
He wants an Omega of his own.