Chapter Seven - Elise
CHAPTER SEVEN
Elise
Sunlight hits my eyes, and I roll over in bed, burying my face in the soft pillow and hoping to fall back asleep. I’m on the brink of consciousness when my thoughts catch up to me.
Sunlight? Soft pillow? I open my eyes, and a shooting pain pierces my head. I quickly shut them and take a deep breath before trying again.
Slower this time, I ease my eyes open. It hurts at first, but as I blink, the pain dulls, and I take in my surroundings.
I’m in a new room, though this layout is similar to the last. The bed is still against the right wall, the bathroom on the left, and the door that leads out of here is on the far wall that I face now.
Only, in this room, the wall behind my bed isn’t empty.
There’s a window allowing sunshine to spill into the small space.
Drywall replaces the prison-like concrete from before, all painted light gray aside from the wall that holds the window, which is a rich burgundy.
A table occupies the corner between the bathroom and exit, with two chairs on either side.
The dresser is also a new addition, and it looks to be made out of marble or some other heavy stone.
On top of it is a stack of books—all classics—a small elephant statue and an alarm clock.
An alarm clock.
Just knowing that it’s 9 a.m. makes me feel like a human again.
I climb out of bed, my bare feet hitting wooden floors instead of cement, and I rush to the window. My heart drops when I see the heavily gated courtyard before me. The lush garden is vast and absolutely beautiful, but it’s still a cage.
I walk into the bathroom and gasp as I look in the mirror for the first time since my kidnapping.
I look disastrous.
My thick blonde hair is a tangled mess, and my body looks worse than I imagined. Dark bruises cover my arms and legs, though they’ve had days to heal. My clothes are bloodied, and the various tears make the fabric nearly see-through.
Not only is there a shower, but there’s also a beautiful bathtub that looks more like a small hot tub. To my utter shock, both the shower and bath are decked out with various soaps, salts, scrubs, razors, and loofas.
I’m relieved to finally be in a room that makes me feel more like a person than a prisoner, but there’s no mistaking it: no matter how beautiful the room is, it’ll always be a prison.
I don’t even consider trying to open the door—I know it won’t budge.
I want to shower, so I check the drawers for any clothes. To my continued surprise, it’s full of T-shirts, sweatpants, shorts, jeans, bras, and underwear. They’re all modest and close enough to my size.
After picking out a plain black shirt and gray sweatpants, I step into the shower before the water is fully warmed up, afraid someone will walk in on me if I take too long. The hot water stings against my cut and bruised body, but the ease it brings to my tense muscles makes it worth it.
I decide on a whim to shave my legs as best I can, hoping it’ll give me some comfort since I don’t normally let the hair grow as long as it is. As I start to shave, I realize that, in this new room, I have access to razors, small statues, and heavy drawers.
Maybe it’ll be enough to escape…
Drying my body is a painful experience. Most of my cuts re-open, and by the time I’m finished, the towel is speckled with blood. The clothes I wore here lay on the floor, looking more like dirty rags than my once-favorite outfit. I stuff them into a small trash bin under the sink.
Within thirty minutes of stepping into the shower, I’m dressed in clean clothes with damp, brushed hair. I haven’t felt this much like myself in… I don’t know how long it’s been.
The sound of the lock clicking sends ice through my veins. I take a seat on the far end of the bed, knees to my chest, arms wrapped around them.
It’s morning, so I assume it’s just another goon bringing me breakfast, but when Moreno enters, my heart drops. Blood rushes to my face at the horrifying memory of puking on his shoes.
Oh, please don’t let him punish me for that.
He steps into the room, holding a tray of food.
Real food.
Nothing like the bland oatmeal and bread I’ve been eating for a week. This tray is full of bacon, eggs, fruit, and a cup full of steaming coffee. I’m practically drooling when he places the tray on the table.
I wait for him to leave, but he sits instead, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Take a seat.”
My stomach turns at the idea of being anywhere near him. There’s no way I can throw up again, right? My excitement for food urges me to run over, but fear of being so close to this man begs me to stay put.
I slowly shake my head, but even that simple motion elicits pain. “I’m okay over here.”
“I wasn’t asking. Sit.”
I do, but only because I need that food, not because of his order.
Being so close to him makes me nervous, but a small (and stupid) part of my brain reminds me of the last time we sat like this.
Our date.
Embarrassment brings a shameful tear to my eye. I lower my head in hopes of hiding my weakness.
“Eat.” He pushes the tray closer to me.
I eye the food, but him being here makes me feel sick all over again. “I’d like to—”
“Elise, look at me when you’re speaking to me.” His words are unmistakably an order, though his tone is controlled.
I glare up at him, but that’s when the tear escapes.
I’m sure I look as pathetic as I feel.
Moreno raises his hand toward my face, and I flinch. His hand freezes in the air, expression purely analytic. I take a deep breath, and his hand slowly continues toward me until his finger gently wipes away the single tear from my cheek.
“You were saying?”
The tender action has me at a momentary loss for words, but I finally get my thoughts in order. “I’d like to wait until I’m alone to eat.”
I’m surprised by his small smile. “I have no intentions of hurting you, so you can calm down. If you eat, I’ll play nice. Deal?”
I shouldn’t trust a single word he says, but the food looks so delicious, and he seems genuine enough, so I nod.
He leans his head to one side like he’s waiting for something.
A response, of course.
I clear my throat and reach for a piece of bacon. “Deal.”
“Good girl,” he says with a nod. I narrow my eyes, but that only seems to amuse him.“How are you feeling?”
“Huh?”
“After your fall, how do you feel?” There’s an uncharacteristic tenderness to his tone. I wonder if he’s mocking me, but his expression is thoughtful.
“Not great,” I answer honestly.
Moreno nods. “The doctor said a headache is normal, but he didn’t seem concerned about a concussion. He said malnourishment is the only reason you lost consciousness.”
He had a doctor come to check on me? Unfortunately, the gesture isn’t enough to ease my bitterness.
“And whose fault is that?”
He ignores the jab, which is probably for the best.
“Now, the real reason I’m here,” he starts. “You have questions, and I’ve decided to give you a chance to ask them. Of course, there are things I won’t tell you, but I’m giving you this opportunity to ask what you want without fear of being harmed.”
He leans back in his chair as if he’s bestowed upon me the offer of a lifetime. I’m sure he thinks he has, but I’m not so easily won over. I refuse to be a Stockholm Syndrome victim just because of a scenery change.
Accepting the potential repercussions, I sit up straighter and cut my eyes at him. “How very kind of you.”
“Watch it, Princess. My generosity is limited.”
“Generosity?” My laugh is bitter as I push to my feet.
“That’s what this is? After days of captivity, starving, and beating, I’m supposed to be grateful for the chance to ask why the hell you’re doing this to me?
If you think for one second that a nicer room and real food make up for the hell you’ve put me through, then you’re not just cruel. You’re stupid.”
A storm rages just behind those brown eyes, and anger mars every crease of his face.
Suddenly, I’m not feeling so brave anymore.
He stands so fast the chair flies back, tipping over and crashing to the floor.
“You know what I think?” He leans his hands on the table and lowers his head to my eye level.
My heart is racing, and I silently accept that I’m about to feel a lot of pain.
“I think the princess needs a time-out.”
I don’t have time to be confused by his words because before I know it, he’s swept me up over his shoulder and thrown me onto the bed. I scramble as far from him as I can, but he doesn’t seem to mind because he’s too busy… taking off his belt.
I didn’t even consider the other kinds of torture I might face here.
Fear paralyzes me. He can do whatever he wants. No one would hear me, and even if they could, they wouldn’t care.
“Wait, d-don’t,” I stutter through trembling lips.
It’s pathetic, but it’s all I can do.
He ignores my plea and grabs my wrists, using his belt to secure them to the headboard. By the time he’s done, I’m effectively trapped, arms raised uncomfortably above my head.
I expect him to continue to shed clothing, but he doesn’t.
Instead, he picks up the tray and sets it at the base of the bed. Right where I can see and smell it, but just far enough away from my toes that it’s hopelessly out of reach.
He steps back and smiles to himself. “I think this will be good for you—maybe teach you some manners.” His eyes roam my body, not bothering to conceal the hunger there, and my cheeks flush bright red.
“Go to hell, you sick bastard,” I bite out.
His smile widens, and he leans in until our noses are inches apart.
“You’re in hell, Princess, and I’m in charge.”
With his face so close, I make the reckless decision to swing my head forward, hoping to catch his nose with my forehead. He pulls away just in time to miss being hit, and my head throbs from the motion.
“You just added an hour to your time.”
My eyes widen, and my voice jumps an octave. “An hour? You can’t leave me here that long!”
“Watch me,” he says, not bothering to look back at me as he walks out the door.
The alarm clock turns out to be more of a curse than a blessing. At least before, I didn’t realize how slow time was moving. Now, all I can do is watch each grueling minute pass by.
It’s been two hours and thirty-six minutes since he left me here.
My shoulders stopped burning in agony forty-three minutes ago and are now numb.
The food is, no doubt, cold now, but its alluring scent still mocks me with every breath I take.
My stomach is aching, and my eyes droop with the exhaustion of facing nonstop pain.
I don’t even react when I hear the turn of the door handle. I don’t have the energy. He sets something on the table, but I don’t bother looking to see what it is.
I figure now is as good a time as any to get the answers I want.
“Why did you change my room?”
I hear steps and finally look up to find him grabbing the chair he knocked over earlier. He flips it around and straddles it, hands resting on the back of the chair. “I wasn’t sure how much longer you were going to survive in those conditions. Well, that and I don’t want to keep buying new shoes.”
I roll my eyes. I only ruined one pair.
I consider asking what he wants from my father, but it wouldn’t change anything, and I doubt he would tell me anyway. “Where am I?”
“Watch the eye-rolling.” He doesn’t sound angry, simply informative. The ease with which he speaks to me like a child should piss me off, but I’m too tired to care.
“Okay,” I whisper. “I won’t do it anymore, but answer my question.”
My compliance seems to catch him off guard. Opening his mouth to speak, he’s interrupted by my growling stomach. It’s not the first time it’s happened in the past two hours and forty-three minutes, so I don’t react.
Sighing, he rises from the chair and makes his way toward me. Even in my exhausted state, I process this as a danger. My heart rate kicks up again, and I’m on alert, but he simply reaches to untie my hands.
I stay quiet, reluctant to give him any reason to keep me restrained.
Once my hands are freed and he’s returned to straddling the chair, I slowly lower my arms. They’re sore but feel better the more I stretch them. A feeling of gratitude washes over me at being free, but I reject it.
He’s the one causing my suffering. It is not kindness that he releases me from it. It’s a game, and I refuse to play.
“You should eat,” he suggests. “It’s cold, but it’s still food.”
I pull the tray closer to me. The scrambled eggs and bacon are chilled, but I still scarf them down, then the fruit, and lastly, I down the mug of room-temperature coffee.
He regards me as I eat and finally answers my question. “We’re at one of my bases. You don’t need to know anything more than that.”
I drink the last of the coffee as he stands, turns the chair to face me, and gestures to it.
“Sit. I’m going to treat some of your wounds.” He crosses his arms, waiting for me to obey.
I consider my options. Logically, there’s no point in opposing. Sure, there’s a chance he’ll hurt me, but that chance becomes a guarantee if I stay put.
I silently climb off the bed and take a seat.
He grabs the item he put down on the table when he entered—a first aid kit. Pulling out some sort of cream, he begins to apply it to my aching wrists. The cool sensation feels heavenly on my burning skin.
“Second drawer on the right has shorts in it. Go change, and I’ll treat the cuts on your legs.”
Grabbing a pair of shorts, I walk into the bathroom and close the door behind me, exiting within seconds wearing cotton shorts. As I return to the chair, a very silly part of me is grateful that I shaved today.
My thighs are a mess. Various shades of blue and purple create a horrific picture, though it does look better since my shower.
He grabs the supplies and sets them on the floor, tending to my legs. His fingers work gently across my skin, effectively distracting me from my pain. Everywhere he touches, my skin tingles, but I scold myself each time.
I can’t let him have any more power over me than he already does.
“Why am I still here? I thought I was going home soon.”
“Things have changed,” he says, looking up to meet my eyes. “The plan was to exchange you for what we want from your father. Obviously, that can’t happen now.”
“What do you mean ‘that can’t happen now’?”
He studies my expression like he’s waiting for me to come to some conclusion. “You didn’t think you could just go home, did you? After knowing what you do? What did you expect?”
What did I expect? I guess I figured that I’d go home, and my snake of a brother would have to step up and pay for his betrayal.
I realize now how foolish that was to believe.
Of course they can’t let me go. An inside man is far more valuable than a hostage. If I go home, Mason’s secret is out, and he’s no longer useful to them.
So, where does that leave me?
My breath catches as the realization hits me. “You’re going to kill me.”