Chapter 5
5
T he enormous one stares at me with brown eyes that burrow into my aching skull.
Every inch of my skin crawls and itches. I want to claw at my own flesh until I peel away the layers that feel contaminated.
Every piece of me that was touched and handled or that came into contact with those foul people.
I want to shed it like a snake and peel it all away to reveal a pale, hollow carcass. Slithering on my belly to escape it all, leaving me to feel brand new.
I want to sit under a hot stream of water from the shower and sob until my lungs burst.
I want to scream at this man to leave me alone, and equally, I want to slap him for refusing to talk to me.
He sits watching me. Won’t ever leave. Even when I do yell at him, when I cry rivers of hot tears, rip at my hair, and threaten to stab all of them for what they've done to me.
Yet, he stays.
His massive shoulders fill the space beside my bed.
Impassive. Immovable. Silent.
Like I’ve been given a stone monolith to stand watch and ensure I don’t go anywhere.
Not that I fucking could, even if I wanted to.
I can’t see straight, let alone attempt to escape. My bones and teeth ache, with pain twisting through me like a knife that catches me off guard and blinds me with how quickly it can appear out of nowhere. Like it’s been heated over a flame until it glows violently orange, then plunged into my stomach.
He brings a straw to my mouth every now and then. Gets me to drink small sips of water when I’m gasping and so parched I want to lick my lips until they bleed.
I’ve soaked these sheets over and over. He simply picks me up, washes me off, and then remakes the bed with dry ones. I’ve long since stopped caring that he’s seeing me naked each time. Considering that I’m liable to retch bile and water onto his shoes at any given moment, I don’t think I give a fuck if he sees everything.
He’s seen it all before, anyway, back when I was naive enough to believe in some sort of fantasy.
The sheets he diligently replaces are coated in my sweat and misery again within hours, perhaps even minutes. All I’m capable of doing is clutching at the mattress and writhing as nausea rolls through me in wave after wave.
I hate him.
I hate them.
I hate myself.
My heavy lids creak open, and a groan gets stuck halfway up my throat. It’s a monumental effort to blink against the darkness. My lashes might as well be glued together.
When I finally peel my lids apart, I realize the room around me is pitch black, too.
How long have I been asleep?
A rustling comes from my left, so soft at first I think it must be my own legs against the comforter, then it comes again. Louder this time, and I jerk away from the direction of movement disguised by the dark.
This doesn’t feel like the cot bed on the floor. I can’t hear the noises of other girls restlessly occupying the mattresses lined up all around mine.
Warm, soft light flicks on, revealing that I’m no longer in that hell hole, but I don’t know where I am either. It’s disorienting. All I see is a giant man seated in the chair parked at my bedside who leans back after having switched on the lamp positioned next to the headboard.
I pull the soft blanket up around my chin, as he stares me down with the kind of silence that feels so oppressively loud.
At first, I don’t recognize him.
Then, patches of memory float into my mind’s eye. Of him clutching me against his chest like a ragdoll. My eyes lolling in my head, blinding glimpses of lights on the ceiling as he carried me along that sickening hallway of nightmares. The way he held me down while another man stuck a fucking needle in my arm.
And here he sits, less than two feet from my side, where he must have been lurking in the pitch black.
The fogginess plaguing my head appears to have finally lifted. For the first time in god knows how long, I feel like I’m in possession of my faculties, even if they’re a little rusty.
Why am I not at home? Or at a hospital? There are so many questions bubbling up that I can’t keep track of them.
Now, I can make out his features; the amber glow of the lamp serves to give me a proper look at who my latest captor might be.
My brain tries to take in details about this man who I get the sense—from piecing together what I do know—hasn’t left me alone the whole time I’ve been stuck in this damn bed.
Details I wasn’t able to focus on before are revealed in a pool of soft light and deep shadow. A strong jaw covered with a short beard. Brown skin and eyes like night. His long dark hair is pulled into a bun on top of his head, with loose pieces hanging haphazardly around his face, like he’s been repeatedly digging his hands into that tangled mess.
“Who are you?” It takes me a couple of attempts to get the words out. My throat feels like it’s torn to shreds and forgotten how to work.
That intense gaze continues to study me.
I shift against my pillows. He hasn’t launched an assault, or attempted to harm me the second I woke up, so why the hell is he just sitting here… staring?
“What do you want with me?”
The man still doesn’t respond.
Now I’m more awake. I feel a swirl of anger flaring in my blood. Rage bubbles up, hot and thick, for everything I’ve been through, and whatever the hell this person has done to me since then.
“Haven’t got anything to say? You think it’s ok to kidnap someone?”
He doesn’t respond, and I start to shift around, my fists balling in the sheets.
Instead of giving me anything in return, he leans to one side and picks up a silver thermos flask from a table beside his chair. When he cracks open the lid, a warming, rich scent blankets my tastebuds.
When did I last eat ?
My mouth begins to water instantly, and I’m already desperate for a hit of whatever that is because it smells heavenly. Except, that thought drags me back to the last time I accepted something from the hands of a stranger.
A sneer tugs on my lips. “You can get fucked if you think I’m the kind of dumb bitch who’ll accept anything from the likes of you.”
My stomach, however, does not get the memo that we don’t trust this giant seated at my bedside like some sort of gargoyle-nurse and immediately growls.
He raises an eyebrow at me, then holds out a spoon with a little of the liquid settled in the middle. Steam and, oh my fucking god, the best kind of chicken broth scent lingers in the air, drifting up my nose.
I want to burst into tears. There’s no way I can allow myself to consume something at the hands of this man, any man. Not when all my cloudy memories are boiling with the pills and the coercion and the threats to do as they said.
Again, I refuse, turning my chin downward with lips clamped shut.
Once more, my stomach protests, louder and more incessant this time.
His heavy brow furrows, and using the spoon, he gestures closer to my lips. As if I’m too dim-witted to understand the meaning of what he’s offering here.
“Go to hell,” I snap.
The man stares at me for a long moment and I wonder if he’ll finally berate me. Will the terrifying figure who dwarfs that chair say what he’s thinking, or order me around?
However, he does something entirely unexpected. Tipping what was on the spoon back into the thermos, he then dips the spoon in, letting it clank against the metallic sides as he stirs, before lifting it to his own lips. As he gently purses his mouth and sips down the broth, I see the second it hits his tongue. The moment he swallows, my own reflex mirrors his motion. Imagining it was my own throat drinking down that delicious morsel of sustenance.
As he takes the spoon away, his tongue dips out to run over the wetness left behind, and I watch, hypnotized by the sight of him enjoying a spoonful of broth like it’s the most miraculous thing I’ve ever seen. Even though I don’t want to be watching him like this, I can’t help but notice the small hint of sheen coating the bristle around his mouth, the way his tongue traces the corner a second time to catch the tiniest droplet, the barely there hint of broth left behind.
This time, he repeats the dip and swirl of the spoon, before offering it to me again.
I’m torn by the gesture, not wanting to fold immediately, while also being more ravenous than I’ve ever been before. All I can do is glare at him because I can’t bring myself to agree to this.
Quietly, clearly uninterested in any attempt at making conversation, he takes another spoonful himself.
My eyes track every tiny motion. The way that silver catches in the light as he tilts the spoon. The brief hint of oily sheen from the fattiness of the broth coating his lower lip before he swipes his tongue across that spot, and I nearly whimper.
He knits his brows together, dipping the utensil back into the neck of the thermos, giving it a flick around. Seconds feel like an eternity as I contemplate the outcome of a decision that might land me right back in the kind of hell I’ve only just escaped.
Except, I’m already stuck here in this bed with a stranger standing guard over me, and I’m not sure there can be much worse fates than what I’ve just survived.
I don’t know what this man wants, but if he was going to force himself on me, he’s had every opportunity to violate me while I’ve been drugged up and out of my head .
Yet, here he is, sitting by my bedside, hand-feeding me soup.
His eyes narrow, and he raises the spoon to my lips. I brush my tongue quickly over the cracked skin. My stomach churns with clawing hunger and sickening disgust, and as he presses the edge to my mouth, I give in.
I’m so fucking pathetic; I allow him to feed me.
The broth slides into my mouth, gliding rich and warm across my tastebuds. My throat works, and the taste is like a damn miracle, leaving my eyes almost rolling back in my head. It’s as if roast chicken and herbs and caramelized potatoes coated in gravy just slid down my parched throat. Although it’s not heavy or thick, it’s light and almost floats down to fill the gnawing emptiness, leaving a trail of warmth as that small sip descends to my belly.
He doesn’t go straight back for another to give me like I expect, or hope will be the case. No, he takes another one himself. The expression in his eyes says it all. This is his way of proving he’ll match me spoon for spoon, round for round, whatever I have, he’ll do the same.
After a few more exchanges of broth and silence, I lick my lips. It already feels like my body is flushed with life once more, glowing warmth radiates through each limb.
“Did you make that?”
As another spoonful disappears past his lips, he shakes his head. Using the spoon, he points to his boots and the spot he’s sitting in.
“You’ve been here the whole time.”
His dark eyes soften, and another small nod comes in place of a reply.
“Why won’t you talk to me? Are you not allowed to or something?”
That strong jaw of his tics, and once again, my question is ignored. Setting the spoon and thermos aside, he taps his temple before pointing at my head.
“That?” I let go of the sheet and gingerly rub my forehead. “I feel better. Not sore anymore.”
His stare dismantles me. Why won’t he just speak? It leaves me more than a little unnerved. The man reaches to pick up something else off the table, and when his fist catches in the line of lamplight as he turns back toward me, I see a slim object dwarfed by the sheer size of his large palm.
My eyes flick back to his and watch as he gestures to take my temperature with a digital thermometer.
“Where does that go?” I shift my weight.
Heavy brows scrunch. The object is lifted to his ear before he turns it to one side, showing me the pointed aperture.
“Fine.” Tilting my head, I allow him to insert it, and a small beep follows once he’s taken the reading.
Without hesitation, he shows me the number, as if it’s supposed to mean something to me. All I know is that it’s in normal range.
“I guess it hasn’t been that way?”
His fingers wipe across the sheets before rubbing a thumb and forefinger together.
Dry.
“Did I have a fever? It finally broke, I’m guessing.” No wonder I’m lucid and able to hold a conversation—if you could even call this strange scenario such a thing—for the first time since I was handed that poisoned glass of champagne.
There’s a strained expression that flicks across his face, those dark eyes scan down my body, not with leering or malicious intent, but something pained hidden beneath the heavy shadows of his brow.
This silent man pauses at my lower belly, and I see the moment his features tighten .
“What—” My words are cut off as he surges out of the chair. It’s so sudden and forceful that I shrink back into the pillows.
This impossibly large man is up and pacing around the room in an instant, rounding the foot of the bed before sitting back down abruptly. This time he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, with fists clenched. There’s nothing but torment behind his eyes as he swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, then points to my upper thighs.
A shiver runs through me, recalling the fragmented shards and jumbled memories, at least knowing without question that even though I might have been kidnapped and drugged, I was still aware the whole time.
His meaning is clear.
Did those men do anything?
“No. They wanted to… but…”
His hands dig into his hair, and when he tilts his eyes to look at mine, I see the weight of some unknown burden there.
“Was it you? In the mask at the mansion?” I whisper.
A fateful night when I gave myself over to be used, only to end up with my whole world crumbling because I thought these men could be trusted.
He looks like he’s at a crossroads, waging a silent war with himself about whether to answer me or not.
My eyes fall to his thumb, his ring.
“I remember seeing that. Your hair, too.”
He still seems hesitant. Maybe it’s the flood of sustenance; maybe it’s the fact my brain is functioning without the cloud of toxins, but I don’t bother fighting the surge of rage coming back up like bile.
“They pretended to be you.” I hiss. “Maybe they were you? How the fuck am I supposed to know who to trust or what’s even real?”
His jaw works overtime, flexing as he sits there stubbornly, refusing to speak to me .
“They knew things about that night, about what we all did. So, since you’ve already had your chance to fuck me once, I’m guessing you’re just waiting your turn to use me again, is that it?”
Those big paws ball and fist against each other. Same result. He still refuses to say anything.
“I guess it doesn’t make a difference, right? You three got to use me because I was an idiot who agreed to your stupid little game. Did you know they were gonna do the same thing on camera? Is that what you all planned together? Those men knew stuff that could only have been known if they were in the room that night. So maybe you’re all in on it?”
He stays as still as the stone statue he so perfectly resembles.
“Whatever. I’m tired. Ignore me if that’s what you want. I don’t care.” Turning over, I give him my back because my head aches, and I’m swarmed with buzzing words and memories stitching themselves back together.
The man watching over me clicks the light off once more.
He doesn’t leave.