7. Home #2
I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Somewhere in the middle of my shower, I began to understand that I was out of there.
I’ve been rescued. Connor Heyward, of all people, was sent to bring me home to Harmony Heights.
I’m back. I’d finish my shower. I’d borrow enough money from my rescuer to order a ride across town to my apartment; he’s done enough that I wouldn’t even dare to ask him to take me.
My super would let me into my place—if it’s still mine after six weeks away—and, once I feel up to it, I’d go to the police.
I’d get my car. I’d get my belongings. I’d get my life back, and I’d forget everything that happened to me.
First, though, I’d tell them all about Johnny Winter and Mickey and Noah and Cam.
I’d press so many damn charges, they could find out what it was like to be locked in a cell, at the mercy of something bigger and stronger and way more cruel than they are.
But I can’t talk. My voice… it’s still gone.
Being rescued didn’t fix me. I’m broken, and I’m wearing nothing but a towel, and I’m locked in Connor Heyward’s bathroom with no fucking idea what I’m going to do next.
Eventually, I realize that I have to leave the bathroom.
Since I’d rather walk down Main Street without a single stitch on than put that purple shirt and those black leggings back on again, I clutch the towel tightly and slowly unlock the door.
Trembling slightly, I crack it open, peeking into the bedroom.
There’s no Connor out there, but he must’ve slipped inside while I was showering because there’s a folded piece of clothing sitting on the edge of the bed. I grab it, shaking it out, another lump lodging itself in my throat as I recognize the shirt.
It’s one of Connor’s. I knew that instantly from the size, but then I get a better look at it. A worn white t-shirt with blue lettering on it, there’s a design on the front surrounded by the words: Harmony Heights Lacrosse. On the back, it’s his last name printed in block letters: HEYWARD.
It’s one of Connor’s old lacrosse shirts from another life, and unless I’m imagining things, he wants me to put it on.
No underwear. No bra, either. No pants. Just a shirt that’s long enough to hit my thighs, even if it’s so thin, my nipples are poking through the material after I shrug it on over my head. I don’t care. It’s something clean, and it’s not purple, and that’s all that matters to me.
I don’t feel great, but in comparison, I’m much better than before.
I actually feel alive, and rather than return to the bed and hide, I’m ready to put my nightmare behind me.
So maybe I can’t find my voice yet. I was still trapped by my captors as of yesterday.
It’s going to take a little time before my trauma abates enough that I can start to heal, and I can only begin to do that once I’m in the sanctuary of my home.
Until I die, I’ll always be grateful to Connor and whoever else came to save me.
Whether they did it because the King made them or because some fondness from our high school days had them coming after me, I don’t care.
Connor saved me. He rescued me. I might have hated him for the way he toyed with my feelings way back then, but I’ll forgive him everything for what he’s done.
But I have to get out of here. I need to go home. I need to know that I have a home, that there’s somewhere I can go to be me, where I can be Haven and not a ruined Offering on her way to being declared one of the Used…
I don’t have shoes. They were taken from me more than a month ago, and I think about rooting through Connor’s closet to steal a pair before eventually deciding that I’ve made it this far.
I have shoes in my apartment. If not, I have money to buy an entire shoe store if necessary.
I just have to go and, crossing my arms over my chest as I force myself to tiptoe toward the bedroom door, that’s what I do.
Based on what Connor said, I expect him to be waiting in the hall.
He isn’t, and I’m glad. I didn’t want to face him, knowing that he was one of those who saw me in such a state.
I had given up. I was ready to die, and now that I’m back in Harmony Heights, I desperately want to pretend that it didn’t happen.
Up first? Continuing to avoid Connor Heyward for the rest of my life.
His bedroom is on the second floor. My bare feet are silent against the hardwood as I slip into the hall. I follow it toward the staircase, then take it down, one hand clutching the banister because my legs are weak and my body still doesn’t feel entirely like it belongs to me.
Halfway down, I smell freshly brewed coffee. Over that, the scent of bacon rising above the sound of it sizzling in a pan.
Food, I think, as I squeeze the banister.
My stomach lurches. That’s the thing about being a captive.
I can’t tell if I’m starving because they hardly fed me or if I completely lost my appetite while I was being tortured.
I also don’t know if I want to eat or if the idea of choking down breakfast has me about to throw bile up all over the stairs.
He has to be in the kitchen. I’m not familiar with the layout of Connor Heyward’s house—I’ve never been inside of it before—but as I peer down the steps, I notice that it leads to another hall.
Once I reach the bottom of the stairs, I can see the front door.
The kitchen is somewhere ahead of me which means that I can leave without Connor having any idea.
I’ll write him a letter, I decide as I hurry for the door. An e-mail. Anything. I’ll thank him in writing since I can’t say the words right now, but all that matters is getting out of here—
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Shit.
Clearly caught on my way to the door, I turn to my right. I don’t know where exactly he came from, but there’s Connor, holding a mug in one hand.
He’s wearing a basic black apron over his clothes. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and I’m not sure if that’s because rescuing an Offering takes a lot out of him or because his gaze is drawn to my bare legs, checking them out.
My heart jumps, and he gives himself a little shake as though annoyed he caught himself doing that.
I open my mouth. Close it. Gesture at the door between us.
Connor takes a sip from his mug. “You shouldn’t be up and about. You need rest. You need to eat. I was going to bring you breakfast upstairs.”
I shake my head. There’s only one thing I need.
Home, I mouth. I want to go home.
Connor furrows his brow. For a second, he attempts to decipher what my lips are trying to say. And then, when he does, something shifts behind his eyes. Something dark… something quintessentially Connor.
“Home?” he asks.
I nod, grateful he understands.
Then again, maybe he doesn’t. Because, as he lowers his mug, there’s a hint of an upward curve to his lips as he says, “What do you mean, home? Oh, Haven. You are home.”