Chapter 16
Sixteen
Lane
The morning after I’m cleaned up and given an IV to hydrate me, I feel ten times better.
Enough of my faculties are back that I regret not trying to escape yesterday, that I was so fucking weak to allow him to order me around without complaint.
I have to at least fight against Ryell, but the larger part of me doesn’t want to.
I’m so fucking tired of fighting, of clawing back from the brink. I want to just…be.
I’m so fucking embarrassed at how I broke down though. I could see it in Ryell’s eyes that he wanted to know the source of my anguish, but that’s not something I can tell him. Having those memories resurface when I thought I had buried them forever was a surprise and not a good one.
I don’t think I’m ready to lay my trauma bare for someone like Ryell. He’s the cause of even more trauma. I don’t want to give him that; he’s already taken enough.
There is something I’ve been wondering while I’ve been down here, something I’d like to know.
I’ve been here for weeks—even if I don’t know exactly how many—and no one else has joined me in my imprisonment.
I’m not sure if Ryell has another cell built elsewhere—something that would be extremely costly—but I doubt it.
That could only mean one thing: he hasn’t killed anyone since I’ve been captive.
While I hate being in this fucking cell, my sense of duty is satisfied that there are no other victims because he has me. Though I would rather have hunted Ryell down and put him away for good, I can handle this.
He cleaned up the vomit when I was out cold and helped me put on clothes when I came to. He wanted to draw me, but with me being faint from dehydration, Ryell told me to get some sleep so I could be fresh when he was ready.
He brought down food last night and again this morning. It’s still hard to eat more than half of what’s offered, but it feels good to have a full belly.
While I’m well-fed, I’m trying to push trauma-Lane back down and pull up FBI-agent-that-isn’t-afraid-of-shit Lane, but it’s useless. To keep sane, I’ll have to insulate myself with trauma-Lane so he doesn’t break FBI-agent-Lane.
And besides that, I need to stay focused on my goal: staying alive.
“Lane,” Ryell says, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Turn your head to the left.”
I do what he says, blowing out a long breath.
Ryell came down with my food and a sketch pad. He handed me a protein shake and said, “Drink it all but don’t force it down. Your stomach is too empty to vomit again.”
I did what he said, sipping it at a moderate pace, allowing my stomach to expand slowly. We sat in silence while I got most of it down, then Ryell told me to strip down to nothing so he could draw me.
He hums, then the room falls silent, save the scratching of Ryell’s charcoal across the page.
Since Ryell never said I couldn’t speak, I ask, “How long have I been here?”
Ryell pauses for a moment, the scratching ceasing for a few beats. Then he starts again and says, “Five weeks.”
Fuck, that’s a long time. Longer than I thought he would keep me alive, though.
It’s surprising to me I’m still alive. When he told me who he was, I thought I had two to three days left to live. From our investigations on The Poser, the longest between times someone went missing and when we found their bodies was three days. I’ve beaten that record many times over.
How is Brock? My field office? Are they searching for me? Or have they chalked me up as being dead and it only being a matter of time until they find my body?
Even though I try to keep the question to myself, I have to know. “Is anyone looking for me? Or have they given up?”
With a smile in his voice, Ryell says, “Your red-haired partner has been on the local and national news, asking for any information on your disappearance. I had my brother hack into your record of investigation.” I startle and raise my head, peering at him with wide eyes.
Ryell meets my gaze, then ticks up his eyebrow.
“Head down and to the left, Lane, or I won’t tell you what I found.
” His tone is dark, holding a singsong quality.
I lower my head so fast that it knocks against the concrete floor, and I hiss in pain. Ryell chuckles.
He draws for a few more minutes in silence, and I’m nearly coming out of my skin with the need for information.
But I don’t ask again. I simply lay there on my back, fuming that he won’t tell me anything, but finding it mildly arousing. My dick twitches at this different kind of edging.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“What are you thinking about, Agent?” he asks, and I flick my eyes down to him as much as I can though it hurts from this angle. That’s when I spot my dick doing more than twitching—it’s standing tall and proud, precum sliding down to my base.
Sighing, I tell him, though it’s embarrassing. I’m not sure what this dynamic is between me and him, but I should just lean into it. I don’t think Ryell will let me go anytime soon.
At least I hope he doesn’t. The longer he keeps me, the longer I’ll be alive.
That’s what I tell myself instead of admitting what it really is: I need Ryell. Even if it’s just his focus and attention, I need it.
Fuck me.
Ryell chuckles. “I’m not trying to edge you, Lane. Though I that’s a fun prospect.”
I swallow thickly.
“They have nothing,” he says, and I latch onto every word.
“The people that were interviewed at the bar gave different descriptions of me. The bartender told investigators the wrong name. Since we left at different times, no one knew we wound up together. And I parked a few blocks away, in an underground garage.”
Seems he thought of everything. My stomach drops. I have no way out. Ryell is too smart and cunning.
What’s really confusing me is I don’t know if I want to be rescued or not.
He continues. “Your field office is keeping a special task force on your case, but they don’t have any more leads.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I murmur, not real sure how I feel. “Can I ask you something?”
He sighs in what sounds like irritation. “This is not going to become a thing, Lane. You don’t need to know anything about me.”
Those stupid tears prick the corners of my eyes at how quickly he shut me down. I think he’s told me the small amount he has because he knows he can tease me with information, and there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s fucking with me, and I can’t stop him.
But I want to know about Ryell. Underneath his stalking and murdering, underneath his psychopathy, there might be…someone worth getting to know.
Swallowing down my hurt, I say, “That’s not…I was…I was just wondering if you’ve killed anyone since you’ve had me.”
The scratching of his charcoal pencil stops, and I decide to sit up, even though he hasn’t told me to.
Ryell’s face is a mask of anger and confusion, both warring for dominance. “No. I haven’t. And I haven’t felt the need to. You proud of yourself?” he spits, standing so quickly from his chair that it topples to the ground.
My stomach plummets, and goose bumps crop up on my skin when he stomps toward the door. “No, wait. Ryell, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please.” He stops walking and turns back to me, eyes stormy. “I was only wondering. Please don’t leave me.”
He ticks up an eyebrow, his face closed off like it was when he told me he was The Poser. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me, Lane, but I don’t fucking like it.”
“Why is it a bad thing? If you keep me, people will—”
He laughs so loud, it rebounds off the walls, startling me.
“You think if I keep you, I’ll stop killing?
” He chuckles humorlessly, shaking his head.
“Wow, Agent. You sure have an overinflated ego.” He marches back to the cell, getting close enough that I can feel his warm breath across my face.
“Hear me when I fucking say this. You won’t fucking change me, no matter how much I want you to pose for me or how much I want to fuck your ass.
I am who I am, and no one, especially a fucking narc, will make me any different. ”
I’m struck speechless as he walks away.