Chapter Six
Romy
I wake to my head pounding something awful.
What happened?
Where am I?
As I crack my eyes open, they begin to water from a bright light. My heart rate kicks up, making my head hurt more as I remember where I am.
Stolen.
I was stolen from a bar and am in the Crownes’ prison.
Except I’m no longer in the wooden box.
I’m lying on something smooth and cold.
And I’m naked.
Realizing I don’t have one stitch of clothing on has me shrieking in horror. I attempt to cover my breasts with one hand and the other down below. My entire body shudders with full-bodied shivers as several long minutes pass by.
I realize I’m tense and waiting for an attack.
For someone to finish what they started.
Nothing happens.
Blinking away the fear and horrible headache, I wriggle into a sitting position, never stopping covering my most vulnerable body parts. A quick look around tells me I’m in an enormous bathroom. A really nice bathroom.
Everything is white.
White marble countertops, white stone floors, white framed mirrors above the white sinks, white folded towels on white shelves, white walls, a white robe hanging from a hook on a white door. The only things not white in the entire space are the nickel fixtures.
It’s not a sterile white either.
It’s actually a pretty white. A soft white. Like doves or cotton or frilly lace.
This bathroom is a far cry from my coffin-like hole in the floor.
Slowly, I climb shakily to my feet. The scent of urine and body odor infiltrates my nostrils.
I stink. Point taken.
Do they want me to shower so I’ll be clean when they rape me?
My stomach roils at the thought. Standing naked in a strangely Zen bathroom is nauseating. There’s nothing for me to defend myself with if they really want to hurt me.
With quiet footsteps, I prowl toward the door. I yank the robe off the hook and jerk it onto my trembling body to hide my nudity. Once the tie is knotted at my waist, I twist the knob.
But it doesn’t turn.
It’s locked. From the outside.
Panic overwhelms me again. The sick feeling in my gut has bile creeping up my esophagus. I’m going to puke. Doubling over, I try to breathe through the violent churning in my midsection. I do end up gagging but manage to swallow back the acidic burn in the back of my throat.
It’s okay.
You’re okay.
I fight tears as I force myself to breathe in and out with even, measured breaths. Once my chest no longer feels like it’s going to explode, I stand upright again and make my way over to the mirror.
The woman staring back at me is haunted.
My normally twinkling blue eyes are twitchy and dark circles hang just below them above my cheeks. Skin that’s usually free of blemishes or imperfections is splotchy red, tear-stained, and dripping with perspiration. Blond hair that’s typically straightened to sleek perfection is matted, mussed up, and sticking to my damp face. A purple bruise the size of a quarter can be seen on my neck where I’d been injected against my will.
I’m not hurt and still in one piece, though.
That’s something.
Since I don’t have to pee, I realize I must have released my bladder again while in captivity. I reek of urine, so maybe my captors really just want me to bathe so I’ll stop stinking up their house.
As an act of defiance, I could refuse to.
But washing up and soaking in the hot water might make me feel like my normal self. I might be able to inject some bravery into my veins so I can find a way out of here.
I make the decision to shower despite the fear lurking in the back of my mind. At any moment, all three brothers could come in here and get me.
Even if they did, I’d be powerless against them. Against one, sure, I could put up a fight. Two, I might have a smidgen of a chance. But three? I’m nothing against the three of them.
Since there don’t appear to be any cameras in here and no windows for anyone to peek in, I quickly pull the robe off, grab a towel, and step into the massive walk-in shower. Thankfully, instead of having a glass door, it’s one of those kinds you walk into and are hidden behind a three-quarter-high wall. My head and shoulders can be seen, but nothing else.
It takes me a minute to figure out how to work the shower, but then ice-cold water spurts out. I stifle a scream, pressing against the stone wall with my butt and standing on my tiptoes until the water turns from arctic to bearable to blissfully hot. Once it’s at a tolerable temperature, I make my way under the spray and groan with happiness.
Getting clean is going to do wonders for my sanity.
The bathroom has shampoo, conditioner, and bodywash in that order conveniently affixed to one of the stone walls. An unused loofa hangs on a tiny hook beside them.
As much as I want to hang out under the steamy spray of water that feels good on my tense muscles, I wash up at record speed. The last thing I want is to be caught by my captors naked. After I’ve rinsed off, I dry off and put the robe back on. A glance in the mirror tells me I’m at least somewhat my normal self.
Now what?
Do I bang on the door and yell, hoping someone will let me out? Do I try to pick the lock? With what? There aren’t any drawers or any closets in here, reminding me of a hotel bathroom.
Is that where I am?
In a hotel?
I go back over to the door and press my ear to the wood, listening for voices or noises. Nothing. I try the knob again, and to my utter shock, it turns in my hand.
My heart starts hammering away again. With slow, measured movements, I peel the door open a crack. Cool, fresh air tickles my still-damp face. The eye that’s peeking out surveys the room.
It’s dark aside from a small lamp that’s illuminated on a table beside a queen-sized bed. To my utter relief, I see my freshly laundered clothes neatly folded on top of the bed and my shoes sitting beside them.
I rush toward them and scramble for my underwear first. Once I slide them on beneath my robe, I go for my jeans next. After safely covering my bottom half, I turn my back to the bedroom door and quickly put on the rest of my clothes. Despite having covered up in my own clothes, I can’t stop shaking so much my teeth rattle and my muscles ache. I slip on my socks and tennis shoes last before eyeing the bedroom door again.
I step over the discarded robe on the floor and tiptoe to the door. Not surprisingly, it’s locked from the outside. I press my ear to this new door to listen for voices, sounds, or clues.
Nothing.
I’m safe. For now.
The room is modern-looking, with muted grays and masculine bedding. Dark curtains hang over what must be a window. With a barely stifled squeal, I rush over to it. Carefully, so as not to draw any attention, I drag the curtain on one side along the rod.
Behind it is…
A wall.
No window. Just a wall.
The claustrophobic feeling threatens to suffocate me again. My prison keeps getting bigger, but it’s still a prison. Again, there’s nothing to use for a weapon. I could throw the lamp, but it would be useless against one of those men.
If they wanted to kill me, I think they’d have done it already.
So what now?
My stomach grumbles fiercely, reminding me I haven’t eaten since… Actually, I don’t know how long it’s been. Without light or windows or a freaking clock, I’m clueless to how much time has passed. One thing’s for sure. I’m starving. My throat is bone dry. And the headache that’s rattling my brain could be a hangover from the drugs forced into me or something much simpler like lack of caffeine or protein.
I make my way back over to the door and knock. When no one comes, even after the knocks go from polite to crazed pounding, I then start yelling my demands for them to release me.
Nothing.
I even attempt to throw myself at the door a few times to break through, but it’s a laughable effort. All I have to show for it is a bruise forming on my shoulder.
Defeated, I slink back over to the bed. I don’t want to lie down on it, but my entire body is aching, begging to curl up under the covers to pretend this is all a bad dream.
Leaving my shoes on in case I need to make a hasty exit, I slip under the comforter and sink into the surprisingly soft bed. Even fully clothed and wrapped in thick bedding, I can’t stop the incessant shivering.
I just want to go home.
Is this how Megan feels?
My own fear takes a back seat as I wonder about Megan. She’s around here somewhere. At the very least, these men know what happened to her. As soon as they face me, I’ll have my opportunity to find out.
I wake to the sound of voices.
Jerking upright, I’m terrified to discover two men standing at the foot of my bed. The older one I recognize from Instagram. Orion Crowne. The leader of this freak show. Beside him is Caius, standing completely still, expressionless dark eyes pinned on me.
Orion, however, isn’t devoid of emotion like Caius.
His features are twisted into one of utter disgust. Hard eyes bore into me like I’ve made it my personal mission to ruin his day. He smooths at the hair of his white beard as though he’s trying to figure out what to do with me.
“Let me go,” I offer, voice raspy from being so dry.
Caius doesn’t react. Not even to laugh at my expense. He’s a deadly robot.
Orion, however, grows increasingly colder. The air seems to drop several degrees under his penetrating stare. I shiver, fighting helpless tears. My bottom lip trembles and I bite down on it to hide my terror.
“Definitely a problem,” Orion says to Caius, sneering at me. “How are we going to fix it?” He curses and then grits his teeth. “That boy…”
Caius gives him a curt shake of his head. Almost as if to say, “Not in front of the girl.” But he says nothing. Instead, he narrows his gaze on me.
“There’s the program,” Orion offers halfheartedly. “But probably not wise considering…”
Again, he trails off.
“Not wise,” Caius agrees. “However, I’m not opposed to coming up with something new and tailored just for this situation .”
I don’t like the sound of that.
“Seems like a lot of work. We could just eliminate her altogether.” Orion’s lips tug up on one side as though that’s a favorable idea. His best idea yet.
“My dad is Gideon Langston,” I blurt out, voice quivering. “He’ll come after you.”
The air crackles with tension as the men hear my words. Neither appears to be shocked by my bold statement.
Orion’s humor fades once more. “That fucking son of mine.”
Caius nods and says, “I’ll figure something out. Keep him out of it and I’ll fix this problem he created in a way that doesn’t come back to us.”
Orion grasps Caius’s shoulder and then strides over to the bedroom door. Once he’s slipped out and closed it behind him, Caius finally speaks to me.
“All problems can be solved,” he rumbles, arrogance lacing his tone. “Even monumentally huge fuckups. You, little girl, are a fuckup.”
I sit up straight and glower at him. “My name is Romy, not little girl . I’m a real person you kidnapped and drugged, and now I’m starving. If you’re going to keep me captive, at least bring me something to eat.”
Caius reaches up to tap his bottom lip, his intense dark orbs assessing me. “Awfully demanding for someone in your position.”
Please.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
But fire burns in my gut. I’m not Megan. I’m a Langston. We’re dragons in a world full of sheep. At most, the Crownes are lions. Dragons trump lions every day of the week.
“Fuck off, monster,” I snap, giving him the middle finger as an added gesture of my sentiments. “You won’t get away with this.”
He doesn’t smile or glare.
Instead, his dark eyebrow barely lifts on one side. “We always do, little girl.”
I believe him.
He really does think he’s going to get away with this.
It sounds like he probably will.
With those intimidating words, he stalks out of the room without a backward glance. The audible click of a lock engaging can be heard seconds later.
All alone, hungry, and feeling defeated in my beautiful trap, I burst into tears.