Ravenous

Chapter 12 Folie à Deux

Folie à Deux

RIPLEY

He carries me up the stairs and into a quiet little bedroom at the end of the hall.

It smells like bleach, and that Sunlight dishwashing liquid my mom used to use when I was a kid.

I’m in so much pain that even the sight of a bed is a blessing.

I just need to sit on something soft because every bone in my body feels like it’s about to turn to dust.

The man sets me down, and I glance around at the soft lace curtains, the little doilies on the dresser, and the pale blue wallpaper with little flowers on it. For a guy who dresses all in black, and threatened to shoot me at least a couple times in one day, his choice in decor is oddly… tranquil?

I watch helplessly as he rifles through a large brown leather bag, setting his gun down beside it as he digs in a little deeper. I think about rushing him, but that thought is quickly replaced by a pain so sharp I’m forced onto my side.

“You’ve got broken ribs, a concussion, and you’re heavily dehydrated. Now, I’ve got the medical supplies and the know-how to help you, and all you need to do is answer some questions for me.”

“Why?” I ask. “You keep asking shit about me, why do you even care?”

He’s quiet, like he’s weighing his options, but before long his plush lips curl into a little half smile.

“Folie à deux. Do you know what that means?”

God, he’s smug, staring at me like he thinks he’s so much better. He probably thinks I’m some dumb little girl who wandered into murder. He’d shit himself if he knew how much planning it took.

“Bonnie and Clyde Syndrome. First discovered by Charles Lasègue and Jules Falret,” I reply flatly. “Two people who share the same delusion— in a psychiatric sense, at least.”

“And in a metaphorical sense?” The man asks.

I did a lot of reading while Gabriel was out running drugs and fucking other women.

I found one of his old burner phones, kept it charged, hidden under a floorboard, and used it as my gateway to the outside world.

I spent countless hours reading and researching: True crime books and old textbooks, in every field from sociology to criminology to psychiatry.

I’ve read so much I probably know as much as some of those suckers who spent years getting their doctorates.

Then, the morning of the murder, I wiped that phone clean.

Nothing like a good ol’ factory reset.

“It’s two people who bring out the worst in each other,” I sigh.

God, if he’s looking for the Bonnie to his Clyde, he’s going to have to do a lot better than chaining me up like a dog.

He sets the bag down at my feet. The stitching is slightly crude, like it was done by hand, and then I see the markings on it. Faded blue and black ink that bleeds into the textured material.

I stare at him, my heart rate picking up as he looms over me.

“Are you really gonna be able to help me? You said I’d be dead in a few days.”

“Maybe you already are.” He crouches down in front of me, those deep olive eyes striking in the morning sun. “Maybe I’m the Devil coming to take you home.”

“You think rather highly of yourself, don’t you?”

He roots around in his bag, chuckling as he pulls out a stethoscope, a bottle of alcohol, some wipes, and some bandages. Something in me is oddly proud I was able to make him laugh.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Not even close. Just read a lot of books.”

He leans over me, getting a little too close as he presses the bell of the stethoscope against my back, but strangely, I don’t mind it. It helps that he smells good, like a campfire mixed with motor oil and leather.

Silence stretches out between us as he moves the bell around, pressing it in different places while staring straight ahead.

My body creaks like an old house as I shift, and I can feel the rattling in my lungs get worse the deeper I breathe.

Maybe I caught the fucking plague down in that storm cellar.

He gestures to my hand.

“You’re missing a finger.”

I glance down at it, my breath hitching a little. I’ve been in so much pain I somehow forgot what I did back at the house. It’s probably still sitting on the bathroom counter.

“Yeah, guess I am.”

“Who did that to you?” He asks.

“I did.”

He frowns.

“Why?”

“Are you gonna patch me up or not, hillbilly?”

The man snorts before crouching back down, and gently unwraps the bandages while I suck in a breath through gritted teeth. My body shakes from the adrenaline as flashes of pain pulse like a dull electrical current.

Jesus, it looks bad.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get gangrene,” he tells me, beginning to clean the wound.

It hurts like a son of a bitch.

“I was gonna go to a clinic.”

“Yeah?” The man snorts. “And tell them what?”

“Man, why do you even care?”

He secures a new bandage with some medical tape before moving on to clean the wounds on my face.

“I already told you, folie à deux.”

“That’s not a real answer to my question.”

“But it’s an answer.”

Nothing worse than a deranged motherfucker who thinks he’s a comedian.

“Okay, fine. Tit for tat, what’s your name?”

He lets out a soft, contemplative hum, like he’s trying to judge if telling me his name would be too dangerous or not. Or maybe he’s just not used to people asking.

“It’s Preacher.”

“Wow, that’s a… really dumb name.”

His jaw ticks, and I wonder if I hit a sensitive spot. Maybe he’s already sick of me.

“I gave myself that name after I shot my daddy and buried him out back.”

He presses a cotton ball onto the bridge of my nose, and a sharp stinging sensation shoots through face.

“So, why did you take the tongue?”

The things Gabriel would say while he hit me, while he held me down and… it’s all stuck on a loop in my head.

Worthless cunt.

Nobody could ever love you the way that I do.

It was the cruelest part of him, so I took it.

“I don’t know,” I whisper. “Are you going to let me go?”

Preacher studies me for a moment, his eyes gleaming.

“You saw what was in the cellar, and maybe more… You think you’re gonna walk away from all this?”

“Fine. Then what are you planning on doing with me?”

He lets out a sigh, standing up and tossing the bloodied cotton balls into the trash.

“You’ll stay here with me. I can teach you how to be better.”

Preacher reaches into the bag once more and pulls out a black collar. He grabs me by the hair and slips it around my neck, tightening it enough that it’s snug against my skin.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“This has a tracking device in it. It’s connected to my phone, and if you wander off the property, I’ll know.” He grins. “You’re in my playground now, little rabbit. Whether you like it or not.”

It’s dark, soft leather, firm but almost buttery beneath my fingers. In the center is a small black circle that I assume is a tracking sensor.

“C’mon, you need a bath. You’re gettin’ mud all over those nice clean sheets.”

He’s surprisingly gentle, placing one arm on my lower back, and guiding me toward the bathroom just a few steps away. It’s a classically pretty room with a large clawfoot tub and soft lighting. On the counter are a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, neatly folded next to a set of towels.

“Be honest, do those belong to a dead person?” I ask.

“I sure hope not. Got ‘em from a friend.”

He strides toward the tub, and the tap squeals as hot water begins to flow.

Christ, the very idea of a bath is making my muscles ache. I can’t wait to sink into that water, and—

“What the fuck are you doing?!” I squawk.

He’s pulled a knife out from the holster on his belt, the blade pointed right at me.

“I’m cutting those filthy fuckin’ clothes off you.”

I clench my fists, my body coiled like a spring and ready to strike.

“You’re not seeing me naked!”

He rolls his eyes.

“You’ve got broken ribs and a fucked up hand. You think you can lift those arms above your head?”

What a joke, of course I can. I know I can. I’m standing in front of him in the worst pain I’ve ever been in my fucking life, but if he thinks I can’t lift—

“Ow, motherfucker!” I scream, my arms barely halfway up before the pain makes me double over.

Preacher catches me, barely keeping me from hitting the floor at the last second, and before I realize it I’m staring into his eyes.

They’re softer than I expected. Maybe even warm?

“I want to make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?”

He smiles.

“You like role play?”

“You’re a sick fuck,” I snarl.

“Takes one to know one.” He cuts through the rest of my shirt. “How about this, we’ll play teacher and student. I have a hell of a lot of knowledge to share… and you were planning on killing again, weren’t you?”

I let out a hiss, my heart pounding as the tip of his blade gently nicks my skin.

“Oops.” Preacher grins again. “I guess my hand slipped.”

“Bullshit.”

He guides the blade upwards and cuts my shirt open, revealing the black sports bra I put on this morning. I fold my arms over my chest, feeling totally exposed.

“Can you turn around while I get undressed at least?”

“You tried to beat me to death with a crowbar, and you think I’m gonna turn my back on you?” He scoffs. “You must have hit your head pretty damn hard. Get in the tub.”

“Are you seriously going to watch me bathe?”

He isn’t ashamed about letting his eyes wander, and I feel goosebumps rise on my skin. I’m a little surprised by how much I like the way it makes me feel. Wanted. Desired. More importantly, it’s something I can use to my advantage.

“Fine,” I sigh.

“Atta girl. I’ll even do you the courtesy of keeping my eyes on the floor.”

He averts his gaze, and I slowly pull down my jeans, wincing slightly as they take off some dried blood and leg hair along the way.

That’s when I realize…

I didn’t pack any panties.

You always forget something on a trip, don’t you?

My movements are slow, partially because of the pain, but partially because I want to see if he’ll sneak a peek. It feels like we’re both testing each other.

“Get in the damn tub, Ripley,” he growls.

I quickly peel off my bra before walking over, glancing up at him as he continues to stare at the floor.

I kind of feel like I’m standing in front of one of those guards outside of Buckingham Palace.

When I was a kid, my sister told me they were trained to kill.

I think that’s bullshit, but I never bothered to google it.

My muscles begin to melt the second I step into the tub, and finally, for the first time in days, I can feel all the tension start to fade.

Preacher lifts himself up onto the bathroom counter, still dutifully keeping his eyes fixed on the floor.

I stare at the dark tattoos that decorate his arms, tracing the lines all the way up to the butterfly on his neck.

I swear I can feel him soften as I stare, the crease in his brows practically disappearing in moments.

“So, why didn’t you kill me?” I ask. “You can’t have been on this whole Bonnie and Clyde thing from the start.”

“It’s really simple, I have a code: no women and no kids.”

I smirk.

“Oh god, you’re a psycho with a moral compass?”

Preacher doesn’t say a word, but I catch his lip curling into that same small grin I’ve seen a couple times before as I start lathering myself up. When I reach up for my shoulder, the pain shoots through my ribs all over again, and I drop the soap into the water with a loud splash.

“You need help?” He asks, still careful not to let his eyes wander.

“I’m fine.”

I reach into the tub with my uninjured hand, but the soap slips from my grip.

Once.

Twice.

Three times…

“You have got to be kidding—”

There’s a sudden thud and he’s right next to me, grabbing a washcloth and reaching into the tub to get the soap.

His fingers graze my thigh.

My breath catches in my chest and I bite my lip.

“I can—”

He lifts it out and scowls, his eyes locking with mine.

“Just let me help.”

My body goes rigid as he glides the bar along my back, but he’s careful, not going any lower than my shoulder blades and taking care to keep his eyes locked on mine.

Is it wrong to want him to keep touching me? I can’t remember the last time a man was kind, or even neutral toward me. I have to admit, it feels good to be taken care of like this.

But then my stomach growls, loudly, making this already embarrassing situation that much worse.

“Hungry?”

“I already ate.”

Actually I was running on nothing but Diet Coke and homicidal rage when I got here.

Fuck that tornado.

“You’re gonna need to learn to lie better than that, little rabbit,” he chuckles.

“Why do you call me that, you think it’s funny or something?”

“It’s because you have big, beautiful eyes. Like a scared little bunny.”

I’ve been told my stare is intense, almost unsettling. My eyes are a bright and cool blue color, just like my mother’s. My father said they made him nervous. Used to make me close them when…

Well.

Preacher dips the washcloth into the water, his knuckles brushing up against my thigh, and I get another electric thrill rocketing through me as he rinses away the suds.

Once he’s finished, he holds out the washcloth and the bar of soap.

“You can do the rest on your own.”

I wonder if he felt the same excitement that I did.