Chapter 2 #2
But before I sink back in the driver’s seat, I pause to press my fingertips against the side of Haven’s neck.
Her pulse hammers against my fingertips. No change since I bundled her into the car.
“Your heart is racing,” I murmur. “Also normal. It’ll slow down in the next hour.”
“…time to come home,” is her only response.
That won’t do. That won’t do at all.
“Haven? Listen to me.” I glance at her as I merge onto the empty road.
Her voice sounds wooden, but at least she responds. “What?”
“I want you to tell me five things you can see right now.”
“Why?”
“It’s a grounding technique. Name five things you can see.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Her shivers have died down to infrequent, violent tremors.
“Haven—”
“Dashboard. Red leather. Your hands on the wheel.” She spits out the words like she’s annoyed with me. “Street lights. Rain.”
“Good. Now name four things you can touch.”
Her fingers curl around my jacket. “Your jacket. The seat. My hair.” She pauses. “The door handle.”
She’s looking for escape. I’ll need to address that.
“Three things you can hear.”
“The engine. The rain. Your voice.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“Paint. And...” She inhales shakily. “You.” Clears her throat. “Your cologne or whatever.”
“One thing you can taste.”
“Pennies,” she whispers. “Blood. I think I bit my lip.”
Back on steady ground.
“Good girl. You’re here in the present moment again. Know what that means?”
Her body shudders, teeth clacking.
“It means the flashback is over.” I keep my tone academic, detached. “The MDMA lowered your inhibitions, and whatever happened tonight triggered a traumatic memory. Your brain couldn’t distinguish between past and present.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop talking to me like I’m one of your fucking case studies.”
A smile tugs at my mouth.
There it is.
The defiance that makes breaking her so much more satisfying.
“Would you prefer I talk to you like a child?” I ask. “Use small words? Pat your hand and tell you everything will be okay?”
“Everything won’t be okay.” Her laugh is too cynical for her age. “They all saw. The collar, the bowl, me on my knees like—”
She cuts off with an angry sound.
“Like a what, Haven?”
She turns her face to the window. “Trailer trash.”
“That’s the drugs talking. Chemical depression follows the high. Your serotonin is depleted.” I take the turn toward my neighborhood, the houses growing larger, more isolated. “In the morning, you’ll have a better perspective.”
“In the morning, I’ll be a meme.”
“Thankfully, you don’t have to deal with that now. Try to enjoy what’s left of the ecstasy, instead of catastrophizing.”
“You’re being patronizing.”
“I’m being practical. You’re having a crisis. I’m qualified to help. That’s all this is.”
It’s a lie. But a convincing one, judging from the sullen look she gives me.
“It helps to talk it through,” I say.
“Why bother? Just check your socials tomorrow. I’m sure there’ll be a hundred videos online.”
“I’m talking about the flashback.” Even out of the corner of my eye, I can see her stiffening up. She’s resisting me again.
Bad girl.
“You know what’s interesting about flashbacks?
” I continue, voice measured and calm. “The brain doesn’t store trauma the same way it stores regular memories.
Normal memories fade. Details blur. But traumatic memories?
” I glance at her. “Those are encoded with every sensory detail. The smell, the temperature, the exact words spoken. It’s why something as simple as a scent or a sound can transport you back completely. ”
She’s listening, despite her reservations. I can see it in the way her breathing has steadied, the way she’s turned slightly toward me.
“The brain attaches emotions to sensory data as a survival mechanism,” I turn onto Earl Avenue.
“It’s trying to protect you from experiencing the same trauma again.
But the thing about emotions is, they bleed into each other.
One memory triggers another, and suddenly you’re not just reliving a single moment.
You’re reliving every moment that made you feel the same way. ”
Haven pulls my jacket tighter around her legs. She seems to realize where we are and turns to face out the window, staring at the view as we ascend Agony Hollow’s tallest hill.
“It was the collar, wasn’t it?”
She flinches a little, silent.
“What did it feel like against your neck?” I keep my voice casual, like I’m discussing the pouring rain, or the dim lights barely visible through the pouring rain.
“Fuck off,” she mutters.
“Understanding the trigger helps you control it.”
Another lie, of course. I just want to know every sordid detail.
“ What specifically about the collar triggered your flashback? The pressure around your throat? The texture of the leather?”
Her jaw works. For a moment I think she won’t answer until I hear her whisper, “The sound.”
“Which sound?”
“The click of the metal. It sounded like—” She cuts off with a shake of her head.
“Like what, Haven?” Not pressing, just interested.
“Like his belt when he’d pull it through the loops,” she murmurs.
“Who?”
She faces forward, eyes squeezed shut. “He said—he said I needed to learn to come when he called. Like a…like the bitch I was.”
“How old were you?”
“Does it matter?” she scoffs.
“Context matters. The younger you were, the more deeply embedded the neural pathways.”
She shakes her head, voice bitter. “Old enough to know better.”
“Better than what? To be abused?” I shake my head. “That’s not how trauma works, Haven. You didn’t choose what happened to you.”
“I stayed,” she mutters angrily. “I could have left, but I fucking stayed. I should have—”
“Where would you have gone?” I cut in.
Silence. She pulls my jacket tighter around herself.
“Want to know what I think?”
She doesn’t respond, but her eyes meet mine as I stop at a red light.
“I think you’ve spent so long being someone’s property that you don’t know how to be your own person anymore. And tonight, you were forced back into that role when someone literally collared like an animal.”
Her breath hitches when I run my hand down her damp hair, a shiver going through her when I cup her face.
“Amazing how a single act of aggression can so effectively shatter the defense mechanisms you’ve built to protect yourself over the years.”
The blue of her eyes is barely visible around her pupils as she stares helplessly at me.
“Don’t worry, sweet girl,” I tell her, my thumb tracing over her cheekbone. “It’s over. You’re with me now.”
Her eyebrows draw together. “That’s worse.”
I can’t help the smile that forms on my lips. We turn onto the private road leading to my house, and Haven whips her head to the window.
She knows the way to my house. Knows where I’m headed. Her hand reaches for the door handle as if she’s considering jumping from the moving car.
I’m silent as I leave her to weigh her options. By the time my house appears through the rain ahead, she’s still in her seat.
I turn off the ignition, and we sit in the car for a minute as the rain drums heavily on the roof.
“Should I take you back to the roommate who saw you lose your mind?” I ask quietly. “Want her to see you like this?”
“I don’t want to be here with you,” she replies lightning quick.
“I know.” I slide a hand over her knee, squeezing. She keeps staring straight ahead, as if, if she concentrates hard enough, she can make my house disappear.
Then she slowly turns to me, frowning hard, mouth in a tight line. And when our eyes meet, I let her see something real.
Well, real enough.
“You need someone who understands what’s happening in your head. Someone who won’t judge and who won’t ask questions you can’t answer.”
“You’re my professor,” she whispers.
My voice is firm. “I’m the only person in your life with a background in trauma psychology.” I soften my words a little. “I’m not going to hurt you, Haven. I’m going to keep you safe until you can think clearly enough to keep yourself safe.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for the trap.
But she won’t find it. I’m too good at this.
“You need to trust me,” I say. “Even if it’s just for tonight. Can you do that, sweet girl?”
After a long moment, she nods.
I hurry around to her side, open the door, and offer my hand.
When she takes it without hesitation, something dark and primal tightens my chest.
The traumatized mind is so remarkably plastic. I’ve always marveled at how quickly it will reshape itself. All you have to do is provide a hint of safety in moments of crisis.
Right now, Haven’s brain is literally rewiring its neural pathways, forming new associations.
Bastian equals safety.
Bastian equals protection.
Bastian equals trust.
She has absolutely no idea that the hand she’s holding belongs to the most dangerous man she’ll ever meet. If she knew the things I want to do to her, she’d run screaming back into the forest.
Poor, broken Haven has no idea she’s trading one collar for another.