19. Chapter 14
Ibolt upright as a scream tears from my throat, throwing my arms out to catch myself. A sharp pang of pain cuts through my hands. I bring them up expecting to find the nails cracked, half gone, the fingertips bleeding like they were when I scratched at the door, but it’s just another phantom pain.
I’m not there. I’m here. Trapped in this room.
Panic bubbles up, sticking in my throat. Just as I suck in air, reminding myself that even though I’m locked in this room, I’m safe, the door bursts open and Striker stalks in. When he sees me sitting upright, he pauses, eyes scanning my body like he’s looking for damage.
He won’t find any on my skin. It’s all in my head.
“Nightmare?” he asks when he sees I’m unharmed, reaching behind him to shut the door. I notice he doesn’t lock it. None of them do when they come in. I guess they know there’s no escaping them. It’s pointless for me to even try.
I swallow the unease gumming up my mouth, glad to see one of them because it means I’m no longer locked in. “Yes,” I say, surprising myself at my honesty. I must be so relieved not to be alone that I don’t care who’s keeping me company.
Striker leans against the door, his mask slightly skewed like he put it on in a hurry. “Reoccurring nightmare?”
I gesture around the room with a sweep of my arm. “Every fucking day is a nightmare.”
If I could see his mouth, I’d bet he frowns.
“The dream, Little Flower,” Striker says. “Is it the same dream?”
I nod, warmth blooming in my chest at the sweet name, watching as he walks across the room and stands at the end of the bed. He’s wearing the same uniform they always wear, but this one’s a little different. His long-sleeved black shirt is looser and his fatigues a tad tighter on his thighs. He’s got an amazing body like the rest of them, just not quite as largely built as Viper or Reaper. He grips the metal bedrail and and I notice he’s not wearing his gloves. The knuckles under his warmly tanned skin turn white as he grips the bar with his large hands. I wonder what those long, delicate fingers would feel like sliding between my thighs as he called me a little flower again.
“About Prissy?”
My eyes dart up to meet his, my curiosity dying at the mention of her name. “How do you know my mother’s name?”
The skin around his golden eyes creases like he’s confused. “Was Prissy your mother’s nickname?”
“It’s what they called her,” I say, not sure why I’m telling him. Maybe it’s because his eyes look so warm. Like firelight on a summer night. “When they came to visit.”
“Who?” Striker asks, moving around to the end of the bed to sit
“The men,” I say before I can think. I shake my head. Stupid. He isn’t a fucking therapist. He’s my captor. “Don’t worry about it.”
“If you keep having nightmares, it’s something I’m going to worry about.”
“I’ll try to keep it down,” I snark, red flooding my cheeks, fully aware, a little too aware of him. “So I don’t inconvenience my kidnappers.”
His eyes dart away, and when he looks back, his eyes seem harder. “Your mother’s name was Caroline. You’re named after her grandmother Cora. Your father was Drake. They both died in a car accident when you were ten. Who is Prissy?”
I swallow my shock at the level of details he knows about me, but then again, the shampoo and soap I use at home are sitting in the bathroom along with the brand of tampons I buy, so maybe I shouldn’t be. They’ve done their research.
“My parents didn’t die in a car accident,” I say. “Rune killed them.”
His head cocks to the side, making it look like his skull mask is mocking me. “How do you know?”
“He told me.”
Striker takes a deep breath, blinks a few times. “Why?”
“Why did he tell me, or why did he kill them?”
His hands squeeze his thick thighs. “Both.”
“If there’s one thing you need to know about Rune Gavin, it’s that he’s cruel,” I say. “Why else would a grown man tell a ten-year-old girl he killed her parents? To keep me in line.”
“And why did he kill them?”
“They betrayed him.”
“How?”
I shrug, the lie slipping out easily, “I honestly don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I guess not,” Striker says. “They’re still dead, whether or not you know why they were killed.”
I nod, leaning on the headboard, smoothing the sheets at my sides. “Did you watch me earlier?”
Striker tenses, then says, “You like being watched.”
“And you enjoy watching.”
His gaze flickers away for a moment, then lands on the hollow of my neck, moves lower, then up to my eyes. I wonder if he’s thinking about that night in the club or maybe me touching myself earlier.
“Do you want to watch me again?” I say with a smirk as I spread my legs, my sleep dress falling open, and pull my underwear aside, revealing my pussy. “Or maybe you want to jerk off on me like Viper did.”
Striker’s eyes drop to between my legs, not looking away like a decent man would, uncomfortable with the way I’m taunting him, showing myself to him. But then, he’s not a decent man, is he? Decent men don’t kill guards and kidnap people. I open my mouth to ask him why he thinks he’s better than Rune, but I shut it because I already know the answer. He has yet to touch me without my consent.
“Who is Prissy?” he asks again.
“Not one to be derailed, I see.” I close my thighs, stretching my legs out, a strange oily feeling in my gut at his attention, but lack of action. It feels like disappointment, but that would be demented, so I leave the feeling unnamed. “Where’s Delly?”
Those golden eyes flicker up to my face. “Somewhere safe.”
My shoulders relax. “Can I see her soon?”
“Not yet.” His eyes darken, like irritation singes the edges. “Who is Prissy?”
“My mother’s men called her Prissy,” I say with a sigh. “When they came to visit. I heard all of them call her that. Even Daddy did when they came. They’d say, ‘Hello, Ms. Prissy, I’m your bull for tonight.’”
If I could see his face under his mask, I’d bet he blanches.
“And you…” He rocks his head side to side like he’s searching for words, or maybe debating, then says, “You witnessed this? Interaction? As a little girl?”
“No,” I say, slightly pleased I managed to rattle him. I’ve not told anyone about the games my parents played before, and I don’t know why I’m telling Striker of all people. But he seems upset for me. For that little girl. Maybe that’s why I continue. “Prissy put me in the closet and my mother would let me out.”
Striker’s entire body recoils like I kicked him in the chest and he bolts upright. He moves his hand up, like he’s going to run his hand through his hair, but drops it when it slides over his balaclava. His chest rises and falls rapidly, like he’s about to hyperventilate, but then he looks up at the ceiling and seems to calm down.
Seems he’s not made of stone after all.
“Sick, right?” I say. “She’d shut me in the hall closet whenever they came over. She started it after I came out of my room one night and caught Daddy watching her get fucked on the couch.”
“That’s disturbing,” Striker says, sitting back down on the bed. “How old where you?”
“Six.”
His head twitches oddly. I notice he’s rubbing his forearms, his fingers kneading into the fabric of his shirt.
“I think being locked in this room is reminding me of that time. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m in the closet, trapped and alone,” I say, looking down at my hands. A warm tear lands on my wrist and I wipe it away with my thumb, irritated at its appearance. His boots squeak as he stands up again. I glance back over at him. “That’s how I feel here. Trapped. Alone.”
A shadow passes behind his eyes and he looks away.
“She left me in there once for two days,” I say, watching his reaction. When his eyes close and his shoulders bunch, I think that maybe I’ve hit a nerve. Like maybe he—maybe none of them—are as bad as they want us to think. Or maybe they just draw the line at disturbing stories about children. “She got high and forgot about me, too caught up in her game with her men, I guess.”
“Get some sleep,” he says, his voice strangled as he suddenly marches to the door. “We’ll get you for breakfast after sunrise.”
My heart hammers when he reaches for the doorknob. “Striker.” He pauses and turns. His eyes look lost when they meet mine. Hollowed out, like my words created a crater inside him. I wonder if he fears the dark too. “Will you sit with me? Until I fall asleep?”
He hesitates, then releases the knob. Instead of sitting at the end of the bed, he takes the chair by the window and folds himself into it, resting his ankle on his knee, his eyes still holding that lost look as he stares blankly out the window.
After a while, he looks back at me, but he still looks vacant. Gone. Not even in the room with me. “My mother was a prostitute.” The confession slips out so quietly that I lean forward, unsure I even heard him correctly. “Isabella. She wasn’t always one. She was a someone’s daughter. Someone loved her. She had a little boy. Then she left him when she died of a drug overdose.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I’m surprised that I mean it. I’m surprised at the stabbing sensation slicing through my middle. At how his words seem to spill out from him but not unaware. Intentionally. Handing me a heavy secret because he knows I can carry it’s weight.
Because I lived in darkness for a while just like him.
“I was five when she died.” His eyes move over to me, and he doesn’t look lost anymore. He looks completely present. “I was found in a closet, almost dead.”
I wince, an ache forming in my chest that some other child knew about that type of darkness and fear. That deep hunger and what felt like never ending thirst.
For a while we sit in silence and I watch the man who thinks they stole me, not knowing they saved me from a terrible life.
I slip under the blankets and curl onto my side, watching him. “So your mom fucked you up, too.”
He nods slightly, more to himself. “Father was worse.”