Chapter 19 Aurora #2
I can’t stay in here forever. I’m weak with exhaustion, swaying on my feet until I have to grab for the edge of the sink or hit the floor.
I don’t even have it in me to dry my hair.
I settle for rubbing the towel through it until it’s only damp, then brushing it out with a trembling hand before forcing myself to return to the bedroom.
He’s waiting, sitting up in bed, with a bowl in his hand. “You didn’t eat, so I made you this.”
He must really think I’m an idiot if he thinks I’ll accept all of this without question. What is the game this time? Why did he put me through all this if he was only going to set me free again?
I could scream at myself as I cross the room slowly, like I’m waiting for something to jump out at me. When I get close, I realize the bowl is filled with yogurt, granola, and fresh fruit. My stomach growls, twisting painfully with hunger.
The last thing I want to do is accept anything from him, but I’m so fucking hungry that I swallow my pride and take the dish. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, I take the spoon sticking out of the yogurt and start eating.
I finish the food quickly, reminding myself that I’m not free. There’s no such thing as freedom around here. I can’t afford to think of it that way. That’s how people wind up falling for their captors. That’s not going to be me.
My body’s exhaustion gives me no choice but to place the empty dish onto the nightstand and crawl into bed.
I could weep—it’s so comfortable before I’ve even lain down.
I need to be careful now, maybe more careful than ever.
He could be doing all of this to make me grateful to him.
Like I’ll let down my guard and trust him more, all because he let me sleep in a bed. I have to be smart.
I have to get out of here. It’s the thought that pounds with every beat of my heart as I settle back against the thick, firm pillows I missed so much on that damn cot.
I would love to burn it. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at me.
I might as well not be here. If only that were true.
I can’t shake the feeling of being in bed with a poisonous snake as I pull the blankets up, getting comfortable.
I don’t think it would be possible to get truly comfortable in this situation—I’m too alert, waiting for whatever is coming next. Still, I’m better off than I was.
Liam walks around the bed and lies down. He reaches over to the nightstand and turns out the light. I can still make him out from the glow of his phone. How long is it going to be like this?
“Are you really not going to say anything?” I finally break down and ask in a soft voice.
“You’re the one who didn’t want to talk, remember?” He glances my way before scoffing quietly.
“Still, here I am, right? What does that mean?” Maybe I shouldn’t poke the snake.
He could strike any second, the way Selina did.
I have to know. I’m not going to lie here all night wondering.
“Did you finally figure out I didn’t do anything to hurt her?
” Because I am not going to say her name. It would probably choke me.
He takes a sharp breath but doesn’t look my way.
He only turns over to leave his phone on the nightstand.
When he does, the faint light still coming from the screen is just bright enough that I catch sight of fresh gauze taped over his wound.
I guess he must have applied it himself, unless he had one of his guards do it.
I don’t know why I care. I guess my mind needs something to latch onto, and this is as good as anything.
“Is it true, what the doctor said when he was stitching you up?” It’s easier to ask questions like that in the dark. “Did you get hurt a lot when you were younger?”
His heavy sigh tells me he’s not in the mood to talk. It makes my heart sink before he surprises me by speaking. “Yes. I had to fight like hell to survive sometimes. There was a point in my life when it was me against the world. You know,” he adds, “since I didn’t have my family anymore.”
He says it like it was my fault. Like I took them away from him. “Were you living on the street?”
I know the answer before he gives it. It’s in the way he hesitates. Maybe he doesn’t want to think about it, but that’s too damn bad. He has gone out of his way to humiliate me, to scare me. I’m not going to tiptoe around his feelings now.
“For a while.”
“How did you get out of that?”
“Why are you asking me so many questions?”
“I’m only curious.” And only trying to learn everything I can about him. I don’t know whether any of it is ever going to help, but I need something to hold onto. Clues I can piece together to create the full picture of who he is.
A soft growl rumbles in his throat. “Somebody helped me. Took me under his wing. Made it possible for me to survive.”
What a shame. I wouldn’t be going through any of this if it wasn’t for that person, whoever they were. No, stupid, you would still be living at home, under Dad’s thumb.
“I was already used to fighting.” Now that I’ve gotten him started, the words are pouring out. “He helped me refine my skills. Made it possible for me to finish school. I owe him my life.” But he never says who it was, I notice. I wonder if I would recognize the name.
He touches a hand to his left ribs. “I can’t tell you how many I broke. Maybe all of them at one point or another.”
Then, he touches his nose. “This was broken and badly set afterward. I needed it re-broken and reset years later.”
He’s on a roll now. “Knife wound,” he mutters, touching a thin scar I’ve noticed on his left shoulder. He then touches another one on his side, pulling back the covers to give me a look. “There were times it was kill or be killed.”
The next question is natural. “How many people have you killed?”
“Do you really want an answer to that? Because the truth is, I lost count.”
I believe him. It makes me shiver and pull the blankets up closer to my chin. What must it have been like, living that way? Fighting just to survive. Having to kill if it meant living to see tomorrow.
He snorts like anything about this is funny before asking, “What about you?”
“How many people have I killed?”
He laughs louder, though the sound is flat. Like a voice in a parking garage. “What was your life like?”
I can’t tell if he’s asking because he’s really interested, or because he wants to find a new way to punish me by forcing me to remember the past. “I was under lock and key all the time.”
“I guessed that much.”
“I’m sorry. Am I not entertaining you enough?” Maybe I shouldn’t have snapped, but I won’t apologize. “I couldn’t make any decisions. I wasn’t even allowed to have makeup. I wasn’t allowed to talk to people. I just… existed.”
He doesn’t really care. He wasn’t asking because he genuinely wants to know. Even though I’m aware of all of that, I can’t help but keep going. I guess it’s because nobody has ever asked before. Nobody who honestly wanted the truth, anyway.
“I guess I was kind of like a doll on a shelf,” I whisper.
It’s embarrassing, admitting to that, especially after what he just told me about himself.
I’m sure I have to sound spoiled. Poor little rich girl.
But then that’s what he always thought about me, so I guess this won’t change his opinion.
“He would leave me sitting around until it was time to take me out and show me off. Everybody had to know what a great father he was.”
“I’m sure nobody actually believed it. Nobody who knew him.”
I wonder if that’s true. Dad’s image was always the most important thing. He guarded it almost as carefully as he guarded me. Not because he loved me. Because he couldn’t afford to lose me.
“I was lonely,” I admit. “I know you probably think I sound spoiled. I mean, after everything you went through, but it was awful being alone all the time. The only people around me were the people who worked for Dad. His guards. Staff around the house. I couldn’t trust any of them because they reported to him.
If they wanted to keep their jobs, they couldn’t keep my secrets.
So there was nobody to trust or confide in or any of that.
I kind of felt like a ghost in my own house. ”
“All I had were my friends,” he counters, and now he sounds kind of wistful. “All we had was each other for a very long time. I had to trust them; they had to trust me. We got each other through.”
Was Selina one of those friends? It would explain the blind faith he has in her. Why he believed her without ever asking me my side of the story. Still, he got me out of the cell, and he isn’t shackling me to the bed now, so he must at least have doubts.
If he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here, right?
In bed with him, comfortable, warm. I need to stop thinking—it’s making my head ache.
The bigger problem is the exhaustion that’s pulling my eyelids down no matter how hard I fight to keep them open.
He’s talking. I want to keep him talking.
I need to find something, anything, that I can use against him and get the hell out of here.
Tomorrow. Once I’ve slept. I don’t think I have a choice; eyes closing, darkness pulling me under before I know what’s happening.