Chapter 15
The Flame
The next time the door opened, I was ready for him.
At least, I thought I was.
I had no idea how much time had passed since he had left me with another tray of food and those neatly folded clothes I still refused to touch.
It felt like a day, maybe less, maybe more.
Time had become impossible down here. I slept when my body forced me to, woke when the ache in my ribs became too uncomfortable, and stared at the same four walls until I thought I might start screaming again just to hear something other than my own breathing.
I knew Silas would be angry with me for not following his silent command and changing into the clothes.
But I couldn’t do it knowing he was watching me.
It was bad enough using the bathroom connected to this room.
But I was able to cover myself decently enough with my engagement dress.
There was no way I could get changed. Not knowing he was watching. That he would see everything.
I was already exposed and vulnerable down here. I didn’t want to make things any worse. My dignity was something I was willing to risk his wrath for.
But I’d also made a decision. I wasn’t going to stay here and simply accept things silently. I wasn’t going to go down without a fight.
Which is why I was standing beside the door with one of the bowls from the tray gripped tightly in my hand, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat.
I knew he would see me on the cameras, and so I spent a silly amount of time pretending to clean the bowl with a scrap of fabric I had found.
If I wasn’t “cleaning” it, I was pretending to organise the dishes—anything, really.
Anything I could think of to keep me close to the heaviest object I could realistically pick up.
My palms were damp. My ribs throbbed. My ankle protested every time I shifted my weight, but none of that mattered.
I was waiting. And it wasn’t long until the moment came.
The lock clicked, and my fingers tightened around the bowl.
The heavy metal door opened slowly, and the second his black-gloved hand appeared around the edge, I moved.
I swung with everything I had, not caring where I hit, so long as I hit something.
The bowl smashed against his shoulder rather than his head, the impact jarring painfully up my arm as ceramic shattered across the floor.
I didn’t give myself time to think. I lunged for the gap between him and the door, trying to shove past him, trying to run, trying to do anything other than stay in this room waiting for him to decide what came next.
I made it half a step.
Maybe not even that.
His arm locked around my waist before I could get any further, hard and unyielding, lifting me off balance as though I weighed nothing.
I vaguely noticed that his hands held me in place, but they were carefully positioned, avoiding the worst of the bruises on my ribs.
For some reason, that made me angrier. What right did he have to touch me so delicately when he was responsible for those bruises?
I kicked out wildly, my heel connecting with his shin, my elbow driving back into his ribs. Pain tore through my own body from the movement, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
“Let go of me!” I screamed, thrashing against him. “Get your fucking hands off me!”
He didn’t make a sound. He simply gathered me up into his arms tighter, pinning my own arms to my sides.
He turned me with terrifying ease, forcing me back into the room.
The second he released my arms I clawed at him, my nails scraping uselessly over his jacket and gloves.
I tried to twist away from him, tried to sink my teeth into any part of him I could reach, but he predicted my every move, batting my attacks away like a cat with a ball.
His head cocked to the side, as though my pathetic attempt to defeat him was somehow entertaining. I roared my frustration.
Why didn’t he fight me? Why did he simply contain me? Why was he always in fucking control, even when taken by surprise?
And the fact that he wasn’t even finding this difficult sent a different kind of fear through me. I might as well have been a child throwing a tantrum for all the effect I had on him.
A ragged sound tore from my throat as I shoved against his chest again. “You asshole!” I hissed, swinging with my other arm, knocking against his mask.
That made him move.
Fast.
One moment I was swinging at him, and the next my back hit the corner wall with enough force to knock the breath from my lungs.
His hands slammed against the stone on either side of my head, trapping me there without touching me, his body close enough that I could feel the heat coming from him even through his suit.
I froze.
All I could see was the black of his suit, my eyes level with his chest. His darkness surrounded me, enveloped me, and the anger radiating off him had me hiccupping in fear.
And then the silver mask lowered, creeping towards me, bending lower and lower until it was level with my face.
I didn’t dare shut my eyes this time. I didn’t dare take my gaze away from him—I was terrified of what I might find waiting for me when I opened them again.
My chest rose and fell far too quickly as I breathed frantically through my nose. His arms remained braced around me, his leather fingers tapping against the wall as the nose of his mask touched my own. I cringed, trying to shrink back, hating the feeling of the cold silver against my skin.
I felt the movement before I saw it. The small, firm shake of his head.
No.
The movement was simple. Easy. And I understood the message loud and clear.
No. Stop it. Behave.
“Fuck you,” I whispered, hating that my voice betrayed me. Hating that it sounded so shaky and scared. He shook his head again, and through my fear, I heard the ragged puffs of his breath beneath the mask. Heard the groaning of the leather next to my ear as he clenched his fist.
I looked into his eyes, seeing nothing but black looking back at me.
I tried to turn my head, tried to escape the mask—and the man beneath it—but he pressed himself harder against me, the mask resting against my cheek.
“Please,” I practically whimpered, the anger long since gone, and replaced with nothing but mind-numbing terror.
He didn’t respond. Not with words, and not with actions. He remained against me, his breath fanning my face ever so slightly through the mask.
For long seconds we stood there. Until my body stopped shaking and the fear subsided. Until his breathing calmed down and became silent once more.
And then, and only then, did he pull back from my face, giving me space, allowing me to breathe again. His body was still against mine, one of his legs between my thighs, keeping me pinned against the wall.
“What do you want from me?” I asked, my voice no longer shaking, but holding no strength.
Nothing.
No answer.
No explanation.
No mercy.
“Please,” I whispered, hating myself for the word as soon as it left me. “Just tell me what you want.”
His head tilted again, but this time the movement felt different. Less like warning. More curious.
Then one of his hands slowly lifted from the wall, and I stiffened instantly.
He paused, and once again brought his masked face close to my own, resting his forehead against mine.
The movement had me gasping, but whether from the shock of the cold, or something else, I couldn’t be sure.
His gloved fingers reached for my throat with agonising slowness, giving me every chance to flinch, every chance to turn away.
I didn’t. I couldn’t. My entire body had gone rigid, my pulse hammering wildly beneath my skin as his fingertips settled against the side of my neck, his gloved finger tapping on my pulse in rhythm to the beats.
A sob caught in my chest, and the tapping turned into a gentle stroke, caressing my heartbeat. Stroking my life source.
My eyes flooded before I could stop them. The touch was too soft. Too careful. Too impossible to reconcile with the man who had shot Frank in the head and dragged me beneath his house.
It didn’t make sense.
None of it made sense.
“You killed him,” I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks. “You killed him, you kidnapped me, and now you’re touching me like that?”
His thumb stilled.
For one unbearable second, neither of us moved.
Then his hand dropped from my throat, and I fucking hated how cold my neck felt in his absence.
He stepped back, releasing me from the cage of his arms, and I immediately sucked in a shaky breath that sounded far too close to a sob.
Silas stared at me for another long moment, his gloved hand curling once at his side before going still.
Then he turned away.
I stayed pressed against the wall, crying silently as he crossed the room, picked up the tray he had dropped near the door, and placed it on the table as though I hadn’t just tried to attack him. And then he went about his usual routine.
He laid out some new clothes, pulled out bottles of water, displayed the food, and placed my dosage of painkillers next to them.
The same routine.
The same silence.
Just when I thought he was going to leave, he picked up the clothes and walked back over to me, grabbing hold of my numb arm and folding the clothes over them.
Another message that was painfully clear.
Once he’d left the room and locked the door behind him, I slid down the wall, one hand pressed against my throat where his fingers had been, trying to process what the fuck had just happened to me.