7. Isabel
Isabel
Determined not to let his parting words get inside my head without proof, I wait for the lightheadedness to ease before pushing myself upright. The room tilts slightly, forcing me to steady myself before I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
The bed appears unused. It has a soft mattress and a sturdy frame. That scent of freshness from the laundry clings to the still-stiff bedding. Same with the pillows. It gives a very different vibe that doesn’t match the rest of the room.
The room itself is falling apart.
The wallpaper peels at the seams, exposing cracked paint beneath. Once-bright colors have dulled into something lifeless. The same goes for the heavy and worn curtains covering the one large window.
From where I’m sitting on the bed, all I see is endless blue sky. No signs of buildings. No noise from the busy streets below. Silence. Suggesting my captors drove me far from the city and deep into the heart of the countryside.
I spent half my life in the country. There’s a peacefulness about it that always made me feel safe. Hopefully, that won’t change once I get the hell out of here.
Pushing to my feet, I fight back the nausea, giving myself time to regain my balance. It gives me a chance to take in the rest of the room.
A musty smell rises from the warped, dusty wooden floor when I shift forward.
The dark stains on them correspond to the yellow marks on the ceiling.
The discoloration, likely from a leaky roof, has long been ignored.
There’s an oval section on the floor, untouched by time, telling me that a rug once sat there, protecting it.
I blink. Now that my head’s no longer spinning, I slowly turn it away from the window and take in the rest of the room.
Two lamps cast a warm glow across the room. They look new. Same with the polished dresser, where a misplaced vase sits on top.
The one chair in the corner isn’t new. Its worn, high-backed leather makes me wonder if it was left behind by a previous occupant. Clean, but well-used.
Shuffling, I move forward slowly. My body sluggish from the drugs.
The thought of how quickly my life could’ve ended with that second injection sends a wave of fury through me. Even without knowing what drug was used, my body’s reaction tells me everything I need to know.
One dose would’ve been enough. More than enough.
Even after I woke, I doubt I’d have been able to do much more than lie there. A second dose wasn’t necessary.
I’m lucky it didn’t kill me.
As I continue shuffling my heavy legs, the old boards groan. The closer I get to the large wooden door, its shiny brass handle comes into focus. My fingers tighten around the cool metal, feeling out of place under my grip.
It doesn’t budge. Doesn’t give. Nothing.
“Fuck.” The smooth wood meets my forehead as I take a moment to rest. “Okay. It’s not like I expected he’d make this easy on me. Let me just walk out of here.”
I turn, propping my back against the door, pushing myself to think through the haze.
It’s not easy. My head hurts, making my brain foggy.
When I glance to my right, there’s another door I couldn’t see from the bed. Hopefully, it’s a bathroom. But it could just be a closet.
Inhaling, I take a deep breath before standing upright again to make my way to the door. It takes longer than it should; my body has to fight for every damn step.
The heavy door opens with a light push, its hinges groaning in protest as it swings inward. The sound scrapes along my nerves, too loud in the silence.
The smell hit me next.
Stale. Damp. Unsanitary.
It clings to the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow it down as I run my hand along the wall until I find a light switch and flick it on. The bulb sputters, flickers, then finally steadies.
I almost wish it hadn’t.
The light reveals a bathroom that’s seen better days.
Its tub stretches along one wall, a depressing expanse of chipped, dingy white porcelain, stripped of the privacy curtain.
The rusty rod hangs empty above it. A line of black mold, like a sinister grin, follows the edges where the once-white caulk had been.
A knot tightens in my stomach.
Dead bugs litter the uneven floor, crunching faintly underfoot as I step inside. I freeze for half a second, a shiver tracing its way up my spine, before forcing myself to keep moving.
I’m so tired, my body grows heavier by the second.
The toilet isn’t much better. Rust stains coat the inside, though the rest looks like someone at leased wiped it down. Its seat is bright white. Too white. The only new thing in here.
When I spin to the right, my hands land on the vanity, and I become frozen in place. My severe headache finally makes sense.
The arsehole who punched me did one hell of a job. My right cheek is now an ugly shade of purple, swollen enough to distort my face. When I move my jaw even a little, a sharp, stabbing sensation shoots through my cheekbone, making the room spin and highlighting my instability.
Even my goddamn ear aches.
A sign the drugs are fading from my system. Which means nausea will come next.
As I study the damage more closely, I grow queasier. I’m almost certain the bone is fractured. The pain too deep, too sharp to be anything less. I don’t know how my eye isn’t swollen shut, given the amount of swelling and discoloration on that side of my face.
The left side is not much better in its own way.
Pale. Washed out. Nothing how my skin normally looks.
I’ve always had a warm olive tone, giving me a sun-kissed appearance even in the dead of winter. Larkin used to tease me about how she envied it. Said she’d trade her fair complexion for it in a heartbeat.
Leaning closer, I squint at my reflection, trying to gauge my pupils. I blink a few times, but the lighting in here is shit, making it impossible to tell if they’re blown.
I’m pretty sure they are. It would explain the light sensitivity. The nausea. The way my stomach keeps threatening to turn even now.
Glancing down at the counter, I force my focus elsewhere.
Five items are lined up like someone planned this. A hairbrush. A stack of small paper cups. An unopened toothbrush. A box of toothpaste. And an unused bar of soap.
Bare essentials. Enough to make me feel human for the time being.
Picking up the hairbrush, I move slowly, working it through the knots in my hair. It tugs more than I like, sending sharp sparks of pain through my scalp. But I push through until it’s manageable.
Setting it back down, I take a second, steadying myself.
Bloody hell. This sucks bollocks.
Once I feel marginally better, I pat my palms against the pocket of my scrubs, knowing I usually keep a handful of hair ties inside. I’m not wrong. There’s a lump in my left pocket, and I shove my hand inside and drag one free. Then, very carefully, gather my hair into a loose ponytail.
Even that is almost too much, making me dizzy and unbalanced.
But I don’t stop. I can’t.
Flipping the faucet on next, the pipes moan in protest. It sputters at first, uneven and hesitant, like it’s been sitting too long before finally giving into a slow, steady stream of water.
An odd odor follows. Metallic. Stale.
It drags up memories of the properties my family owns in Hermosa Islas, those that sit unused for months at a time. It always took about a day for the water to clear, for that smell to disappear.
I stare at the stream, and it puts a sour taste in my mouth.
No one has lived here for a while. From the looks of it, it’s been ages. Meaning, it’s the last place anyone would think to look for me.
Fuck.
Needing to do what I can to feel better, I wash my face first, using only my hands and soap. No towels or washcloths have been laid out for me, so I let the water drip dry. The warmth helps clear my thoughts and gives me a false refreshing feeling.
The right side requires careful attention. It’s a slow process. The slightest touch is enough to send a sharp wave of pain through my cheek, my stomach roiling in response.
I breathe through it and keep going. Not about to stop until all the blood is gone.
Now, to brush my teeth.
This won’t be easy, but it’ll get rid of that dry, nasty film coating my mouth. Taking my time, careful of my jaw as I brush. Not that it helps. My arms grow heavy; even this is taking more out of me than it should.
Once that’s done, I grab a paper cup and fill it with water, rinsing my mouth before spitting it into the sink. Red-stained water disappears down the drain.
Pressing my tongue against my teeth, I test them. A few are loose, which explains the blood. Great.
At least my mouth is minty fresh now.
Knowing I need to be careful drinking water that could be contaminated, I stick to a small cupful. Only one. If that stays down and doesn’t make me sick, I’ll drink more again in an hour.
Before walking out of the bathroom, I take one last look at my reflection and groan.
It’s an improvement. Not by much.
As the fog in my head continues to lift, reality hits hard. I’m on the verge of tears as I consider what Aiden would say if he saw me right now.
“You’d better hope he doesn’t find me first,” I say to no one. “Because I’m starting to think he might be more dangerous than Gabby… and that’s saying something.”
No longer wanting to look at myself, I flip off the light and head back for the bed. I’m wiped out. I need to lie down. Rest.
The bedroom door swing opens before I make it halfway, startling me. The three men who brought me here step inside, their bodies filling the doorway.
My heart slams against my chest, instinct screaming. Fight-or-flight.
There’s nowhere to run. So, I square my shoulders and prepare to put up one hell of a fight.
Marty turns to look at me, and I catch something I hadn’t earlier—his tattooed arms on full display beneath a dark t-shirt.
“Boss wants to see you.”
“Fuck him. Who are you?”
I retreat, angling toward the bathroom, hoping I can make it before they close the distance. If I can lock myself in, even for a few seconds, it might be enough to come up with a plan.
He smiles. “You don’t recognize me?”
It’s nothing like Marty’s. The light that should be there is missing. It’s replaced by a creepy darkness—one that chills me to the bone.
“You’re not Marty.” I take another step back. “So, who the fuck are you?”
“Name’s Marvin, Marty’s evil twin.”
His words, the tone of them, causes a lump to form in my throat.
“Are you scared, princess?” he asks quietly. “You should be.”
We stare each other down. Neither of us willing to blink first.
I hold his gaze, refusing to look away first. Fear is a weapon for men like him. He’ll use it to rattle me. And I’m not about to let him.
The first lesson in how to deal with an arsehole is simple. Don’t flinch first.
And I don’t.
Not until he opens his mouth and sics his Russian dogs on me.
“Maybe it’s time to show her who’s in charge, boys.”
He never breaks eye contact—but he doesn’t have to. The moment the two fuckers behind him zero in on me, I’m forced to shift my focus.
I have no choice. I can’t fight them off if I’m focused on him and not them.
They’re fast and strong.
Hands clamp around each arm, hoisting me into the air. The floor drops away beneath me as I’m being dragged back to the bed.
I scream as loud as I can.
Not that I expect it to do me any good.
This constant jostling makes my head swim. The water I just drank churns in my stomach. I try to hold it down but lose the battle when they toss me on the bed and grab me again to do things I refuse to ponder on.
The acrid taste of bile floods my mouth, burning its way up my throat before I violently vomit all over them.
Their reaction is instantaneous. The tossers drop me too quickly, and my head snaps with the movement, pain flaring as I’m jostled around even more.
Both men yell in Russian, probably about how disgusting it is to be covered in vomit.
Serves them right.
In the doorway, Marvin chuckles as the man who punched me in the garage seizes my throat and yanks me toward him. His arm draws back, and I know exactly what’s coming, but I’m powerless to stop it.
The air crackles with animosity as he clenches his fist, ready to unleash his anger.
A sharp, startling pop cut through the air.
The sound echoes around the room, leaving a profound, heavy silence in its wake as the bullet rips through him, snapping his body sideways. The force spins him off balance before he crashes onto the bed next to me with a sickening thud.
I stare into eyes that have no life behind them now. Blood gushes from his wound, the metallic scent hitting me almost instantly as it spreads a bright red pool across the bedspread.
The air crackles with a loud, terrifying scream.
Mine.
My throat burns raw, each sound scraping on the way out, the pain feeding the pounding in my head. Each beat a deafening drum.
In the doorway, the man from before stands.
Our eyes meet.
The sharp scent of smoke curls from the gun in his hand. It mingles with a bone-chilling coldness that permeates the air. I stumble backward, collapsing against the mattress, my muscles weak and trembling.
The world dissolves into a hazy mess as a wave of shock floods my senses.
The last thing I see before my vision fades is the man grabbing the other Russian by his throat, his gun pressed against his forehead.
After that…
I don’t know.
I’m not sure I want to.