Chapter 25
Elowen
My sleep shatters at the sound of drilling.
My head spins as I try to open my eyes. After a few slow blinks, I manage. There are men inside the room, drilling something into the window frame. This room isn’t mine. It’s not a room in any house I’m familiar with.
I sit up. The men see me, stop working, and leave.
I look around. It’s a small bedroom with minimal furniture.
Only a wooden bed with simple white bedding, a nightstand, a single sofa, and a coffee table.
There are no doors to the room, the closet, or the bathroom.
The dirt on the floor suggests they were removed very recently.
I move to get out of bed, but before my feet touch the floor, a man enters the room. Hunter Blackwood. My brows pinch together. I get out of bed and face him.
“What is this? Where am I?”
“This is my house. You’re in my house,” he intones, his face devoid of emotion.
He extends his hand. “Come with me.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Send me back home.”
“This is our new home.”
“Our?” I bite out.
“Yes. Have you forgotten you’re still my wife? Throwing the ring won’t undo that.”
I laugh at his ridiculous nonsense, throwing my hands up, a sharp pain shoots down my wrist, wrapped in white gauze.
“You lied to me,” I snap. “I wouldn’t have shaken your hand, let alone married you, if you hadn’t deceived me into believing you were Salvario.”
“If my memory serves me right, you didn’t just shake my hand, you threw yourself into my arms, believing entirely on your own that I was Salvario.”
“That was a misunderstanding.”
“And what you did at the party, what was that?”
I purse my lips. “I was drunk.”
“And the next day, you agreed to go on a date with me.”
I take a long breath to calm myself. “Because you told me you’d lost your memories, you were clearly manipulating me.
Yes, I believed on my own at first that you were Salvario, but that was also because you were behaving exactly like him.
I know you came with a plan and manipulated me from the start. ”
He takes a step closer to me, his eyes now showing some emotion, and the emotion is hatred. Pure, unfiltered hatred.
“I may have lied with my words a few times, but never in my life would I act like that motherfucker. Even if wearing his skin were the only way to get you, I wouldn’t have done it. As much as I want you, I hate that bastard just as much. So no, I didn’t act like him to manipulate you.”
I laugh, mocking. “You think you can still fool me? I know Chris sent you to me so you could use me to reach my family.”
“Believe what you want.” He grabs my jaw. “If the thought that you were completely innocent and I was the bad guy who came with a plan to manipulate you helps you sleep at night, then go with it.”
I knock his hand away and plant both palms on his chest, pushing him back until he’s out of my space. “I don’t care about any of your nonsense. Just send me back.”
“No.”
Anger bubbles in my chest. “I’m asking you one last time, nicely. Send me back.”
“You can try asking not nicely. The answer won’t change. Now come with me, there’s work to be done here.”
I walk past him, out of the room. There is no other room in the house, just a living room and a kitchen. The same men who were working in the room are now sitting on the living room sofas.
It doesn’t take me more than a few seconds to spot the entry door. The man rises from the sofa as I reach the door. I slip on a pair of flip-flops from the shoe stand, then open the door and step outside.
What’s in front of me is a forest, a cold forest with tall trees. A shiver from the cold wracks my whole body. The only things I’m wearing are sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I don’t have to guess who put them on me. The last thing I remember is being naked in the shower, and now I’m here.
As far as I can see, there are only trees. It’s evening, and the sun has already set. All sorts of forest noises surround me. There are two thin dirt paths that don’t look like they’re used often.
I don’t know how big the forest is or what wildlife lives in it, and I don’t care. All I care about is going as far as possible from the cabin behind me and the man who owns it.
I start down one of the paths.
Soon after I begin walking, I realize I’m not alone. Footsteps sound behind me, making my anger rise with every second he spends following me.
Finally, when my head feels ready to burst, I turn.
“What the fuck do you want? Is it not clear to you that you have no chance with me? I fucking don’t want to see your bloody face. Leave me, for fuck’s sake!” My loud voice rings through the forest.
His face doesn’t change even a fraction at my outburst. It stays like stone.
When he doesn’t say anything for another minute, I turn around and start walking again.
Then a jacket falls over my shoulders, the blue down jacket he was wearing.
I tear it off and throw it to the ground.
Even though I’m turning blue from the cold, I don’t need his care.
I keep walking until the darkness makes it impossible to see anything beyond two feet and the cold numbs my feet. There’s no light anywhere close, no sign that I’m near the edge of the forest.
“That’s enough for today. Now let’s go back.” His infuriatingly calm voice comes from behind me, like we’re out on an evening walk.
“I’m not going back,” I say coldly, without turning my head, without stopping.
He doesn’t argue. He just moves closer and lifts me into his arms. I fight with all my might to get down, but his iron grip on my shoulders and thighs doesn’t let me.
“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” I shout, hitting him, clawing him, but he’s like a golem, something without nerves, without feeling. He doesn’t even flinch when I draw blood from his neck with my nails.
“Did you hear me? Put me down!” I rake my nails across his jaw. “You lying bastard—you fucking monster—” I scream it at the top of my lungs.
I keep hitting him. Cursing him. Clawing every patch of skin I can reach. Nothing makes him put me down. Nothing makes him stop walking.
Angry tears streak from the corners of my eyes. “Let me go—please—fucking let me go—” My shouting splinters into sobbed wails, but he doesn’t stop. Not until we reach the cabin again.
He opens the door with a press of his thumb to the lock box and enters. The lights in the hall and living room turn on automatically.
He sets me down on the floor and grabs my elbow. I struggle as he drags me toward the kitchen, stopping near the counter. His grip stays firm around my arm. I’m tired and dizzy, the fight draining out of me in slow, uneven breaths.
His face shows nothing, a blank slate. Like he isn’t even a breathing human. Blood trickles down his jaw and neck where I clawed him, thin red lines against tanned skin. It looks painful. Either he’s hiding it, or he doesn’t care about the pain at all.
He takes a box from the drawer and opens it.
It’s a first aid kit. Only then do I notice my white bandage is now bloodied.
My wound must have torn open from all the hitting.
Unlike him, I do feel pain, I just haven’t noticed it because I’ve been in pain for so long.
Ever since I started fighting him, it began. I didn’t think I’d tear my wound open.
I try to snatch my arm away.
He looks up at me with those soulless ash-colored eyes. “Stay still.”
“I’ll do it myself.”
“The only thing you can do yourself is harm yourself.” Something molten stirs in the depths of gray, like fire flickering beneath ashes. “The next time you hurt yourself, do it knowing I’ll inflict double the pain on that motherfucker.”
I frown. “You can’t blackmail me.”
He takes out his phone and shows me a photo. It’s Salvario. He’s sitting on a chair, his hands tied to the armrests, his face filled with rage and pain. But that’s not what makes my heart stop. It’s the blood dripping from the cuts on both his wrists, down the wood of the armrests.
The wounds are exactly like the one I made on myself. The piece of glass I used to do it rests on the table in front of him. It’s an image of my house’s living room.
Hunter pulls the phone away from my face. Slowly, my breathing resumes, and within seconds I’m panting with anger, so much anger I could kill this monster.
I grab the first thing my hand lands on—a frying pan—and smash it against his head with all the strength I can muster. It connects with a loud, sick clang.
“I hate you!” I shriek. “I’ll fucking kill you!” I smash the pan against his head again.
Blood drips from his forehead down his cheek to his jaw. He doesn’t even flinch, nor does he let go of my elbow.
“Are you done?” he says, his voice completely blank.
The adrenaline dies down, and the horrible, bloody scene I’ve made spins before my tear-blurred eyes.
Hunter
Her body sways. Before she can fall, I catch her in my arms. I carry her unconscious form into the bedroom, lay her down on the bed, take off her flip-flops, and cover her with a quilt. Then I leave the room and head back to the kitchen for the first aid kit.
Coming back inside, I remove her bloody bandage. The stitches have torn. I remove all of them, clean the wound thoroughly with antiseptic, then restitch it. I apply a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, cover it with a sterile gauze pad, and secure it with fresh bandage tape.
Once I’m done, I gently place her hand on the bed beside her and watch her sleeping face.
Tears cling to her porcelain-smooth cheeks; her lips are still blue from the cold.
I lean forward and brush my rough thumb lightly against her tender cheek, wiping away the wetness there. I do the same with her other cheek.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I whisper. “It kills me to see you like this, but it would kill me more to let you go. If it were possible to live without you, I wouldn’t have hurt you this much. But it’s not possible. And I’m too selfish to die.”
I kiss her forehead and get up. First aid kit in hand, I walk into the bathroom. There is no door to this room or the bathroom, I had them removed, along with having the windows barred.
All product containers and holders have been replaced with plastic.
Not just in the bathroom, but in the kitchen too: anything that comes into contact with heat is stainless steel; everything else is plastic.
The knives are kept in a locked drawer. I take one out for chopping and put it back immediately.
She can’t have access to anything she could use to harm herself.
I see my reflection in the mirror. Blood has dried on my face and neck, some is from her clawing, but most of it is from the wound on my head. I clean the wound on my forehead, apply cream, and cover it with a bandage. It’s not deep enough to cause trouble.
My phone rings in my trouser pocket. I take it out. Logan’s calling.
I pick up and press the phone to my ear, still washing the blood from my face.
“How’s everything going?”
“Perfect.”
“And by perfect, you mean...?”
“In the evening, she came back to consciousness, tried to leave the forest, hit me with a pan, and then fainted.”
“Fuck, man. If this is your perfect, then I hope every perfect thing stays far away from me.”
“She could have tried to kill herself the moment she opened her eyes. But she didn’t. She still wants to harm herself, but it’ll stay low from now on.”
“And, might I add, harming you is also on the table.”
“It’s not a concern.”
I walk out of the bathroom and settle onto the couch in front of the bed.
“Did she realize where she is?”
“Not yet.”
And I don’t think she will soon. We’re in a small forest near Trento.
It’s the only place where we managed to buy a cabin at the last minute.
There are several other cabins in this forest like ours, but all of them are at a good enough distance that you wouldn’t know the others exist. It’s still not a perfect place to keep her.
Her family could find us. But it’s the best for now.
We can’t leave the country; it would be too risky.
“Did she say anything about why she cut her wrist?”
“No.”
All she’s said to me are curses and heart-stabbing lines.
She stirs.
“She’s waking up. Talk to you later.”
“Okay, brother. Don’t get yourself killed. See you.”
I end the call. She opens her eyes and slowly sits up in bed. She looks dizzy, which is understandable. She hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.
She looks around the room, and when her eyes settle on me, she glares. I get up from the couch and leave the room. I reheat the soup I made for her earlier, pour it into a steel bowl, and come back to the room, where she’s still sitting in bed.
I hold the bowl out to her. She looks away.
“Starve yourself, and the same will happen to him.”
Her seething eyes find me. “Don’t act like you have him under your control.”
“It won’t take me more than two days to kidnap him. And then I’ll have full control over how I want to torture him.”
This isn’t true. That motherfucker now has her family’s backing since they found out I kidnapped her and hurt him. Logan has also gone into hiding. Her father’s men are searching for both of us. But she doesn’t know that.
“Fuck you,” she grits out, taking the bowl from my hand. “I hate you.”
The second time she’s said this. The pain is the same as the first. I’ve heard it stops affecting you after a few times, whether it's ‘I love you’ or ‘I hate you.’ Words lose their weight with repetition. But that rule doesn’t apply to her.
She said ‘I love you’ every single day for three months, and every time it unsettled my heart with the same bittersweet flutter, hope and longing tangled together, a lie that felt like truth for the few seconds I let myself believe it.
I knew the words weren’t for me. But the irrational, delusional part of my brain used to cling to that high anyway, letting me live inside that false happiness.
From that experience, I know that no matter how many times she says “I hate you,” the pain that cleaves through my sternum will not stop.
I watch her drink the soup. Once she’s done, I take the bowl.
She moves to the edge of the bed to get down, then stops and looks at me.
“I’m going to use the toilet. Don’t come into the bathroom.
Since you thought it was a genius idea to have the doors removed, stay outside until I’m done.
If possible, don’t come back inside the whole night.
I don’t want to see your face.” The coldness in her voice sinks into me, freezing the thing that’s only alive for her a little more.
I leave the room.
There is only this cold left for me now, maybe until the day I die.