Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Tom’s burning the bacon, but there’s no way I am eating it anyway, so I don’t give a fuck.
He’s facing me instead of the stove, and I tuned out of his incel-ranting about thirty seconds ago.
It started the second I sat down, and I just can’t be bothered.
If I listen too closely, I’m going to lose it.
And I need him to think I’m compliant so I don’t get hurt before I figure out what is going on.
Maybe I’m trained to be this way by my upbringing, because the second I stop thinking logically about it, everything in my being is saying, “just make the man happy.” Maybe the “strong feminist” thing to do would be to challenge him, but I have exactly zero self-defense training beyond a few videos I’ve been able to watch online.
When push comes to shove, I am not pushing nor shoving, I am keeping my ass safe by keeping sweet until an opportunity presents itself.
So, while he’s rambling about how women taking men’s jobs is why our economy is ruined, I’m checking if the kitchen window is barred (it’s not); if I have a straight shot to the front door (no); if he keeps weapons on him around the house (a knife but not a gun).
It’s a miracle I’m not vibrating in my seat at the table, because the amount of adrenaline running through my body has me convinced I should be shaking right out of my seat. Tom waves the spatula around like it’s a pointer, and my eyes follow it, remembering that it’s a weapon in his hands.
“Tom?” I say when he pauses. “Would you like me to finish breakfast? It’s the least I can do.” I look up at him through my lashes, simpering. Having him away from the stove and the spatula will give me the smallest relief, so I hope he takes the bait.
He smiles and stands straighter, as if it’s a wonderful idea that he only just thought of. “Yeah, sweetheart, I’d love it if you made me breakfast.”
Raising my cheeks in the fakest pageant girl smile of my life, I stand and hold my hand out for the spatula. Tom hands it over, beaming as I scurry over to the stove.
“I’m so glad you seem to be feeling better.
” He stretches out in the chair as I take the bacon out of the pan and crack some eggs into the grease.
I don’t like them that way—too greasy—but I’m not leaving the stove until I absolutely have to.
God only knows why he didn’t see the spatula and the heavy cast iron pan as weapons, but I sure as hell do.
For that matter, the hot grease is, too.
Feeling somewhat safer, my adrenaline rush subsides, which unfortunately means that my fear and anxiety have come sauntering in its place. My empty stomach clenches, telling me that I’d better not even try to put anything in it. No worries there, you couldn’t pay me to eat that sweaty finger bacon.
“How do you like your eggs?” I ask over my shoulder, hoping Tom won’t start up again.
“Over easy, sweetheart, just like you.”
I shudder, hoping he doesn’t see it. “Great.” What the fuck does that even mean?
From here, I can see out the window into the woods toward my house.
It’s far enough that I have no hope of actually seeing it, but just looking makes me feel marginally better, more in control.
If I can get him to leave me alone in the kitchen, I can climb up on the counter and squeeze my ass through that little thing.
Then, I’ll have a straight shot to my house, instead of needing to waste time circling around.
A small part of me still hopes Seth is coming, but it’s fading fast. If he were, he’d be here by now.
And who the hell do I even think I am, asking for his help?
Sure, we’ve had some good times in dreams, and he made me cookies, but he was just trying to cheer me up.
He was doing what he had to do to keep me happy.
He didn’t need to put me into bed, though. He didn’t need to put frozen broccoli on my head. He didn’t need to make me cocoa. That same small part of me doesn’t want us to give up hope, even though he’s probably my least likely option.
No, more certain is me thinking up some way to get out of here on my own… hopefully before my dad flies across the country to find me. I squeeze my eyes shut, because all of a sudden, I feel like crying.
Maybe it’s the familiarity of cooking, maybe it’s the knowledge that as tough and independent as I like to pretend I am, none of this would’ve happened if I’d been brave enough to leave my house this last year.
If I’d been able to go to the store, Tom would never have gotten my groceries, and I’d never have given him the impression that anything like this would be welcome.
Maybe it’s just exhaustion.
I have to believe that I will get out of this, that someday I’ll be safe again, but stories of kidnapped women shove themselves to the forefront of my mind.
Women forced to be men’s “wives,” held captive only five minutes away from home.
I can’t let it happen to me, because if I couldn’t leave my house after my attack, surely I’m not strong enough to survive something like that.
No, I have to find a way to get out of here, quick.
Movement in the forest catches my eye, but when I turn to look, there isn’t anything there. Wishful thinking, I suppose.
The eggs are done, so I reluctantly turn off the stove, though I do note that it’s gas and perhaps that could come in handy at some point. I slide them onto the plate and pick it up. I turn, and then frown, because I could swear I heard something coming from the front door. A scratching, maybe?
Tom must have heard it, too, because he shoots to his feet.
The scratching is followed by a loud slam that I can feel reverberate through the house.
Seconds later, Henry comes bounding into the kitchen, making a beeline for Tom.
He might be old and lazy, but none of that is evident right now.
Instead, he knocks Tom to the ground like before, and stands on his chest, dripping saliva onto Tom’s face.
I shift, ready to flee and then call Henry after me, but I’m stopped by a voice in the hall.
“Ready to go, Princess?”
The plate falls from my hand, shattering on the ground. My knees buckle like I’m in an old-time movie.
Seth steps through the archway, and he has to duck his head to make it.
In the context of Tom’s kitchen, it’s obvious how massive he is, head nearly hitting the ceiling.
Just as I remember, he’s wearing that white and red mask, one I’ve come to love, if I’m honest. He doesn’t carry a weapon; between his size and the wicked claws that tip his fingers, he is a weapon.
I stare up at him from where I kneel on the ground, because my brain is having trouble computing reality.
He’s here.
He’s real.
I’m safe.
“You came,” I gasp out, rocking back to standing.
“You needed me.” He holds out a hand and pulls me up, tucking me behind him. The soft fabric of his jacket is cold against my cheek, and I breathe in the crisp, comforting scent of him. Crisp balsam and bright cranberry, he makes me feel immediately safe.
From the floor, Tom blubbers, and I can’t understand any of what he’s saying.
“Henry, heel,” Seth says, and he cracks his knuckles.
Oh shit. Giddiness rises in me, because his voice is cold enough to make ice.
My nightmare’s back, and you’re in big, fat trouble.