Chapter Seven
My mouth is so dry that my throat hurts, and the monster sitting two feet from me is holding everything I want right now. However, I don’t want him to give me water and then leave. I want him to talk. So, I let him sit there staring at me through that hideously creepy mask.
“Why the mask?” I ask, leaning my head back. The motion gives my shoulders a slight reprieve from the strain, but it’s not enough for true relief.
“Why not wear the mask?”
I take a deep breath, fighting the urge to roll my eyes. “Whatever. If you were going to kill me, you would’ve by now.”
He shifts forward, his body tensing. “Says who?”
“Why wear a mask if I’m going to end up dead? Why cover your identity?”
“Maybe I’m just one ugly motherfucker,” he reasons, shrugging his taut shoulders again.
“You’d be better off not wearing it. Then you might actually give me a real fright,” I snap back, glaring at him.
“You’re mouthy, Little Red.”
“You’re scared I’ll escape you, so you leave me tied to this chair.” I spit the words back at him without fear of consequence. If I’m going to survive, I have to learn his buttons. I need to know how to get to him, and it’s going to take trial and error.
And hopefully, the error won’t kill me.
He lets out a sigh. “Ready for water?”
He didn’t deny it.
“No.”
“You’re a stubborn slut.”
“I’m not a slut just because I let you get handsy,” I scoff, shaking my head. “You don’t know me. You probably just have a cute little file folder on me telling you the outside details, and maybe you stalked me and peeked through my windows like a perv. But you don’t know me. You’ll never know me.”
That irritates him.
He jumps to his feet, and comes for me, his hand wrapping around my throat and nearly cutting off my air supply. “You really wanna piss me off, Little Red?”
“That’s a shit nickname,” I rasp, glaring up at him. “Using my hair color is a cop out.”
“Open your mouth, whore.”
I peer up at him, my eyes watering from his iron grip—and I can’t help it. I smile. That’s the most unoriginal word, and evidence he doesn’t really know me. There was a whore that lived in my house, but it wasn’t me. My vision begins to blur as he depletes my oxygen entirely, and I fight to remain conscious.
“Death or open your mouth,” he growls. “Your choice.”
Unable to draw a breath, my lips part, more out of desperation for oxygen than choosing to get a drink of water. However, as soon as they’re wide enough, he shoves the bottle into my mouth.
And almost fucking drowns me.
Panic sears through my body, shaking me to my core. I cough as the water enters my airways, hacking so hard that I feel like I might throw up. He steps back, and I shiver as the icy water soaks my T-shirt.
Fucking dick.
Doing my best to settle myself, I stare at his shoes, which are some kind of engineer boots. They’re expensive, I can tell that much. I cough harder but stay focused, tears pouring down my cheeks. With a painful, shaky gasp for air, I finally cease my wrenching, but I still tremble, now freezing.
“There’s still half a bottle here.” His voice is full of amusement—and something else that I can’t pinpoint. His boot taps on the concrete floor, and my heartbeat throbs in my temple. I needed the water, but…
“No thank you,” I croak, my throat and chest aching.
“You sure?”
I purse my lips. Obviously, challenging him is going to get me tortured. “Can I please use the bathroom?”
“What?” He sounds surprised.
“Can I please use the bathroom?” I repeat myself, pulling against the binding that hold my wrists behind me. I keep my eyes on his feet, shivering more violently than before.
“Go ahead,” he laughs, his tone dark and cruel as he looms above me. “No one is stopping you.”
I cringe, feeling my bladder spasm. “Please don’t make me do it like that.”
“Ah, so you’re a lady now?”
I shake my head, suddenly tired of the back and forth. My emotions are fried, and I still hate myself for what I let the man do to me. I might’ve almost gotten away because of it, but I didn’t. My stomach churns. My throat hurts. My feet ache—and I need to pee.
He stands there in silence for so long that I think he’s going to leave, but instead he finally lets out a heavy breath. He disappears from my sight, his footsteps light as he walks around behind me. I tense, and then feel the warmth of his touch on my wrists. My thighs clench, and then I feel even sicker.
I should be repulsed.
“Shit,” he grimaces, working whatever is binding me off my wrists.
I whimper, not realizing my fingers on my left hand were numb until the pins and needles begin. I bring them to my lap, frantically stroking the deep purple indents wrapping around my pale wrists. My shoulders cramp from the change of position, but I ignore the sensation.
“They were too tight,” the masked man says from behind me. His voice is flat, unemotional, but the words themselves cause me pause. Why the fuck would he even care?
He doesn’t.
I rub my eyes and push the hair from my face, ignoring how tangled it is. I don’t care. I’m free. My gaze shifts to the stairwell, but I know that I’m not that free. I’d never make it before he was on me again.
“Thought you had to use the bathroom,” he says gruffly.
“I do,” I breathe out, turning in the chair to face him. He stands there, holding the strap of leather that held me. He has no expression that I can see, but based on the way his body is erect and knee slightly bent on his left leg, he’s waiting for me to bolt. “I don’t know where the bathroom is,” I say carefully, still rubbing my wrists.
“Right there.” He nods to a door just off the small kitchenette. “Go.”
I roll my ankles and prepare to stand up. I don’t know why the task seems so daunting, but it does. I press my hands down on the back of the chair and lift myself into the air, my head growing light.
Oh no. No, no, no…
I squeeze my eyes shut as my heart rate skyrockets and my ears begin to ring. I suck in a breath as I collapse backward in the chair, pain shooting through my tailbone. I whimper and drop my head to my hands, pissed that my well-managed POTS, a condition where position changes cause me to pass out, is suddenly rearing its ugly head.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice sounds distant over the ringing, but I ignore him. He doesn’t need to know about the weird syndrome I developed after my first loss.
“Emma,” his voice is brash and brutal. “What’s wrong?”
I tense at a brush of warmth on my elbow, and almost pull away. “I just need a moment. I’ve been sitting a long time.”
“Here.” Something cool presses into my lap, and I open my eyes to see the water bottle sitting there.
So I guess you’re not going to try to drown me again. Thanks. I pick it up and down the rest of it, ignoring the figure standing to my right. I don’t look at him as I finish the water. It won’t be enough to stave off my body’s response to standing, but all I can do is hope that all the work I’ve done will keep me from passing out.
A cramp clenches down on my lower abdomen, and I grit my teeth. I need to pee so bad. I drop the empty plastic water bottle to the floor and begin again, only this time, I’m ready.
I’m probably a real fucking spectacle as I stand again, readying myself to pass out for real this time. However, my spinning head fades as I lean against the chair while righting myself, and subsequently, I feel the warmth of his touch return.
“I don’t need you to help me,” I spit at him, though my voice waivers. I sound childish, but he doesn’t budge. It’s not worth the argument. I take a shaky step forward, and his hand remains on my elbow. It’s humiliating. All the games I want to play and all the strength I want to convey to him die at the feet of a health condition I can’t control.
“I’ll get you food,” he says in a low voice.
“And poison it,” I mutter under my breath as I ease toward the door. He doesn’t say anything else to me as he opens it for me. I’m met with a full gray-scale bathroom. I eye the tiled shower and claw tub, wishing for a warm bath or shower. However, I wouldn’t have any fresh clothes to put on.
Ugh.
A hand on my waist startles me, and I jump back, banging my lower back into the white and black granite counter tops. I yelp at the pain, and the masked man tightens his grip.
“I was just trying to help you,” he grunts. “You’re walking like a drunk.”
If only.
“I can get it,” I say, eyeing him. “Can I have privacy?”
He drops his hand, and I almost lose my balance, unaware at how much I was relying on him. He stands there for a few beats as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should leave, but ultimately, he slips out.
I take a deep breath and undo my jean shorts, damp from the water he spilled on them. As I sit down to relieve my bladder, I gaze up, realizing that the bathroom light isn’t on…
The glow is being cast from a window above my head. A pang of hope hits my chest as I take in the shape of the opening. It’s small, and I’m not sure I could fit through it… If I could even reach it. However, it puts the thought in my head, and I know now it’s more important than ever that I play my cards right.
I finish up and flush the toilet, careful when I stand to my feet. I spent years learning to manage my postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome, and while I never had it as bad as others, I did manage to pass out a few times in the beginning. Stress can be a trigger for me, and this is about as stressful as life can get.
Still trembling slightly, I turn the water on, waiting for the stream to grow warm. The bathroom is nice, and I know that if the basement is this nice, the rest of the house probably is, too. I squirt soap onto my hands and wash them, letting the scalding water from the black sink faucet remind me that I’m still alive.
At least my feet feel better.
I hadn’t even thought about them in the moments of nearly losing consciousness. I splash some water onto my face, and then grab the white hand towel. As I do, it hits me. There’s no mirror in the bathroom. I look up to see a plain black wall where a mirror should be.
Strange, but okay.
I turn off the water, and peer back up at the window one last time. It’s a big gamble to try to escape that way… But it might be my only shot if this guy is really out to kill me. Though I have to admit, I hate the mixed signals he’s giving. One moment he’s trying to drown me, and the next, he’s helping me get to the bathroom.
As I step out of the bathroom, I catch sight of him, lingering just a few feet away and leaning against the counter in the kitchenette. I eye him, not sure if I’m supposed to go sit back down in the chair, or if I’m going to be allowed to have the space of the basement.
“Are you hungry?” The question comes out stilted and awkward.
“No,” I answer him, finally able to wrap my arms around my body.
“Get back in the chair,” he says, nodding to it.
My chest tightens. “Please don’t make me do that.”
“You think I’m going to let you have free rein? You might try to kill yourself before I get to, and I’d hate that.”
Ah, so he’s back to being a dick again.
“It would save you time and energy,” I reason, eyeing the daybed a few feet away. “And I’d really like to lay down.”
“You think I’m going to cater to your wants, Little Red? I just don”t want to clean your piss off the floor.”
I swallow hard, hating myself for the word I’m about to throw at him. “Please. I need to lay down. I’m not feeling well.”
“Are you trying to play me?” he suddenly growls, stepping toward me. He encroaches my space faster than I can suck in a breath, his hand around my neck as he guides me backward and pins me to the wall. I let out a cry of surprise more than anything, but also frustration. I don’t want my air supply cut off again.
“Please don’t,” I whisper as his grip tightens and my hands fly up to his thick wrist. “Please.”
“You’re mouthy one minute and then you’re weak the next,” his voice comes out in a deep grovel. “Choose what you’re going to be, Emma. This isn’t a good look for you.”
My lower lip quivers, and my emotions tug at me. I felt strong until I couldn’t walk to the bathroom on my own. He’s a brute when I’m snarky, and he’s cruel when I’m not. How do you beat someone at their own game when they’re so unpredictable? Of course, then again, I’m quickly proving to myself that I am, too.
“You talk so fucking much, until you suddenly don’t.” He leans in, though his grip doesn’t tighten any further.
“I’m sorry.” I look away from the x’s over his eyes—as if they’re really his. My head starts to spin, and once again all the regrets come flooding back. I should’ve called my best friend more. I should’ve heard Jared out. Maybe I should’ve let Kyle take me out. I should’ve tried to open up instead of closing off so much.
The masked man pulls me forward, my back no longer against the wall. A burst of unwanted excitement churns through my body as he guides me to the bed, backing me up by my throat.
“I should kill you right now.” His voice is low again, almost sounding conflicted as the back of my knees give to the edge of the bed and I’m forced to sit.
“Why don’t you?” The question slips out as he drops to his knees in front of me, his hand dropping free from me.
His hand lands on my thigh as he reaches under the bed, and before I realize what’s happened, I feel the weight of a chain cuff around my ankle. Clearly, I’m not the first person to be in the basement. Panic rises in the form of bile in my throat as he straightens back up, placing his other hand on my thigh.
I want to push him away, but instead find myself frozen, holding my breath as he presses against them, forcing them apart. Fear and unwanted excitement thrum through my body as I wait for him to make a move…
But he doesn’t.