Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When his words and their meaning hit me, I feel nausea clawing its way up my throat.
I jerk away from Deacon, who thankfully lets me go, to bolt outside the small, oppressive workshop.
Barely making it outside, I bend over double, one hand on the side of the building, and this time I’m not able to keep my breakfast down.
At least half of it ends up in the grass in front of me, and my knees shake as I heave with my fingers curled against the rough wood.
Footsteps make me jerk sideways, but Deacon only clasps my shoulder gently and twines my hair around his fingers with a sigh.
“You’re taking this about as well as I expected,” he observes as I heave again.
The bile in my throat has me shuddering, and I know I’m not a cute puker.
I’m rather dramatic about it, honestly, with tears running down my face and my body trembling every time I retch again.
“Get it all out. You’re okay,” he says in a comforting, not particularly cruel voice.
“It’s a lot if you aren’t raised around it.
” Almost absently, he braids my hair loosely, until he’s twisting it around his hand again to keep it out of my face.
The light tug is comforting, the monotony of it is reassuring, then I can finally stand with my head ducked and panting for air, rather than throwing up.
Unfortunately, the tears are still falling, mixing with the mess only partially hidden in the grass. Another shudder goes through me, but after that, I’m able to push myself fully upright and tug away from Deacon to stare at him in the sunlight.
He looks so normal. Gorgeous, yes. A little mean, absolutely. But nothing about him screams cannibal or killer or monster.
But that’s what he is, I remind myself. Now more than ever, it’s impossible to deny that Deacon and his brother are monsters.
I have to get out of here.
“Oh, there it is.” His goading tone makes me blink, and I realize with a flash of embarrassment that I’ve been staring stupidly at him instead of doing something useful.
“There’s that look of just abject horror.
I’m the worst, aren’t I?” He steps close to me again and brings up his hand to cup my jaw as my hair unfurls along my back now that it’s no longer being held in its braid.
“I’m this terrible, awful thing. I eat people.
And yeah, Sadie-Rae. I’ve killed people.
But”—he bites down hard on the end of the word—“you’ve killed someone too. So…”
“We aren’t the same.” I shove his hand away and jerk back a step. “I killed someone to survive.”
“And that’s not what we do? Look around, Sadie-Rae.
” He lifts his arms, gesturing to everything around us.
“Look at this place. Were you blind driving through Wolf Lake? Or did you just sleep your way through our little town? It’s easy enough to miss, isn’t it?
” He snarls out an unfriendly laugh, his smile morphing into something less understanding that it had been.
“If you think my family started this for fun, then you’re na?ve.”
I shake my head at that, though the words don’t connect well inside my brain. I can’t bring myself to fathom the fact that we’re similar. That he does this to survive, just like I did.
“Waste not…” He doesn’t take a step forward, but his words drift into my brain with haunting clarity.
“Want not…”
I run.
Quickly, and without another word or looking at him, I whirl away from Deacon and sprint back to the porch, my feet hitting the warm concrete and worn steps hard enough that I nearly stumble.
My hands scrabble for the door handle and I yank it open, not stopping until I’m inside with my back pressed against it and my heart pounding in my lungs.
I must stand there for at least a minute, my breaths coming in sharp pants and gasps that burn my lungs as much as soothe my need for oxygen. “Fuck,” I hiss, smacking my head back against the glass that rattles in the old frame. “Fuck!”
There’s really no other word for it.
Noise from outside finally registers, and I turn without thinking, my forehead going back to press against the glass I’ve been leaning against.
In the grass, Pearl leans forward into a play bow, her stubby tail wagging.
With her mouth open and her barks shrill and relaxed, it’s obvious she’s not threatened by Deacon crouched in front of her with his hands outstretched to tease and bat lightly at her shoulders.
He grins as she darts in, a laugh on his lips, and chases her for a few steps across the yard.
It looks so normal. So domestic that my body doesn’t know what to do. A laugh bubbles up in my throat, along with the urge to vomit again, and my head aches from how violently I lost my breakfast.
Deacon only gives me a quick smile, his eyes impossibly blue in the sun, then salutes me from the yard before heading back to the workshop. I just watch him, tracking every single movement. Not that there’s anything I can do about it, or him, or any of this.
I can’t get out of here.
Not without a better plan than the ones I’ve been working off of.
Taking a deep breath, then another, I close my eyes and count to five, trying to ground myself against the glass. The sun is warm on my skin, and after a few more seconds, I finally push away from it.
I need a better plan.
I need to do…something. Anything productive that will help me get out of here, instead of keeping me trapped in this house with these men until they get tired of me and decide it’s time for me to join my friends.
Somehow, I find myself back in the dining room, staring down at the plates of food.
My stomach turns at the remnants of the meal, but instead of walking away, my movements become automatic.
Instinctive. I pick up the plates, taking three trips to get them all into the kitchen, falling into the familiar routine of cleaning up.
After all, my shocked and stupefied brain reminds me as I start doing the dishes in slow, dream-like movements with the hot water running over my hands. I’m a guest here.
I don’t know how long it takes for me to do the dishes.
I barely know what I’m doing at all, and the only way it gets done is because the movements are automatic, easy, and thoughtless.
My hands work on their own, scrubbing, drying, and stacking dishes on the counter like I’ve been doing this all my life.
There’s something comforting about the action, but when I’m done, I just stand there at the sink, my brain sending awful whispers through my head about how many times human flesh was cooked and served here.
Waste not, want not.
The words echo in my skull, as though my brain is trying to make sense of the meaning or turn them into something less fucked up. If I try hard enough, maybe I can see the sense in them. Make them different and shift this whole situation into less horrifying.
No, I finally decide. No, there’s no way I can justify this.
Even if it’s necessary
Even if it’s survival.
This is different from what I did. That I can promise myself with almost absolute certainty as my feet take me back upstairs.
I pass by the room I’ve been sleeping in without my consent, though I backtrack, for some reason, to stare at the closed door of the abandoned primary bedroom with its gorgeous walk-in closet and ensuite bathroom.
Again, I can’t help but wonder who slept in here that makes it such an important room to leave empty in homage to them.
Their parents, maybe? It certainly looks grand enough to belong to the most important person in the family, even if the furnishings are far from what I’d find in some Nashville penthouse. Though upon further introspection, I find I prefer the rustic, country charm to anything in the city.
Not that it matters, I chastise, shaking my head and pushing myself away from the closed door. This place isn’t my home. It’s not a fun vacation spot, or somewhere I want to be.
It’s a prison, a cage, a fucking waiting room as the clock ticks down to my inevitable demise.
There’s something so concrete and final about that thought in my head now. They never intended to let me go. I don’t know why they’re keeping me alive, but I can only imagine that the two men have one use for me.
Then why didn’t they kill you before? That stupid voice in my head won’t stay quiet for long, no matter how much I wish it would.
I stroll past the bedroom again, still not stopping, and eventually end up in the large, comfortable bathroom at the end of the hall, across from Fox’s and Deacon’s room.
Memories of last night bring another question to my mind, though it’s one that isn’t nearly as important as the others. Are they really brothers? Because if so—
My adopted brother.
It hits me, then, that Fox was so careful to put that adjective in his words when he first introduced me to Deacon.
Like it really matters to them, like it has to.
Normally, people I’ve met don’t refer to an adopted sibling that way.
They’re just part of the family. But I suppose in this situation, the lack of blood relation is a pretty important detail.
Without making the conscious decision to do so, I strip off my borrowed clothes and turn on the shower. With the door closed, it doesn’t take long for the bathroom to fill with steam, and the shower head whistles a little as the hot water heater gets going.
I can’t help standing in front of the mirror, even as it fogs up, to look at my face. I’m still so pale and wretched-looking. Like I’m dehydrated, maybe malnourished. Like perhaps I haven’t gotten a real, proper sleep in weeks, even though I feel like sleeping is all I’ve been doing lately.
“Fuck me,” I groan, letting the mirror fog up without trying to stop it. With one last look at my face and the almost unrecognizable appearance glaring back at me, I shake my head and scoff.
I have to do something, or I really am going to be next.
But right now, the only thing I can think of is how much I want to waterboard myself in a very hot shower and dream of being home, with nothing going wrong.
With my real friends; not Ariana, Tyler, and Scotty.
With my cat who got hit three years ago, leaving me in a shitty apartment, alone, without a shoulder to cry on.
With Emma, who will never speak to me again. Who has no idea where I am, what’s happened, and who probably never will. She’ll just keep me blocked, assume I’ve moved on, and never spare me another thought.
Fox is right, and I hate to admit that he doesn’t know just how right he is.
What is there for me back home, other than suspicion, loneliness, and a life that’s fallen apart all around me, no matter how I’ve tried to put it back together?
Maybe it’s better, I think, as I turn my face up into the hot water. Maybe it’s better to die here, to become part of the fucking food chain; ending up just another missing person who will never be found, and whose disappearance will never be solved.