Chapter 29
Ayla
I let myself sink into the comfort he offers, trying to force myself to imagine this being like one of the many romance novels I read before I was taken. Having no love life to speak of, I lived vicariously through the heroines in those novels.
Forced proximity, imagining there being only one bed, being trapped in a place with a very sexy man.
But this isn’t a love story. We aren’t stuck in a snowstorm or trapped on a broken elevator. We aren’t locked in a museum overnight.
We were both abducted, held captive, tortured in the most devious ways. We were broken, left in pieces.
There’s no happily ever after for either of us, especially not one that ends with us being together.
Knowing all of that doesn’t make me climb out of the bed and put a little distance between him and me.
I simply squeeze my eyes closed a little tighter and try to escape the reality of being trapped in another country because I don’t have the proper documentation to get back to Texas.
I don’t want to focus on the burn at the back of my neck from the wound there.
I don’t want to face the truth of any of it.
No, this isn’t a romance novel. I’d classify it as a tragedy. Something more likely written by Shakespeare or Poe. I don’t, however, think either of those men could imagine something so devious and monstrous.
He shifts slightly, the distance he started with last night having grown much smaller, bordering on nonexistent now.
I hate myself for the reaction my body has to his touching me.
There’s nothing sexual in the drape of his arm over me. He isn’t trying to cop a feel even though two of his fingers are dangerously close to the apex of my thighs.
I hate Cortez even more in this moment. I shouldn’t be capable of arousal any longer. I shouldn’t let thoughts of anything sexual infiltrate my mind, not after what I suffered.
It makes me wonder if they managed to train my body to want the things that happened to me.
I stiffen, shoving those thoughts away the second they enter my head.
I never wanted any of the stuff that happened to me. I wasn’t trained to orgasm or any bullshit like that, but I still managed it without even thinking about it with Nash.
My breathing stutters as I’m flooded with those memories.
It feels like more of a violation now, the way he pulled that response from my body. It was bad enough that he was commanded to hurt me in that way. But to make it seem like I liked it?
I swallow down the threat of tears, because, even as I think it, I know I’m lying to myself.
I saw the hatred for what he was doing in his eyes, but I also saw the way he reasoned with himself. He rolled his thumb against me for my benefit, not because he wanted to feel a little better about what he was doing. It was selfless not selfish.
It doesn’t make us soulmates. It just means that he’s skilled in the way he touches a woman. That thought shouldn’t send a zing of awareness through my body but denying it doesn’t make it any less true.
The connection I feel with him is about shared experiences and nothing else. Despite reading romance novels and letting myself imagine one day falling head over heels in love with someone determined to sweep me off my feet, I knew it to be unrealistic.
I mean, I literally got swept off my feet in that fucking parking lot and look where it landed me for the last four months.
The twitch of his fingers against my skin makes me stiffen even further.
They caress the exposed skin on my stomach, and it makes me wonder if he’s just pretending to be asleep.
The erection he’s pressing against me could be simple biology or it could be because he’s awake and expecting payment for comforting me last night when I had a nightmare.
His arm tightens his hold on me when I try to pull away, but it only lasts a second before he releases me.
“Fuck,” he grunts. “Sorry.”
I feel like I’m one step away from losing my mind when he rolls away from me. A second ago, I needed to escape him. It’s a testament to how seriously fucked up about all of this I am right now.
The angle of the sun through the thin, faded curtains startles me.
I reach for the phone Nash bought for me yesterday, verifying my fear. We slept much later than we should’ve. I don’t exactly have a schedule to keep. There’s only one thing I’ve done consistently since being taken, and I’ve somehow managed to fuck that up as well.
My hands are shaking as I dial Alani’s number. It’s my first call since I regained my freedom. As much as I want to keep her safe from all the terrible things that have touched me, I also want to confide in someone I love.
I ache to leave the room, so I can finally have a conversation with her in private, something that was never allowed back at the compound. Cortez or Pirro would practically stand over me, a nonverbal threat to not give more information than was allowed.
After watching so many people get victimized in broad daylight yesterday, I no longer possess the courage I had when I left the room while Nash was showering yesterday.
I settle for the chair that we both took turns sitting in yesterday as the cattle tag tattoos were removed. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t seem to manage to look in his direction.
The call connects, but my sister doesn’t open the conversation with her thoughts like she normally does.
“Alani?” I ask, terror filling my blood that my rescue from Cortez’s compound was traded for her demise.
“You’re calling from a different number,” she says, her voice flat.
I hate that she doesn’t get as excited as I am each time I’m able to speak to her, but it’s the difference in our current experiences to blame for her lack of enthusiasm. I have no doubt she sees these calls as just one more way to keep her under my thumb.
“I’m using a different pay phone,” I lie.
“It’s from a different area code,” she challenges, irritation evident in her tone.
“We’ve moved to a different village.”
Her silence feels like a chasm I’m never going to be able to cross. I want to chide her, to explain that her attitude isn’t necessary, that it’s actually extremely disrespectful, considering what I’ve been through for her. But wasn’t protecting her from all of it the entire fucking point?
I did what I did so she could live her life in the dark, unaware of the horrible things people are capable of.
“Another one where you can only call once a week?”
“I think I’ll get to call more often here,” I say, my skin growing cold at her increasingly annoyed tone.
“Like between filming?”
I freeze, my hand the only thing seemingly alive as it trembles, the shake in it so bad, I nearly drop the phone.
“Wh-what?” I manage.
“Are you really going to act all innocent now, Ayla? I’ve seen the videos.
I have no fucking clue who recognized you and sent them to me or why they were sent on a VHS tape like it’s the damn nineties.
It took me a long time to find one to play it back on, and honestly I hate that I did.
The sick shit you’re into? I can see why you’ve been lying to me about where you are. ”
“Alani,” I manage.
“It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life, Ayla. Mom and Dad would be mortified.”
“I—”
I snap my mouth closed when she hangs up, unwilling to waste energy I don’t have, speaking into the disconnected call.
Tears rush down my cheeks as I bend my face forward, trying to muffle my pain.