7. Home
SEVEN
HOME
HAVEN
Like a cornered animal, I react before I can stop to think about what I’m doing—or what the consequences might be.
Connor has his hand extended toward me, and I lash out, slapping at him, shoving him away from me, all while shaking my head back and forth as if that’ll get him to understand I need space.
I need privacy.
I need him to leave me alone.
Go away!
“Haven, baby, it’s okay—”
Connor leans down. I’m too frantic to realize he’s that close until my palm connects with his cheek, so hard that my flesh tingles from the hit.
Holy shit.
No, no, no, no…
I didn’t mean to, but I slapped him. I slapped him, and I’ve spent the last six weeks learning what happens when I fight back against my male captors.
As Connor stumbles, hand flying up to cover his red cheek, I recoil so quickly, I smash into the headboard.
My back throbs. My head screams at me. Don’t care.
It’ll only be worse, and my own arms fly up, shielding as much of my face as I can.
I’ll take a punch to the shoulder or the belly if I have to.
Not the head. Not the face. It hurts too much when it’s in the face—
There’s a smash, the thud of flesh hitting, the sound of something breaking. It’s not me, but I tremble as though it is, and it’s only when Connor blows air through his nose and I can sense him farther from the bed that I lower my arms enough so I can peek over at him.
He’s standing against the wall, his back beside the door that hides the en suite bathroom.
His features are purposely closed-off, though the look in his eyes is terrible.
I gulp. Now I can see there’s fury in the hard edge of his jaw, too, and his hands are curled into fists at his side.
The left one looks redder than it should.
My eyes dart from the swollen knuckles, peering upward, snagging on a raised pinkish-red scar standing out against the white skin of his inner forearm.
Is that… is that an ‘H’?
He huffs out a shaky breath. I let out a yip, so quiet it’s noiseless, and bite down on my bottom lip, struggling not to shake.
His face shadows over. “What the fuck did they do to you, Haven?”
Haven…
Where are the nicknames, I want to howl. To say my given name like that, the two syllables almost as broken as I am… Connor, no. Give me one of those flippant nicknames, tease me, poke me, ignore me.
Don’t ask me what they did to me. I swear, you don’t want to know, and there’s no way I can tell you if I wanted to.
Not like it’s necessary. One look at the understanding dawning on his perfect face and yeah…
he knows. Not the details, and I’ll make it so that no one in this godforsaken world ever knows the details, but he knows enough, and I have to resist the urge to pull the blanket over my head so that I can hide from him.
Hide from everyone.
Connor shakes out his left hand. When he speaks, his voice is thick with emotion, though he keeps his tone as calm as possible as though desperate not to frighten me again.
“Bathroom’s right here. Take your time. I’ll wait for you out in the hall. If you need me, let me know. Otherwise, I won’t come back in here until you ask me to.”
Need him?
Let him know? Ask him to?
How?
The laugh that tries to claw its way out of me dies before it reaches my throat, leaving me as mute as ever.
I let my hands fall into my lap, joining the blanket.
Glancing down, I see that I’m still wearing the stained purple shirt I’ve had on for six damn weeks.
At that moment, I know that I’d rather wear Connor’s comforter than stay in the same clothes for a second longer.
I grit my teeth, waiting for him to leave. My skin is crawling. I’m so fucking close to having a shower, and he’s still watching me with a newly unreadable expression on his face.
“Haven? Can you do that? Can you… can you talk to me?”
Has he figured it out? Does he know? Or does he think that my trauma has made me even more difficult instead of irrevocably broken?
I duck my chin to my chest.
“I’m not asking you to talk right now,” he adds. “I’m just telling you that, if you need something, I’ll be right outside the door. You can knock. Throw something. Hell, break some shit to get my attention. I promise you, I’ll be right there.”
That’s the problem. I don’t know why he will be—or if I can handle knowing that he’s out there—but he does exactly what he says. He leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and I know for sure that, if I poke my head out into hall, he’ll be right there.
I don’t. Not when there’s the promise of getting clean for the first time in so long.
I wait a few minutes, just in case. When nobody comes back in, I force myself to move.
A simple shift across his sheets is all I manage before I lift my head and, for a second, freeze.
There’s a hole in the wall. I’m one hundred percent sure it wasn’t there before. Connor must’ve hidden it with his back while he was talking to me, but now that he’s gone, there’s no missing it.
I think of the thud. Of his quiet fury. Of his swollen knuckles.
He punched the wall. I flinched, prepared for him to hit me, and when he saw my frightened reaction, he turned and punched the wall—and I have no idea if I should be terrified or relieved.
In the end, I decide to completely ignore it. He promised me privacy for a shower, and I need to get into the bathroom before cocky Connor Heyward decides he knows what’s better for me and changes his mind about staying outside.
My legs shake when I climb out of the bed.
The floor beneath my bare feet is hardwood.
I’m careful not to put too much of my weight on my broken toes; Noah slammed his boot down on my foot last week when I tried to trip him, and while I set them as best as I could, they’re still purple and bruised.
I test my strength, frustrated that—finally upright—I feel more than a little hungover.
My mouth is dry. I swallow a few times, then decide that this is as good as I’m going to get. I double-check that the bedroom door is still closed. Seeing that it is, I hobble to the bathroom, hurriedly locking myself inside of it.
The bathroom is larger than my entire cell.
That’s the first thought I have, and it makes me pause for a few seconds.
White tile floor. Glass shower enclosure.
A deep porcelain tub beneath a frosted window.
A large sink over an ornate vanity that somehow suits the Heyward family’s understated wealth.
On the side of the counter, he has a stack of lush folded towels with a pristine hairbrush on top.
Inside the shower, I find a bar of soap, three different bath gels, two brands of shampoo and conditioner—including my favored brand—and a fresh washcloth.
That’s what I notice during my initial sweep.
After that, I look a little harder. For the next two minutes, I search every corner of the space for some sort of hidden camera.
Before Winter took me, I never would’ve even thought to do that.
Now? I can’t imagine why Connor Heyward would put cameras in his private bathroom, but I’ll never take the illusion of privacy for granted again.
Only then, when the lure of the shower outweighs my fear that he will see my battered and bruised body naked, do I shrug off my old clothes, shuffle into the shower, and let the hot water do its best to wash the pain, the memories, and the fear away if just for a moment.
I stay under the spray until I’m sure I’m going to wilt away and slither down the drain with the rest of the water.
I’ve scrubbed every inch of my body, lathered and wash my hair three times until I’ve separated out as many of the mats as I could, and feel partway human again as I shut the shower down.
Reaching for a towel, I knock the hairbrush into the sink. Panic rushes through me again. Was that sound loud enough to draw Connor’s attention, letting him think I need his help? With my heart in my throat, I stand there naked, clutching the towel to me.
Finally, I find the nerve to wrap it around me, covering my body up. I grab the hairbrush, ignoring the achy twinge in my arm as I run the bristles through my wet hair. It isn’t easy, but it’s worth it to have clean hair again that doesn’t smell disgusting.
The entire time I brushed my hair, I kept my back to the mirror. I just… I couldn't bring myself to look at my reflection. I know I won’t like what I see, and when I turn to place the hairbrush on the edge of the sink, I blanch when I accidentally get a peek.
After that, it’s like a trainwreck. I know better than to look too closely, but a morbid sense of curiosity has me unable to turn away.
The woman in the mirror has pale skin that almost appears grey beneath the bathroom lights.
Her cheekbones are sharper than they used to be.
Her mouth is split at one corner. There’s a yellowing bruise along her jaw, a darker one fading around her wrist, and fingerprints on her upper arm that probably belong to Cam after he jerked me around during our trip to the warehouse.
Her damp hair hangs around her shoulders, falling forward like a curtain. Her eyes are shadowed, the stark expression in their depths a hint of the shit she went through.
Haven.
I’m Haven.
I open my mouth, ready to remind myself who I am. I’m Haven, and I’m a survivor.
I try to say it out loud, to will it into existence, but nothing happens.
My throat works. My lips part. Air catches somewhere beneath my tongue, but the words refuse to come.
Haven.
I try again to say my name, harder this time, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as renewed panic crawls up my spine.
Nothing. Not a whisper, not a word, not a single fucking sound.