11. Trapped #2
No way.
He purses his lips together. Without another word, he pulls open the refrigerator. He bends low, grabbing something from the crisper drawer. A quick wash at the sink in the kitchenette and, as I watch him curiously, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out his pocketknife.
I gulp as he flicks it open easily before making quick work of the red apple he plopped down on the wooden cutting board.
Once he’s done slicing it up, he wipes down his blade, disappears it back into his pocket, and plates up the apples.
Connor stalks toward me until the plate is in my reach. “Eat. You got too skinny when you were… gone.”
Gone. What a nice way to put it up. So far, we haven’t really discussed what happened to me. I’ve spent so much of my time sleeping, thanks to his insistence that I ‘need rest’, and when I’m awake, he’s putting on this cheery if insane act, telling me again and again that I live with him now.
I know it’s because he can tell that my six weeks of captivity broke me. Why he’s decided that making me his captive will somehow fix me, no clue, but I think back to what he said to me when he led me to the upstairs kitchen table my first night in his house.
Me being gone did something to him. He couldn’t sleep.
He got the sedatives because he was so worried about me, he searched around the clock and rarely slept; not because Jack told him to, but he had to.
Even if I tried to convince myself that was BS, I can’t help but remember what he looked like when he rescued me.
A loose t-shirt? Stubble? Dark purple circles under his deep blue eyes?
That wasn’t the Connor I knew. Add the fact that he looks like he lost a good fifteen-twenty pounds in between now and the time I saw him last, right before I was taken… why do I get the feeling like I wasn’t the only one who went off food while I was gone?
It’s more notable on Connor. During our high school days, he was a star lacrosse player. He kept in shape during his college years and after. I always thought of him as stocky yet muscular but in an attractive way rather than one of those gym bros whose biceps are bigger than my head.
Attractive… shit. No use in pretending that I haven’t always thought he was gorgeous. Anytime I’ve seen him over the years, I looked. I know I shouldn’t have, but I did, and I could tell that something was different about Connor almost immediately after I woke up in his house.
He lost weight, too. By his logic, he should be the one to eat. And if he does, if he proves that there’s nothing wrong with the apple he sliced in front of me, maybe I’ll have a little…
I point at Connor again. This time, I move my fingers to my mouth, circling it before making visible chewing motions. That done, I point at Connor once more, then cross my arms over my chest, waiting.
He immediately pops an apple into his mouth. Once he’s chewed and swallowed it, he arches an eyebrow at me as he shoves the plate at me. “Your turn.”
Fine.
Snatching one for me, I lift it to my lips and nibble on it.
“Red delicious,” he says, a hint of satisfaction to his voice as he watches me eat. “Most people think they’re trash—”
Mid-chew, I frown.
“—but I know they’re your favorite so I had them delivered. Go on. If you want peanut butter, too, just say so.”
He’s not wrong. I love red delicious apples, and my favorite snack used to be a dollop of peanut butter and sliced apples. Not very Offering-like of me, but it’s true… only how the hell does he know that?
I don’t ask. I can’t ask. And the answer to why lies in the casual way he tucked that last part on to his comment.
Say so?
I’m sorry, Connor, but even if you’re pretending to be nice to me… even if you’re pretending to take care of me… my voice is gone. I’ve tried. In the silence of the spare room, when I was all alone, I tried, and nothing happens.
Laying the half-eaten piece of apple back on his plate, I turn my head from him in time to hear him curse under his breath.
“Shit. Don’t mind me. I wasn’t thinking.”
The old Haven would’ve given him a not-so-sweet grin and told him that that was obvious. The new Haven? I just float away, tucking the edges of his shirt beneath my ass before I sit gingerly on the edge of the couch.
Connor stands there with the plate in his hand for a second. He curses again before placing the plate of apple slices on the coffee table.
“Stay here,” he says, and there’s no denying that there’s panic in the order. “I’m gonna run upstairs and grab something from my office on the second floor. I’ll be right back.”
He waits for a response. When he realizes he isn’t going to get one, he backs up slowly before taking the stairs two at a time. The door closes, and I hop to my feet.
I count to ten. Once I do, I ignore the slight pain in my aching feet as I hurry up the stairs. This is my chance. If he’s busy on the second floor, I can sneak out through the first floor, slip outside, and put some distance between us before he has any idea I’ve run again.
At least, that was the plan.
My plan sucks.
Connor, Connor, Connor… I guess, after seeing me try to flee multiple times now, he’s gotten a little smarter.
Either that, or he’s finally figured out that he can’t trust Haven Smith to be a good girl and do what she’s told.
Doesn’t matter. When I reach the top step, I discover that the basement door is locked.
I’m trapped down here.