Chapter 13 Thea
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEA
He’s humming.
It’s soft and slow, from the adjacent room. A rendition of “You Are My Sunshine,” which is too sweet for what he’s about to do. The notes drift lazily through the air, bouncing off the cathedral-like walls as more a nightmare not a lullaby. He’s off-key too, and he couldn’t care less.
What’s he going to do with me? I hope Tonya’s okay. The thought slips in before I can stop it. Because I won’t be.
The room I’m in is enormous, which I’d expect from the mansion we drove up to earlier.
I can’t see every corner from where I’m chained, but what I can see makes my skin prickle.
Behind me, a massive fireplace looms, carved from stone with a mouth wide enough to swallow me whole.
Iron chains wrap my wrists and ankles, running up to where they’re bolted into the wall above.
Every small movement sends a metallic clank echoing through the room, the sound ricocheting off the vaulted ceilings.
My hands don’t reach each other, so I have to twist my wrists to itch and fight the metal’s rub on my raw skin. I’m sweating even though the air is blowing cold, and it stings where it drips down my tattered sores.
I work to inhale steady breaths to remain calm, but my heart thumps with each repetition of his hummed song. To distract from the agonizing wait, I scan the walls.
Oil paintings line them from bottom to top, their gold frames gleaming in the dim light. Stern faces and empty eyes watch me from all four walls like they’ve seen this before. I swallow.
Don’t think about it.
Block it out.
He may take from your body, but don’t let him take from your soul.
I chant in my mind as I’m sprawled out on the veined black marble floor. It’s cold, my knees are numb, and I eye the black leather sectional outlining a section of the room, wishing I were chained there instead.
This man’s living room is like some cruel ballroom. Across the room, velvet drapes hang tall and open over towering windows. I gaze out at them with a warped appreciation for the faint glimpse of streetlights and a few dots of stars.
I stare, attempting to savor being alone in the silence. Wait—
It’s silent.
A chuckle fills the doorway, and I startle, chains smacking against the marble floor as I scurry back.
Bishop.
I only know the name because that’s how his guards referred to him.
His black hair hangs down in his eyes, tamed by a wet-looking gel.
Fine lines crinkle as he savors the sight of me bound.
He leans in the doorframe, arms crossed over a tailored navy suit with a familiar gold tie.
His cufflinks glisten, his shoes gleam, and the hungry curl of his smirk sharpens his otherwise untraditionally handsome looks.
He can’t be older than forty. But the way his ravenous gaze lingers—he’s a man getting ready to play with his new toy.
The pit in my stomach grows, and nausea bubbles in my gut.
“No one can see you,” he says, with a faint foreign accent. “The windows have a special coating on the outside. No one can see in.”
My shoulders sag, and another flicker of amusement passes across his face. He tucks a hand into his pocket and circles the glass of amber-colored liquid in his hand.
“What is your name?” he asks. “I’d rather not call you seven-fifty-five when I take you.”
My head snaps back, and I wrinkle my nose. I’m going to vomit.
He throws his head back, laughing, and walks to the part of the couch positioned opposite me.
I crawl back farther, drawing the chains taut, and watch him drink. I gave away my vial, and as he brings the liquor to his parted lips, I imagine if I’d held on to it, I might get a few drops in there at some point. He has to unchain me sometime. Right?
It doesn’t matter now, though. He’s got me, and I’m going to experience what every other girl in our bunker has.
Tears well in my eyes, and when Bishop’s grin widens at the sight of them, I look away to let them fall. My mind swings between counting how many times he might hurt me and trying to shut myself off from feeling anything at all.
I can’t do this. I wish I could die. I don’t want to experience this every week. I-I can’t.
I’ve had my fair share of unwanted attention from boys in school or men in college, but this goes beyond. This is a whole new level of depravity I’m about to experience.
My body shakes, and I wipe the sweat beading on my upper lip.
Somebody help me. Would anyone come if I screamed?
He stands, gliding over to where I’m heaped in a tangled pile of limbs on the floor. He reaches down for my face, but I flinch, pulling and ducking away. Undeterred, he fists my hair and jerks my head to the side. A sound breaks from my throat, and he exhales, as if he enjoys it.
“Good … I can’t wait for more of that out of your mouth.
” He thumbs my lower lip, smearing his salty digit over it.
Disgusting. “Tell me … did Slade DuPont enjoy you?” He snickers.
“You sure are the talk of the society. The youngest DuPont doesn’t show up at EV on off days. Ever. Not until he bid on you.”
The memory of the congressman outside the door flashes in my mind. Slowly, I look up at Bishop. Every inch of him whispers money, control, like he could—will—bleed me dry. A chandelier dangles above him, all glinting crystal and obscene with wealth, and I close my eyes, releasing a hollow exhale.
There’s an odd stillness in knowing it can’t get any worse.
Just block it out. Go somewhere else, Thea.
Bloom where—
“Bishop.”
My eyes pop open to find a guard standing in the threshold between the living room and hallway.
“What?” Bishop snarls, whipping his head toward the man.
“You have a visitor.”
Inside, I sigh with relief. Thank God.
“Send them away. I’m busy.”
The guard pauses, pulling the lapel of his suit down. He clears his throat. “It’s Congressman DuPont, sir.”
My eyes widen and my spine straightens at the same time Bishop yanks his hand away from my head. Then he glances over his shoulder at me with a sneer.
What? Congressman DuPont? My pulse spikes. Why in the world would he be here?
“Damn it.” Bishop considers for a moment, then adds, “Send him in.”
No. He’s going to see me like this. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care.
But I’m a mess. My hair is snarled, my face is drowning in a blanket of sweat and tears, and my outfit won’t stay up.
Bishop approaches me, dragging a hand over my shoulder, and moves behind me. What is he doing?
“In here.” A guard ushers Slade into the living room, and he immediately lays eyes on me.
A hand draws up the back of my neck, and Bishop fists my hair once more. I wince, and Slade tracks it all.
“Congressman DuPont. This is a surprise. What are you doing here?”
Slade continues to stare at Bishop petting me. My scalp stings, but I keep still and work to ignore the unbearable sensation flooding my senses.
I’m not sure why I don’t want to cry in front of Slade. For some reason, I yank the will from somewhere deep down to remain stoic. He’s probably wondering why I’ve ended up chained to the fireplace and haven’t used my GHB on the man.
“Oh. That’s right.” Bishop snaps with his free hand. “You don’t talk. Funny, I listened to your acceptance speech on election night. Voted for you, too.”
He snickers, and my trembling stops for a moment as I rack my brain, trying to imagine what Slade’s voice is like. Is it average, or deep and baritone? Does it soothe or incite a response? I pause at that, irritated.
“Can I get you a drink?”
Slade nods.
“Right this way.” Bishop releases my hair, and I slump with relief. But instead of moving, he kneels down next to me, inches from my face. His breath is rancid—a mix of alcohol and heavy garlic.
My body rebels, and I shake enough that the chains scrape against the marble floor. Bishop’s eyes are a deep green, his pupils blown wide, and from this close I can count the crow’s feet lines bursting around each eye.
I ignore him, choosing to focus on the pair of leather armchairs flanking the hearth.
Get out of my face, hovers on the tip of my tongue, but it never makes it out. One wrong breath and I’ll break—right here, right now. Under Bishop’s scrutiny, every muscle locks tight as I fight the panic bleeding through me. Whether Slade notices, I can’t tell. But his stare burns into me.
A sweaty palm lands across my face, and the sting is instant, in tandem with the loud SLAP.
An “Ahhh!” escapes from my parted lips before I snap them shut and bite my tongue so hard it bleeds. Heat blooms in my cheek, like a hot coal pressing into my skin. My head jerks sideways from the force, and several loose curls swing into my eyes.
My face throbs, but my pride burns hotter. They both watch me. One enjoying, the other …
Humiliation rushes in, settling a knot in my throat, and worse than the crack across my face are the tears pouring down.
“Shhh,” Bishop says. “There, there.” He hums again. “You are my sunshine, hmm-hmm, hmm-hmm-hmmm …”
Each note vibrates in the air, syrupy and slow, like he’s trying to put me to sleep. This child’s tune will forever be on my list of no-gos.
Slade stands there, unfazed by Bishop’s antics, like he’s done this before. Like the sound is part of his ritual. I hate that it echoes in my head.
Bishop continues to hum, staring at the spot where he hit me. Dread curls tight when he leans forward and licks the aching side of my face. I recoil, and he laughs.
As Bishop stands, I look toward Slade and nearly jump out of my skin. His expression is a storm—jaw clenched so tight his muscles jump and twitch beneath his skin. His nostrils flare with ragged breaths, and through the frames of his glasses, his eyes burn wild.