Chapter 23 Thea
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THEA
He toys with my curls—I’m fairly certain he believes me asleep, but I stay still. His shadow flickers across the inside of my eyelids as he moves, paces maybe. Either way, he’s watching. I fight the twitch tugging at my lips.
He’s been in here every night since he saved me. Well, more like kidnapped me from my kidnappers, but at this point this home has become less like a prison and more of a sanctuary.
Slade hasn’t been home much. He’s gone in the mornings, no matter how early I rise, and in the evenings, he floats through the door only to eat and then scurry off. He was so quick to bring me here, only to avoid me.
He doesn’t really, though. He comes in here, turns out my light, and stands watching over me for hours. Sometimes he sits in the chair by the window. Other times, he lowers himself to the floor under it and watches me from the shadows. Each time, he hovers in the dark.
This past week, he’s been touching me, if it even counts as that. I nearly squirm at his delicate touch, wanting more pressure. The way his finger traces my tattoo, or how his shaky hand almost always needs to touch my hair.
My stomach flutters as he twirls a tendril of my hair around his finger, the tug on my scalp ever so slight.
I want to talk to him. I’ve been working up the courage for days to pop my eyes open and ask him everything I want to know.
Why has he been avoiding me? How come he throws out all the dandelions I bring inside? Did he like the dinner I helped make?
I’ve run into him a couple of times, but he always looks pained. Like he’s muttering silent pleas to get out of the same vicinity as me. I swear before the Culling it took restraint for him to stay away.
It’s silly. We share the lake house. Edmond and Stefan seem to have no problem with me, so why does he? Perhaps it’s selfish to want to feel the gut-spiraling throbbing he brought to life in me, but I’ve never felt that before. With Tristan it was … well, not that.
Be bold, I tell myself each night. Yet, each night I fumble the mission.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I’m going to “wake up.”
I need something innocent to talk to him about, if he’ll speak at all. I’ve heard him once or twice call for Edmond, but he still keeps quiet.
Something easy …
My eyes open. “Why do you collect comics?”
He snatches his hand away from midair and startles back. “Shit!” he breathes.
I narrow my eyes at him. He’s in a black suit, a blue button-down underneath that is unbuttoned with the silver tie around his neck loosened past the point of unkempt. He looks wrecked, and something about it hits deep. It’s strange, startling him. I almost don’t trust it.
He pushes up his glasses. “I, uh, I’m sorry …” Running a hand through his hair, he looks down at his shoes, toeing into the sliver of moonlight highlighting half the room.
I study him, at the raw and almost desperate look on his face. When he glances up to see me staring, he hardens his expression and the muscles in his neck twitch.
I sit up, and he looks away.
“Why do you collect comics?” I’m not sure why that’s the question I want to know. Of all the things to ask him. Why are you watching me sleep? When do I have to go back? How are the other girls?
Nope, it’s comics. Selfishly.
He blinks, eyes darting from me to the door. He doesn’t answer.
I push up, swinging my bare legs over the side of the bed.
He backpedals.
Huh. Well, this is an interesting shift in dynamics.
“Not talking again then?”
His nostrils flare. “I’ve always collected them. I need to go.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and hurries to exit.
“Slade?”
He pauses a stride from the door, then turns to glance over his shoulder.
“Why are you here?” I ask, thinking he won’t answer, but he hesitates.
He looks toward the hallway. “Because I can’t not be.”
Slade’s attention turns to my shoulder where a strap of my cami slips from it. Edmond … I growl in my head. He went shopping for me after that first night, and his pajama purchases are fit for a rich mistress. I’d been happy with a sports bra and shorts.
I hurry to ask another question.
“Why did you kill Bishop?” Not, did you? I already know the answer to that. I want to hate him for it, but did he save me and future others by doing so? Probably.
He sighs, fully turning around now and resigned to listening. Leaning against the doorframe, he crosses his socked feet. He adjusts his tie hanging askew as his forehead creases and his brows draw together. Is he trying to figure out why? Eyes rimmed in red, he frowns. “Don’t ask me that.”
His stare bores into mine, and the faint sounds of the night fade into nothing.
My pulse roars in my ears, or maybe that’s the whipping wind in the background, I’m not sure.
My breath grows heavier, along with an ache erupting from somewhere in my stomach.
It’s that look, that intensity that makes me flush as I recall his breath on my neck.
Don’t ask him that?
I grip the sheets tangled at my torso and nibble my lips as his fixation unfurls a longing I haven’t had in a long time.
I’m paralyzed by him and this memory. Why’d he have to create that?
A sudden need to hide overwhelms me, and I retreat under my covers, rolling over toward the smattering of stars in the sky. “Good night,” I clip out.
He exhales deeply. “Good night, Thea.”
Then he leaves, and I’m left with warring guilt and a tormenting burn.
I haven’t forgotten them. Their terrorized faces haunt what little sleep I muster between Slade’s continued visits and my endless tossing. They’re in every gourmet meal, every restful afternoon lying on the dock, or long soak in the Jacuzzi tub. I’m here, and they’re there.
I can still see the stage lights, us lined up side by side in red lace.
Beth trying not to cry. Tonya forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I’ve missed three Fridays. Three Markets that the other girls have been subjected to while men laugh and call out numbers like sport.
Who’s been sold? Who hasn’t been and is now being considered for a worse fate?
The thought makes my chest sting. I’m grateful I’m here, but all I can think is that I left them behind.
I highly doubt Juliette would have the same reaction if she were here.
She made it clear this lake house was in her sights.
She must have a thing for Slade, or for being with a congressman.
Despite knowing she’d most likely not give a second thought about me if our roles were reversed, I still can’t pretend like they don’t exist. They do, and I know where they are.
Any sane person would have attempted an escape by now.
I don’t enjoy being stuck on the lake house grounds day in and day out, but I’d be pushing my luck if I tried to leave without a plan.
Who would I go to? If I went to the wrong law enforcement officer or the wrong person for help, I could end up right back where I came from, or worse.
But I promised I’d do something. Somehow.
So, I keep that in the back of my mind as I wander the house.
I’ve decided the best place to escape from is my bathroom window.
Beyond it, the street runs past a handful of other estates, each set far back on its own acreage.
There aren’t many cameras here, and the ones near the window point away from the street.
It’s the quickest way out, but I’m biding my time, ignoring the urge to be impulsive, and slightly worried about how my leaving might impact Slade.
I know he’s been made responsible for me, considering the sly comments Edmond has made.
Rain patters down from ultra-saturated clouds this morning, and by the time I’ve dressed in a beige romper, courtesy of Edmond’s shopping spree, and scrunched my hair into ringlets, the rain has turned to torrents. So much for hanging out on the dock today.
I quietly shut my door and glance at the only other shut one in the hall. Slade’s office. It’s rarely open, and I’m assuming it’s locked.
Gray light seeps through the windows as I make my way to the kitchen. Through them, the clouds churn, swallowing any sun and blue sky. The rain lashes against the glass in relentless sheets, and I shiver at how angry it seems.
When I reach the kitchen, Stefan is slaving over a griddle, flipping French toast of all things, while Edmond scrolls an iPad at the dinette. He looks up when I enter.
“Good morning, Thea. How did you sleep last night?”
I shrug, roaming around the island until I find where Stefan has hidden the coffee pot. “Fine, I guess.”
“Terrible weather today. Supposed to be that way for the next several days. The yard is going to be covered in weeds.” He eyes me from his spot on the bench.
I smirk, then study the downpour past him through the blurred window. He’ll throw them away; he always does. Turning, I make my way to the pantry where Slade makes sure to keep a stash of Frosted Flakes, much to Stefan’s dismay.
“What are you doing?” Stefan snaps.
“Eating breakfast.”
“No. No, no. I’m making French toast. Edmond tell her.”
Edmond doesn’t look up from his tablet. “He’s making French toast,” he says unenthusiastically.
“I’ll have both. I’m still several pounds from my prekidnapped weight.”
The room stills, and both Edmond and Stefan look at one another. I talk about it all the time. It’s my way of keeping what happened to me, what may still happen to me at the forefront of my mind. I won’t get too comfortable. I won’t forget them.
I make sure they don’t either. A few well-placed reminders. A story about the girls. A detail they’d rather not picture. It’s cruel, maybe, but so is pretending this house is a sanctuary. They need to remember what’s waiting beyond its walls. What’s still waiting for me.