13. Eva
EVA
The lock clicks.
I hear it while I’m only half-awake. My body feels heavy because I barely slept last night.
For a moment, I stay completely still and hold my breath.
I don’t know who I’m expecting.
Martin? Frankenstein? Somebody worse?
When the door opens, it’s Greta.
The first thing I feel is relief.
Sharp.
Immediate.
Then, all at once, the pain comes rushing back.
I sit up too fast and regret it right away.
A wave of nausea hits me so hard that my vision blurs. I groan before I can stop myself.
Still, I try to stand up.
That turns out to be a bad idea.
The room spins, and I fall back onto the bed.
“Shit,” I mutter, holding my side.
Greta steps inside and shuts the door behind her with her foot.
She’s carrying a breakfast tray, but her expression changes as soon as she sees me.
“You sick, girl?”
I shake my head, even though it makes the pain worse.
“Just…” I take a slow breath. “It hurts.”
Hurt doesn’t even begin to describe it.
She sets the tray down without another word.
I pause, then lift the hem of the oversized shirt.
Her face hardens immediately.
Deep cuts cover my stomach, swollen and red. Dried blood smears my skin and has soaked into the shirt. No one bothered to clean me up after.
My hand is even worse.
The empty nail bed throbs with my pulse, swollen and raw.
My cheek hurts too.
My ribs.
My throat.
Honestly, I’ve lost track of all my injuries.
Greta looks at every bruise and cut, but her face gives nothing away.
Still, I catch something change in her eyes.
“Come with me,” she says, coming over to help me stand.
My body protests immediately.
Pain shoots through me, stealing my breath for a moment and making my legs wobble.
I grit my teeth and stand up anyway.
Greta opens the door and nods to the guards outside. “Taking her for first aid,” she says, as if it’s nothing.
One of them frowns.
“She’ll be more useful patched up than bleeding all over the damn floor,” Greta snaps. “Or do you want to explain the mess to Martin?”
That works.
They step aside.
I do not understand.
Martin controls this household. Nothing happens without his knowledge.
Is Greta helping me a secret?
Did he allow this?
The confusion sits cold and heavy in my stomach.
Whatever Martin wants from me, he’s not finished yet.
And somehow, I feel like I’m just a piece in whatever game he’s playing.
The hallway feels different now that I’m not blindfolded.
I try to pay attention while Greta leads me through the house.
Count turns.
Memorize doors.
Look for exits.
Anything I can use later.
But my head is still spinning, and my body feels slow and heavy.
Greta doesn’t slow down until we end up in the kitchen.
It looks normal.
That is the first thing I notice.
Stainless steel counters.
Hanging pots and pans.
The smell of coffee hangs in the air, mingling with the savory aroma of something simmering nearby.
It reminds me of every commercial kitchen I’ve ever worked in.
Somehow, that makes this place feel even more unsettled.
Greta pulls a first aid kit from one of the cabinets and gestures toward a chair.
“Sit.”
I sit down carefully, trying not to show how much it hurts.
It doesn’t help.
Greta disappears briefly, then comes back with towels and a basin of warm water.
“Shirt off,” she says.
I hesitate, then pull the oversized shirt over my head.
Dried blood sticks to my skin and tugs painfully at the cuts on my stomach.
Greta’s mouth tightens.
“Pants too.”
A wave of humiliation hits me as I slowly push the bloodstained joggers down.
Greta doesn’t say anything about the bruises on my ribs and thighs or the dark marks around my throat.
She wets a cloth and starts cleaning the dried blood from my stomach.
I hiss in pain when the antiseptic touches my skin.
“Hold still,” she mutters, then says something I can’t hear. But I can tell she’s angry.
She dabs peroxide on my cuts. When she presses gauze to a deeper wound, I suck in a breath and grip the edge of the chair.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know this hurts.”
I grit my teeth as she uses wound gel to close the deep cuts on my stomach that keep bleeding.
“You really should have stitches, but this will have to do for now,” she says, and puts large bandages over the wounds, then looks at my finger, or what’s left of my fingernail.
“I need to clean this. Breathe,” she says without looking up.
I follow her instructions.
In through my nose.
Out through my mouth.
Again and again.
I do not bother hiding the whining sound that escapes me.
My whole hand jerks on its own.
Greta’s face tightens at the sound. For a moment, I see conflict in her expression before she hides it again.
She dabs petroleum jelly carefully over the raw skin, then wraps the finger in fresh gauze.
After a while, the worst of the pain goes away.
Greta tapes the last bandage in place and steps back to look me over.
“Better,” she says.
I let out a shaky breath, feeling relieved.
“Feels like shit.”
“That’ll pass.”
A weak laugh slips out.
“You’re really great at comfort.”
“I’ll get you some Ibuprofen,” she says. “Are there other open wounds elsewhere?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Nothing feels broken.”
She nods and puts away the first aid supplies. I sit there in just my underwear, feeling exposed and raw.
I pull my hair over my shoulders to cover my chest a little more.
Greta returns with three pills and drops them into my good hand before filling a cup with water.
She waits while I swallow them, then takes the empty glass.
But she does not leave.
She does not tell me to get dressed.
She stands there, looking at me with a strange expression before finally crossing her arms.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says.
That gets my attention immediately.
“The offer you made,” she continues. “About helping in the kitchen.”
My heart beats a little faster.
“Yeah?” I ask carefully.
Greta is quiet for so long that I start to wonder if she’s changing her mind.
“You still think you can handle that?”
“Yes,” I say instantly.
Her gaze drops to the bandages wrapped around my stomach.
“Even now?”
“I’d rather do something than sit in that room all day.”
She studies me for a moment before nodding.
“Fine,” she says. “But you do exactly what I say. No wandering. No talking unless spoken to. You understand?”
“I understand.”
“All right. Let’s get you dressed.”
She leaves for a few minutes and comes back with a stack of clothes: a black polo, black pants, and a pair of Crocs that are a little too big for me.
It’s clearly a staff uniform.
She hands me a hair tie.
“Tie your hair back. Nobody wants red curls in their stew.”
I try.
My hair is a tangled mess, and my bandaged finger makes the whole thing harder than it should be.
After watching me struggle for a few seconds, Greta sighs and grabs a brush.
“Sit.”
I do.
She works through the knots slowly, untangling my hair with more patience than I expected.
By the time she’s done, my hair is braided neatly down my back.
Clean clothes.
Clean hair.
For the first time in days, I almost feel human again.
Then I catch sight of the bruise on my cheek in the microwave door and remember where I am.
Greta puts me to work chopping vegetables for a stew.
When she hands me a sharp knife, I’m honestly surprised.
Is it trust or confidence?
Either way, the thought crosses my mind.
I could make a run for it.
Greta glances up from the onions she's cutting.
“You won't get far.”
I look at her.
“The men outside are bigger than you. You’re injured. And you’re limping.”
She goes back to chopping.
“Finish the carrots.”
I stare at the knife for another second.
Then I pick up a carrot and start cutting.
By midday, the kitchen settles into a steady rhythm.
Greta moves through the space with practiced ease, like she’s done this her whole life.
She doesn’t waste a single movement.
Everything is exactly where it should be.
After a while, I fall into step with her, chopping vegetables, stirring sauces, and doing what I’m told without complaint.
It almost feels peaceful.
At least, as peaceful as a house full of criminals can get.
The knife in my hand is sharp.
It’s heavy enough to be useful.
The thought lingers for a moment.
But I turn back to my tasks.