Chapter Twenty-Eight Chloe
Awareness returns in fragments.
First comes the pain—a deep, relentless throbbing behind my eyes. Then the dryness coating my tongue and the foul, stale taste in my mouth. My thoughts swim through a heavy fog as I struggle to understand why my mattress feels wrong.
When I try to lift my hand to my head, I can’t.
My eyes snap open, but darkness presses in from every direction. For one panicked second, I think I’ve gone blind. Then I spot a thin blade of light slipping through a gap in the blinds. Dust drifts through the narrow beam, and the muted brightness tells me it’s still daylight outside.
I’m in an empty room. No, not empty. There’s a bedframe with a mattress. The one I’m lying on.
There’s no dresser, nightstand, or lamp—nothing but bare walls, covered windows, and the bed beneath me. The air smells stale, as though the door and windows haven’t been opened in months. Underneath that is another odor—sweat, mildew, something sour that makes my stomach clench.
I pull against the restraint around my wrist. Rope scrapes over my skin, sending a sharp burn up my arm.
Both my wrists are tied over my head to the bed frame.
My ankles are secured the same way, leaving me stretched down the center of the mattress.
I test each restraint, but there’s little give.
Whoever tied me knew what he was doing—or took the time to make sure I couldn’t move. Fear surges through me.
I lower my gaze as much as my position allows and nearly sob with relief.
I’m still wearing my clothes. My shirt is wrinkled and twisted around my waist, but it’s still covering me.
My jeans are still fastened. My boots and socks are gone, leaving my feet bare, but as far as I can tell, nothing else has been removed.
I swallow, though my mouth is so dry it hurts.
Where am I?
The pounding in my skull intensifies as memory punches through the fog.
The last thing I remember was driving home to change. Then the flashes of memory come.
The kitchen door. Zip ties, duct tape, and a bandana sitting on the counter. The shock of fear because I knew I didn’t leave them there.
I remember backing away before Steven Blackwood stepped into view.
I remember trying to run back to my truck. If I could just get inside…His arm locking around my throat. His breath against my ear as he promised I would be sorry for rejecting him.
Then nothing.
“Oh God,” I whisper. The words sound too loud in the empty room.
I turn my head toward the door. It’s closed. I can’t tell if anyone is standing on the other side, listening. I force myself to stop pulling at the ropes. Panic will only exhaust me, and torn skin won’t help me escape. I have to think.
Spock knows I’m supposed to return to the site.
My father knows, too. When I don’t show up, they’ll look for me.
Dad will try to call me. Spock will try to call.
Where’s my phone? I shift my hips, but I don’t feel it in my pocket.
I remember dropping it and then seeing it slide under the truck.
They won’t be able to find me. Despair grips my throat, but I swallow back the fear.
I can’t control what’s happening outside this room. I can only control what I do next.
I breathe slowly through my nose and study the room again.
The ropes are looped around a metal bed frame.
The knot at my right wrist sits below my palm, just out of reach of my fingers.
The mattress has no fitted sheet, only a rough top sheet bunched beneath my back.
The bed shifts slightly when I pull, and a faint metallic squeak comes from somewhere near my left ankle.
That might matter. I test the frame again, this time gently—another squeak. The sound is small, but so is the movement. Something down there may be loose—a bolt, a bracket, maybe one of the rails. I don’t know if I can work whatever it is free, but it’s the first weakness I’ve found.
Every muscle in my body locks when footsteps sound beyond the door. The steps draw closer, unhurried and heavy, until they stop directly outside the room.
My fear is still there, cold and vicious in my chest, but something harder rises beneath it. Anger.
Steven brought me here because he thinks tying me down makes me helpless. But he’s wrong. I may not be in a position to fight him right now, but I will get out.
I stare at the closed door and curl my fingers around the rope. Somehow I’m getting out of this room. And if he comes close enough, I’m going to make him regret bringing me here.
The door opens, and Steven walks into the room carrying a plastic tray.
For one wild second, relief overrides reason. He’s alone. His hands are occupied. If I weren’t tied down, I could rush him. I could knock the tray into his face and run.
But the ropes hold me in position, helpless to do anything except watch him approach.
“You’re finally awake,” he says warmly. “I was starting to think you’d sleep all day.”
He sounds like a man greeting his girlfriend after letting her rest through a fever. There’s affection in his voice and a gentle smile on his face. The performance is so convincing that a chill ripples through me.
Steven places the tray on the mattress beside my hip. A sandwich sits on a paper plate next to a pile of potato chips. There’s also a bottle of soda with a bendable straw already pushed through the opening.
“I thought you might be hungry.” He lowers himself onto the edge of the bed. “I wasn’t sure what you’d want, so I kept it simple.”
“Where am I?”
He smooths a hand over my hair, brushing it away from my forehead. I jerk my head to the side, but his smile doesn’t falter.
“You’re home.”
“This isn’t my home. Untie me.”
“You’re safe here, Chloe.” He speaks slowly and soothingly, as though I’m confused from medication. “No one can bother you. No one can come between us.”
“Steven, listen to me. You need to let me go before this gets worse.”
“You’ve had a difficult day.” He picks up the sandwich. “You need to eat.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“You must be starving.”
He tears off a small piece and holds it near my mouth. I turn my face away.
“Spock is going to find me,” I say. “My father knows I was supposed to meet him at the site. People are already looking for me.”
Steven continues as though I haven’t spoken.
“I didn’t put mustard on it because I wasn’t sure you liked mustard. We’ll learn these things about each other with time.”
“There is no we.”
“You’ll feel better after you eat.”
“I said no.”
He catches my jaw and turns my face toward him. His grip is firm but not frantic. That frightens me more than rage would. In his mind, he isn’t hurting me. He’s caring for me.
“You need to keep up your strength, sweetheart.”
Before I can clamp my lips together, he presses the piece of sandwich into my mouth. Bread sticks to my dry tongue. I try to spit it out, but he cups his hand over my mouth.
“Chew,” he murmurs. “Come on. Be a good girl for me.”
I have no choice. I chew the dry mouthful and swallow. Only then does he release me.
“That’s better.” His loving smile returns. “See? I know what you need.”
“You kidnapped me.”
“I rescued you.”
“From what?”
“From them. From that biker. From your father filling your head with nonsense. From all the people who take advantage of you.” He tears off another piece. “I’m the only one who sees how much you need someone to take care of you.”
He forces the second bite into my mouth. Again, he holds my jaw shut until I swallow. Then he lifts the soda and guides the straw toward my lips.
The sight of the cold liquid makes my throat ache with need, but I turn away. I don’t know if he put something in it; even if he didn’t, accepting it feels too much like cooperating with his fantasy.
“Drink.”
“No.”
“Chloe, don’t be difficult.”
“Go to hell.”
He removes the straw before grabbing my chin and pouring the liquid into my mouth. Soda floods my mouth. I cough, spraying droplets across his hand, but he merely wipes them on the sheet.
“You’re making a mess,” he says with mild disappointment.
When he reaches for me again, I wait.
I let him think I’m finished fighting.
His fingers slide beneath my chin. He brings another piece of sandwich to my lips, and I open my mouth just enough to lure him closer.
Then I bite down on his index finger with everything I have.
Steven screams and jerks back. Blood wells around the crescent marks left by my teeth.
His expression changes instantly.
The tender smile disappears. His eyes flatten, and his face twists with fury.
“You bitch!”
His fist slams into my stomach.
Pain explodes through my abdomen, stealing my breath. I curl instinctively, but the ropes prevent me from protecting myself. Before I can drag air back into my lungs, his palm cracks across my cheek.
My head snaps sideways.
He slaps me again. And again.
White sparks flash across my vision. My ears ring, and the coppery taste of blood fills my mouth where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek.
“Look what you made me do!” he shouts. “I’m trying to take care of you, and you keep fighting me!”
Another blow lands across my face.
“Why can’t you appreciate anything I do?”
I gasp for breath, my stomach clenching around a deep, nauseating ache. Tears blur my vision, but I refuse to beg. I refuse to give him that.
Steven stands over me, breathing hard as he cradles his injured hand. For a moment, I think he’s going to hit me again.
Instead, he snatches up the soda bottle and hurls it against the wall over my head. The bottle shatters, spraying foam, liquid, and glass particles across the bed and me.
“I need time to calm down,” he says, his voice shaking with anger. “This is your fault, Chloe. Remember that.”
He storms from the room and slams the door behind him.
The tray remains tilted on the mattress beside me. Chips and pieces of sandwich are scattered over the sheet. I lie motionless, reeling as pain pulses through my face and abdomen. Every breath hurts. My cheek burns, my head pounds, and nausea rolls through me in sickening waves.