5. Safety In Silence #2
My relief was short-lived when I saw the polished shoes of the Irish Boss step through the door. I looked up to find Sean smirking at me, his dark blue eyes filled only with malice and twisted curiosity.
“Good mornin’. You’re still alive. And…” Sean’s narrowed eyes swept over my body, searching for any harm.
“...untouched. How interestin’,” he said, as if my life were the most amusing thing to him.
His gaze shifted to the man on the bed, who regarded him with emotionless indifference. “Monster spared you. For now.”
When neither the emotionless robot nor I said a word, Sean chuckled, shaking his head. The tension crackled as the men locked eyes. “We leave in one hour, Monster. Get ready.”
Sean turned back towards the door, pausing only to give me a sly smile before locking it behind him.
Seconds later, the latch beneath the door opened, and a tray of breakfast slid through. I stared at the bread roll and the bowl of oatmeal. My stomach rumbled painfully, but I didn’t dare reach for them.
Monster, as Sean had called him, sat up, planting his feet on the cold floor and rolling his neck.
He forced himself up with a groan and padded towards me and the tray of food.
He crouched to pick it up, his dark eyes still assessing me every second, then walked to the small table on the other side of the room.
I studied the way he moved. Controlled, yet with an edge of brutality.
He pulled out the wooden chair too aggressively, sat down, and leaned over the food, eating in silence without glancing my way.
When he finished, he dropped into a plank position on the ground and began push-ups.
I counted them in my head, watching his bulging biceps flex as he moved up and down so rapidly it was hard to keep count.
He was practically kissing the filthy floor with every drop, barely breaking a sweat.
When he reached one hundred, he jumped up, grabbed the metal bar attached to the top of the bathroom door frame, and started doing pull-ups.
I counted fifty. Then he went back to the push-ups. Another hundred. And on and on.
Was the man even human, or a machine?
When he finally stopped, he dropped into his worn armchair, breathing hard, and lit a cigarette. I almost wanted to laugh. What a walking contradiction.
After he’d finished filling his lungs with poison, he walked into the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and then disappeared around the corner where the shower was. He reappeared minutes later, dripping wet, with nothing but a towel around his waist.
Oh, sweet Madonna.
Every inch of his solid body on show was tattooed. Every. Damn. Inch. He was a marvel to look at. Scary as fuck, but hot nonetheless. My cheeks burned, and I glanced down at my hands when he ripped the towel off and threw it on the bed.
When he was finally dressed in combat trousers and a tight-fitting black T-shirt that stretched over his muscles, he looked lethal.
He sat on the edge of the bed and began tightening the laces of his boots.
Every move he made was harsh and deliberate, almost methodical, as if he were going through the motions.
He caught me staring at him, and I fought every cell in my body that screamed at me to look away.
I could barely hold eye contact with anyone for more than a few seconds, even my family.
Yet there was something about the way he watched me that made me feel safer by letting him see me.
As if trying to hide might upset him more.
It was pure survival. He was impossible to read, but one thing that seemed to keep him calm was not reacting to him.
The deadbolt unlocked, and the door opened, but no one stepped inside.
Instead, Monster stood, strolled forward, and stopped only a few feet from the door I was curled up behind.
His dark eyes flicked down to me as he lifted his hands in front of him.
A guard slapped thick metal handcuffs on his wrists.
My eyebrows tightened as I watched the guard hook a leash to Monster’s chain and pull it tight, choking the gold chain against his thick throat.
He remained impassive, completely detached, as he stared down at me.
Then, with a single tug from the guard, he was gone.
What the hell. Was he a prisoner or a soldier? Did he work for them, or also a captive? Did they cuff him because he was a threat to them, or to everyone else?
I waited for at least ten minutes to make sure I’d really been left alone, then pushed myself to my feet.
Stretching, I let out a small sound of relief at being able to move without fear of death. I had no idea how long it would be until he came back, but I wouldn’t waste a second of my freedom to stretch, snoop and wash.
I raced over to the breakfast he’d left and stole the crust of the bread roll. He’d eaten the rest, but this would at least ease the hunger for a little while.
Splashing my face with cold water in the sink felt like pure heaven, and then I eyed the shower. If you could even call it that. It didn’t have a curtain or glass; it was a pipe protruding from the wall, with a tiled floor and a drain in the middle. But there was soap.
I wasn’t sure when I’d next get the chance, so I wriggled out of my angelic dress and underwear and turned on the tap. A yelp shot from my mouth as the freezing water hit my chest, and I darted out of the stream. Cazzo. There was no temperature dial. He showered in ice-cold water every day?
I cursed to hell as I leaned into it, keeping my hair and face out of the way, then soaped my body quickly before rinsing it off. Fastest wash I’d ever had, and I already wasn’t looking forward to the next time I had to do it.
I scanned the grimy bathroom for a towel, shivering even more than I had last night. I found a small, unused one and dried myself before putting my bra and dress back on.
There was a tiny handheld mirror on the basin, and I picked it up, trying to brush out my unruly curls with my fingers, but gave up when the knots were too stubborn.
I washed my underwear in the sink, then chewed my lip, wondering how to dry them where he wouldn’t see them.
Hooking them over the small pipe near where I had slept last night seemed the safest option.
Still unable to warm up, I paced the bunker, studying everything with new insight now that I’d met the man it all belonged to.
There was nothing personal anywhere. No photographs or items told me anything about him, except that he was clearly bored out of his mind most of the time.
I opened his bedside drawer to find packs of cigarettes, lighters, lube, condoms and chewing gum, but not much else.
His bed was literally a mattress. No bedsheet.
The pillow was still on the floor where he’d flung it, and I couldn’t see a duvet anywhere.
I whimpered, wanting nothing more than to curl up under a thick blanket and sleep.
Was the man a bloody polar bear? Did he not feel the cold?
I found an old, tatty blanket that had seen better days behind the armchair, wrapped it around my shoulders, and carried on pacing.
My feet were ice cubes, the stone floor not helping, and I wondered whether to risk stealing a pair of his socks.
Would he be mad? Would that be the catalyst for my death?
Stolen socks. I sighed, opened a drawer, and grabbed a pair because fuck it. I’d risk my life for warm feet.
There was a small bookcase holding a collection of books, some I recognised and others I didn’t.
Some looked as if they’d been down here, collecting dust, for decades, while others were newer, clearly published recently.
Based on the titles, most seemed to be thrillers or horror.
No smutty romances in sight, which was a shame, but that was okay; my second favourite genre was psychological thrillers.
I pulled one off the shelf that caught my eye and grabbed the pillow from the floor, moving back to my dark corner.
I sat on the pillow, scrunching my nose at how hard and lumpy it was, but at least it was better than the ground.