19. Carsyn
NINETEEN
CARSYN
A n agent in the bureau.
An agent in the bureau.
Garrison Conway is… an FBI agent?
Tears slip down my cheeks, and though the paralysis is wearing off and my mind has been awake for a while, I still don’t move. The information I’ve just absorbed renders me immobile, frozen in a twisted state of unnerved confusion.
Garrison Conway hurt my brother. This much I know is true. Colton told us everything as soon as he could, and while not all of it was his story to tell, Kinleigh shared, too.
Garrison never hurt Kinleigh, not that I can remember her mentioning, but he hit my brother. Beat him while captive more than one time.
But Garrison helped them.
The book on the shelf that had the keys to the shipping container. Garrison told them where to look for it. He told them when Forrest would be gone, and let them have time together.
Despite the fact my head rests atop the fluffed pillow, my mind careens from up to down, left to right, trying to make sense of everything.
Liam is dead.
But Liam wasn’t Liam?
No, Liam wasn’t Liam.
He was someone else entirely. He’s worse than a traitor, and a traitor is low as they come. Scum of the earth in my book.
Liam, though, he’s a different breed of traitor. He didn’t just pretend to be a good guy, but he sat with my family in our bleakest, most vulnerable time, pretending to be there for us, hiding his wolfish fur beneath the suit of a good man, a man dressed as an officer, a medic, a man of the law .
Would he have pressed that shattered piece of glass into my throat? Could he have reached? Is my judgement so bad that I plotted with a monster to set him free? Am I so foolish? At that thought, nausea rolls around in my belly, making me feel ill.
I was gonna help him go free, and he was part of it. The whole time, he was part of the crew that stole little girls from their families and sold them like objects.
I was going to help set that man free. Tears slide down the sides of my face at that thought, putrid and awful.
With as much energy as I can muster, I roll over and empty my stomach, though there isn’t much. It’s not just what I’ve overheard keeping me still—the paralytic still hasn’t fully worn off, I’m certain of that now as I try to scramble to my knees as Garrison walks in.
He eyes the vomit pooling on the floor, on the edge of the bed, and looks at me.
“I’m—” I’m what? I’m sorry? It feels so strange to apologize to the man holding me captive. Then again, am I captive? Wearing a chain, unable to be free, unable to contact or communicate with my family—yes, I am captive.
Still, as my eyes roam over his controlled, muscled body, and my gaze finds his, dark and steadfast, part of me doesn’t believe what I know to be true. Part of me sings, screams, and cries out that I’m not captive but safe.
“I know you heard,” he starts, uncuffing me so quickly I can hardly keep track of what he’s doing. He scoops me up, and before I know it, I’m lying in the center of Garrison’s bed, staring up at him.
“Try to sit up,” he tells me as he leaves the room, coming back with a bottle of water. He passes it to me, propping a few pillows behind my shoulder blades and head. “Sip on it while the nausea passes, till you feel better.”
I want to tell him that I won’t feel better for a long time. That a bottle of water and a bedroom that has no chains isn’t the simple formula required to make me okay again.
There are layers and complexity required for my healing, and first and foremost, the initial layer involves freedom.
I have to be free to heal. I have to see my family, feel Beckett grass between my toes, smell my detergent, cook a meal on my stove. I need freedom, yet, I am not ready for freedom from him.
But as Garrison slips his belt from his pants and untucks his flannel, I wonder if my healing is with this man. Judging by the way my veins light up, the way my needs are yanked to the forefront of my spinning thoughts, burning bright between my legs, I’d say he’s where I’ll start healing. Right now.
“I don’t understand,” I breathe out, my vocal cords finding depth as the paralytic continues to drain away.
He strips until he stands in front of me in just boxer briefs, and though he just fucked me hours ago, my stomach clenches with excitement. Desire drowns on my vocals, and I find my legs spreading wide for him.
His lips twist as he winks at me. “Just changing clothes, Carsyn. Not fucking you again.” He yanks a pair of jeans out of his drawer and steps into them, eyeing me. “Soon, but not yet.”
“I-I didn’t w-want that,” I stutter, unable to take my eyes off his broad, hairy chest and all the power he’s hiding there.
He tugs on a shirt, stealing his body from my sight. I focus on my bare toes, and how I’m curling and wiggling them, gaining sensation and movement back quickly now.
Garrison grabs my foot, squeezing until my eyes come to his. Inside my stomach and chest, it feels like a bird spreading its wings, and I’ve never felt that looking at any other man. Ever. “You did want it. And I want it, too. But not yet. First I gotta get your mind right.”
“You-you didn’t care about my mind when you fucked me before,” I spit out, argumentative and salty from habit, from the situation, I don’t know.
He stops mid tuck, one part of his shirt in his pants, the other covering his belt still. “Don’t say shit to me you don’t mean, Carsyn. You get a free pass for plotting against me with that fool because you were confused, but don’t you dare say things you don’t believe.” He crawls over me, and while I feel my body is strong enough to sit up and dart off the bed, away from him and his impending grip, I don’t.
I lie there until he’s all the way over me, his heavy body pressing me into the mattress, his lips dusting mine. Suddenly, I’m aware I just vomited and I don’t want him this close because of it.
“My cock set you straight and we both know it, the same way you know I care about your mind. I fucked you to slow and calm your mind, and it worked,” he says, his eyes holding mine. Then he’s on his feet, finishing redressing as he pulls a hoodie and sweats from his dresser, setting them on the edge of the bed. “C’mon, we’re getting you dressed and we’re talking. Sit up.”
I sit up, finishing the bottle of water he gave to me earlier. He watches me slip out of the leggings and into the sweats, and helps fish my hair from the hood when I slip into the sweatshirt.
“You’re free now, but I want to talk to you.”
Garrison stands in the doorway and I stand in his room, noting my freedom. No cuff on my ankle for the second time. No cuffs around my wrists. Nothing over my eyes or mouth. Nothing keeps me rooted here in this exact moment.
Nothing except for him.
Can I run? Would he let me? If I pushed past him and out the front door, would he let me go?
What would happen if I did go?
I don’t know.
Liam wasn’t really Liam. What else don’t I know?
I follow behind him when he turns, and take a seat at his kitchen table as he does the same. I could run, but I don’t.
Instead, I ask for a cup of tea and a sandwich, and Garrison obliges.