THE SHOWER
Sara
My stomach churns. I gape at him while his words continue to echo in my head, leaving a sting. No way he means that.
Blood drips from his face onto his white shirt, each drop hitting the fabric and spreading into dark red smears and blotches. I watch in fascination. This is on me. I did that, and now I’m paying the price.
He snaps his fingers to get my attention. “I don’t believe I stuttered,” he says harshly, as I haven’t lifted a finger yet.
I swallow hard and release a shaky breath.
My limbs quiver so badly it’s nearly impossible to control them.
It’s not the cold alone. It’s exhaustion, humiliation, and the last shreds of stubbornness I’m terrified to surrender.
My brain barely works. My confidence cracks.
All that is left is cold defeat. If I don’t want to freeze to death out here, I’ll have to do what he says.
Although I doubt he’d get paid if he left me to die.
I dig deep for the scraps of strength I still have and stiffly peel the wet hoodie over my head.
My sneakers hit the planks with dull thuds.
My jeans cling to my legs like a second skin, but I manage to push them off somehow, my socks coming with them.
The underwear stays. If he wants that off, he can do it himself. I am done cooperating.
“After you.”
An invitation I have no choice but to accept.
Arms crossed over my chest, hands clutching bare skin, I step into the cabin.
I register the fireplace, the rustic coziness, and the scent of wood.
He ushers me upstairs, leaving me no time to take in more of my surroundings.
I almost trip over my own icy legs, so I grasp the handrail for support.
In the eerie silence, every creak of the floorboards sounds like a sigh.
Not knowing what awaits me up there, each step is heavier than the one before.
There’s a chance, he’ll just lock me in a room and stay away.
But again, I’m out of luck.
A bathroom sits behind a timber door, which he immediately locks after we enter.
The turn of the key shoots dread through my veins.
Paralyzed, I stay rooted in the middle of the room as he strides past and turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature.
It’s all glass, slate tile, and steel accents in here, mixed with warm wood and soft lighting.
In any other life this would pass for a spa.
Once the water is right, he gestures toward it. “Go. Don’t touch the knob. If you turn it warmer, you’ll burn your skin.”
I hesitate, waiting for him to exit the room, but he doesn’t budge.
“To get this straight: I don’t trust you. I’m not leaving you by yourself so you can flood the place or burn it down. Get in!” he commands, allowing no room for argument.
He keeps his eyes on my face. They never drop. There’s no kindness in them.
Without any comment, he turns to the mirror, pressing his fingertips along the bridge of his nose as if checking for a break.
Apparently satisfied, he continues cleaning the gash on his forehead.
After rummaging through the drawer beneath the sink and applying thin strips to pull the skin together, he takes off his bloody shirt and tosses it in the laundry bin.
Then, in complete disregard for the situation, he casually brushes his teeth.
I step under the spray in my bra and panties. The water hits me, and my skin erupts in a thousand tiny, electric shocks.
Eventually, my shaking recedes, and I’m no longer an icicle.
Since I don’t want to be in here with him a minute longer than necessary, I try to ignore the comforting warmth spreading through my body, making me human again, and quickly wash my hair with the products I find in the shower.
I won’t complain. At least he has conditioner.
I don’t trust you.
His words keep circling in my head.
Well, guess what? I don’t trust you either, I throw at him in my mind, tracking every movement he makes through the glass wall.
He’s a menace, and I already imagine all the ways I could add to the scars etched into his torso.
He’s all solid muscle, with discipline carved into every line of him, a body built for control.
Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t stand a chance against him, and other than a kitchen knife, I’ve never had anything dangerous in my hands. My only chance is running.
His reflection is staring right at me. Shit.
“Towel?” I raise a shoulder and flip up my palms, trying to reset the balance, pretend I wasn’t plotting.
He slowly approaches the shower, my request dangling from his hand. For a second, I think he’s going to hand it over. Instead, he pulls it away right before I can touch it.
“Say please.”
My jaw clenches. I am drained, practically naked, and on top of all that, he has the nerve to play games.
“Please,” I force out through gritted teeth.
He holds it out to me only to retract it once more. “Please what?”
Oh, come on. He can’t make this easy, can he?
Nothing happens until I eventually drag my gaze from the towel and meet his eyes.
“If you don’t fix your attitude, I’ll fix it for you. Understood?”
What an ass.
I gulp down a lungful of air, grinding out my next words.
“Can I have the towel, please?”
“You can wear the robe over there,” he says, as if he didn’t just threaten me. “Toothbrush in the cabinet. Hairbrush and dryer in the drawer. You’ve got time until I’m done. The way out is locked. Please, for once, do what you’re told.”
I snatch the towel out of his hand and wrap it around myself, glad it’s big enough to cover me from shoulders to knees.
I hurry past him with my head down. He doesn’t stop me, but he doesn’t leave either.
He picks up another towel and hangs it on the hook near the shower while I continue to eye him suspiciously.
Whatever I anticipate next, it isn’t this.
He sheds his clothes with a terrifying lack of shame.
I catch a glimpse I wish I hadn’t. My cheeks go up in flames. Oh my God.
Pretending we’re in some shared gym locker room, I try to brush my teeth without risking another peek.
A reflection glints at the edge of my vision. He actually left his phone by the sink. I slow my brushing, keeping the tempo steady. If I could just tap it to check for a signal or whether it’s locked. My left hand inches closer while my right keeps moving the toothbrush.
“Who would you call?” he says from behind the glass. “Your grandparents or the friends you don’t have?”
My hand stills. How does he know that?
His mocking voice grates on my nerves. He thought he knew which numbers I’d reach for first. I’m not stupid. That wasn’t the plan. I’ll get my chance.
When he’s done, he shuts off the water, towels off casually, and throws on a fresh T-shirt and gray sweats like I’m not even there. Without a word, he unlocks a second door and pushes it open. Finally acknowledging my presence, he nods toward the next room. I enter first.
The bedroom is clean and unmistakably masculine.
It’s the kind of room that stays immaculate because no one really lives in it.
A faint scent of cedar and detergent lingers.
A bench sits in the corner, some weights set up alongside dumbbells so heavy I’d need both hands to move one, let alone lift it.
Wait, why are we here?
My thoughts collide in a frantic rush. Anxiety flares in my chest like a warning siren.
Oh hell no. Is this where he plans to—
He glances behind him and catches the look on my face. He halts mid-step, reading me like a headline. “No!” His hands shoot up, palms open in surrender. “This is my room. You’re not staying here.”
I stare at him, not trusting a word. The panic is too close to the surface to hide.
He moves aside and points past the bed to another door on the far wall. How many doors does this place even have?
It’s open a crack.
I pass him, and cautiously peer through before nudging it wider. A walk-in closet big enough to call a room awaits. It’s spacious with hardwood floors and one overhead lamp casting long shadows. If it wasn’t completely stripped down and clearly meant to keep me, it could actually be comfortable.
I step farther inside because anywhere is better than where I thought I was about to be. There’s nothing but empty shelves, a folding bed, a straight-backed chair, and a small table. This was no last-minute solution. He must have planned this for a while.
“This is your space,” he says, like it’s a guest room and not a prison cell.
The door closes behind me with a finality that settles deep in my core. Only then do I realize how tightly I’ve held the robe around myself. I force my hands to unclench.
I’m alone in a perfectly repurposed cage.