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Despite my hysteria, I can quickly begin to acknowledge the intricately decorated room of black silk and dark red accents. The bed itself is king-size. That explains why I barely take one-third of it.
The headboard is relatively massive, embedded with stones that glimmer slightly from the low-exposure lamp on the nightstand. Black sheets with a crimson-red duvet to match the arrangement of pillows have me curious whose room this belongs to.
Other decor and artwork bring this antique theme of royal chambers to life, but I can’t linger on appreciating the fine details. I need to figure out what happened after my confrontation with those three men.
There were three, right? Ugh, my head.
Acknowledging the pounding headache makes me groan and pinch my nose, as if that will steal the nagging force of drumming away. Instinctively, I look to my left to see familiar bottles of medication that I know are mine from the rose stickers on them.
That could potentially mean one thing.
“Warren?”
I proceed to wait as if I’ll pick up on how his slight uptake of breath whenever he’s been caught by me. I strain my ears to hear anything, and though I barely catch it, I do pick up on a breath.
It just isn’t Warren’s.
“You know, if you’re going to hide like some sort of stalker in the shadows, you have to be quieter than that,” I voice but sigh when my head is making me feel like I’ll pass right out again. “If this turns into a migraine, I’m going to be so mad,” I grumble to myself because it’s the truth.
Migraines are devil-sent because what universal being would create such an agonizing nuisance for the human body to experience on a whim?
Then again, I may have triggered this myself.
Without thinking, I swing my legs over and attempt to stand up—only to fall forward. I have to stop myself from crashing straight into the chair, my hands quickly grabbing the armrests of the vintage golden seat with velvet cushions.
“Fuck,” I curse and catch onto the tiny chuckle from the corner of the room.
Embarrassing.
“Now I know you’re not Warren,” I grumble in dismay as I glare at the empty space I’m confident was where the chuckle of amusement came from. “Don’t seem like the blade-throwing dude either.” I take a few seconds to try to remember the confrontation. “You’re most certainly not my bully.”
Just remembering that man has me frowning and regretting a few life choices.
I should have run for the hills from day one. The streets would have been better than being in debt to anyone.
“The man on the stairs,” I conclude as I look back at the chair I’m using as a stabilizer. I feel groggy as hell, which could be why I’m wavering when I attempt to stand up straight.
I don’t think my sugar is so significantly low that I need a shot of insulin in my system, but I’m pretty certain my medication is on the table for a reason. It would be smart to take it now.
Managing to reach for the bottle to my right, I spin the cap off and take the medical dose of two capsules without question.
“Trusting much?” I knew he’d question my actions sooner or later, but I ignore him as I close the cap of my medication and put it back on the nightstand. The room is still spinning, though. The inner walls of my head are drumming away, as if to warn me how close death can be.
Another nap would be ideal, but I’m not in ideal circumstances.
“What would I have to do to get another thirty minutes of uninterrupted rest from my kidnappers?” I ponder.
“We most certainly didn’t kidnap you.” His voice is calm. Very calm.
It’s also super close now.
That may be why arms catch me when I don’t realize I’m seconds from dropping back to the bed.
“Right,” I groan. “You’re definitely the man on the stairs,” I croak without trying to open my eyes. Light stimulation only worsens this shit. You just have to ride it out, which usually means going back to sleep for my own sanity.
Not a privilege I have unless I can strike a deal with this perpetrator.
“Why?” he genuinely asks.
