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Fucking fuck.
I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to stop my mind from immediately replaying the night before. Carter on that stage, naked and collared, forced to take cock after cock down his throat. Slaves screaming and crying in fear. The slave I found hiding under a table, shaking violently, making me reach in and drag him out because he didn’t trust the idea of a rescue. That’s trauma. That’s a reason to cry. They get to panic. They get to feel pain.
They didn’t ask for it.
I did.
Get it the fuck together, Maison.
I splash some water on my face, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. The idea of seeing myself makes me feel like crawling out of my skin. I haven’t been able to look into my own eyes since Carter was abducted. How the fuck could I? Our eyes are the same. The one and only time I looked into them after finding out I had failed at keeping him safe, I swear I saw him right there in front of me, blue eyes full of terror and betrayal. I swear I could hear him, even. Where are you, Maison? Why haven’t you saved me yet?
The mirror in my bedroom has been gone ever since.
At the sudden sound of shattered glass, I jolt back from the sink with the ridiculous idea that I may have broken this mirror too. Then I come to my senses, figuring out that the sound came from outside of the bathroom. Everything falls away as I slip into work mode, yanking the door open, grabbing my gun, and heading in the direction of the noise. There are survivors running in the opposite direction or hunkered down on the floor with their arms above their heads. I can’t help them, not until I know what just happened.
I make it a handful of steps before stopping short at the edge of the kitchen. There’s a young man kneeling on the floor, broken pieces of a plate scattered in front of him. His head snaps up when he hears me approach, blue eyes impossibly wide. I realize two things at once—he’s one of the survivors I helped at the party, the one that had been left blindfolded and bound to a bench, and he’s just as terrified now as he was then.
His eyes drop back to the ground as he shifts into a pose that’s too close to a proper kneel for my liking.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he gasps, his body shuddering beneath violent waves of panic. “I’m so sorry. I d-didn’t mean t-to drop it.”
“Hey, no. You’re okay.”
“I’m r-really sorry, sir,” he continues, not seeming to even hear me. He starts trying to collect the broken pieces on the floor. It at least didn’t shatter, but I still don’t want him to cut himself.
“Wait, hey, don’t do that, okay?”
He immediately freezes, one hand still outstretched, the other hand holding a broken shard between trembling fingers. He looks at me through his lashes and whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not in trouble. I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?”
His eyebrows pull together, lips curving into a frown. He can’t understand why I would care about him getting hurt. Of course he can’t. When was the last time someone cared about him? About his safety? Not just a passing, “I hope he survives, but I can only do so much” from Jake or Travis, but a genuine care. I don’t even know this man’s name, but right here, right now, I vow to be the one that does. He’ll never have to doubt someone cares again. I’ll care.
“You’re okay,” I reiterate, noticing that he’s still shaking. “You’re not in trouble. You know that, right? You can’t get in trouble here. Even if you had broken this on purpose, no one would punish you. This is a safe place.”
His body twitches, but otherwise there’s still no indication that he’s listening. Or, if he is listening, that he’s believing what I say.
Figuring it might help to be on his level, I sink to my knees across from him. My entire body screams in protest. I ignore it.
“It looks like you were making something to eat,” I say, deciding to just keep talking until the man relaxes. Or runs away. Among the shards of glass, there’s splattered yogurt and pieces of fruit. “A… yogurt parfait, maybe? That sounds really good. I think we have granola somewhere. I could find it for you, if you’d like?”
His chin lifts slightly, and I see him peek through his lashes at me. I try to relax my body so I come off as non-threatening as possible. His chin dips again, but before I can be too disappointed, he says, “My roommate needs to eat.”
“That’s nice of you to take care of your roommate. You’re a good friend.”
He only shrugs, but his cheeks turn pink.
“You’re always welcome to the kitchen. Both of you are. But I wanted to make sure you saw that there are some meal bars and snacks in your welcome bags, too.”
“We saw.” He nibbles on his bottom lip for a moment before explaining, “He’s allergic to tree nuts. There are almonds in the meal bars and peanuts in the trail mix. He already ate both of our bags of pretzels, but I could tell he’s still hungry.”
I frown. How the fuck did we not know that? One of the survivors has a shellfish allergy, but that’s all we’ve got on record. “I’m sorry that we missed that. How severe is it? Do we need to clear the house of nut products?”
Finally, he looks at me. Right at me. It’s a little startling, having his big blue eyes locked onto me so suddenly, his gaze intense with a mess of emotions. There’s hope in that mess. It feels like a rush of oxygen to my lungs, that hope of his.
“It’s not that bad. Me eating the trail mix with him beside me didn’t bother him. But last year, he ingested something with nuts…” he trails off, that hope in his eyes flickering a little before he drops his gaze to the mess on the floor. “He almost suffocated.”
“Fucking hell. Did he see a doctor?” I shake my head, getting frustrated. How did we not know this shit? Even if it wasn’t in his previous medical files, Travis should have added this incident to the logs.
