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Markus puts on his jeans and a shirt, and I avert my gaze. I don’t want to look at him or be attracted to him. I’m ashamed enough that my body betrayed me and that I let him fuck me over the couch while that now dead man watched.
Once dressed, he leads me downstairs. “Go sit in the living room, and I’ll make us some breakfast.” He points in the direction of it. I do just that and meander over to the leather sofa, folding my legs beneath my body.
He prepares breakfast in the kitchen. I can hear bowls clanking together and the stove turning on, but I keep my eyes trained on the fireplace in front of me.
I don’t want to look into the kitchen because I see a man with a bullet lodged in his skull every time I do. I see vacant eyes staring back at me. I see death. And I see Markus looking at me like I’m next.
It’s probably not healthy, but I’m just going to try to forget about it. If I don’t look at the kitchen, maybe I can force the memory to the back of my mind or pretend that it never happened.
Fat chance. Those images will haunt me for the rest of my life.
A few minutes later, Markus appears with two bowls of cheesy grits and two cups of instant coffee. I eat and drink everything he gives me, even though my stomach is tight with knots. I know I need to eat to keep my strength up.
I have to survive, to make it through this. Eventually, I’m going to have to escape Markus, and I can’t do that if I’m broken and weak.
Silence settles around us. I’m finding it impossible to look at Markus for more than a second. I bet he thinks I haven’t noticed the change in him. He’s being overly nice, almost caring, as he takes my bowl back into the kitchen and returns with another cup of coffee.
Bringing my lips to the rim of the cup, I wonder if his behavior could be a sad attempt at him being sorry. I wonder if he’s really remorseful about yesterday or if he’s playing games with me. If he really is sorry, what exactly is he sorry for? Buying, drugging, and fucking me without my permission, or torturing and killing a guy? Perhaps both? Filling my coffee cup up and providing me food isn’t exactly an apology.
It’s doubtful he would ever apologize.
“I think some fresh air would do you good. We’re going to go for a walk. Find some clothes and boots upstairs in the closet and get ready while I clean the kitchen.”
“Oh… okay.” I look up from my coffee and at him for a brief second before looking back down. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
Going for a walk? That seems too normal. Maybe going for a walk is code for taking you out to shoot you. Then again, he shot someone inside the house yesterday, so he clearly has no qualms with cleaning up blood.
Walking back up the stairs, I head straight to the bedroom.
I stop in the doorway and look to my right and down the hall. There are more doors further down the hall, two actually. They’re most likely an office or bedroom and bathroom. I bite the inside of my cheek and stop only when I taste the coppery tang of blood on my tongue.
I can’t… I’m not risking checking those out yet.
Soon I won’t have a choice. Time is running out.
Before I can change my mind and make a mistake I won’t come back from, I walk into the bedroom. Going through the closet, I notice that there is an equal amount of male and female clothes. A couple lives here or used to live here. Maybe this isn’t his house at all? Maybe it’s someone else’s? Maybe he killed the people who lived here? Or maybe he’s working with someone? The questions surrounding this man stack up right before my eyes.
I find a pair of jeans and a sweater. As well as thick socks and brown boots in the closet’s corner.
As I strip out of my clothing, I dare to look down at my body. The way Markus handled me yesterday, claiming my body with such raw, primal power, I wouldn’t be surprised if there were bruises branded into my skin.
Dragging my gaze down to my hips, I’m not even surprised when I find just that—fingerprint-sized bruises mar my skin, each one a shameful reminder of what I allowed to occur. Bile rises in the back of my throat as I remember the way he took me, owning my body, claiming it not like a lover would claim a woman but like a beast determined to remind me who I belonged to. I shake the thoughts away. I’m disgusted enough with myself. I should’ve fought more, begged and pleaded more. Not orgasmed.
