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“Just get me a name. Anything. I don’t care. I need to get my fix.”
“What? Already?”
“Yes, now,” I growl.
“Geez, all right, dude. Calm down,” he says.
“No, I’m not fucking calm,” I say, glaring at my bloody fingers. “I just broke a fucking mirror because she’s here.”
“Then get rid of her.”
“Stop fucking suggesting the impossible!” I yell. “You know I need her, and you know damn well why.”
“Guess it isn’t working as well as you hoped then. Also, I’m pretty sure she can hear you now.”
“I don’t fucking care! Get me a name. I’ll take care of it on my own.”
Sometimes, I really regret leaving the list to him. Maybe I should start keeping my own again.
Before he can throw me another witty remark, I hang up.
He knows just as well as I do how bad shit can get when I’m this agitated.
And he doesn’t want me on his bad side.
That, I’m sure of.
Chapter Six
Accompanying Song: “Halo” by Roniit (Depeche Mode Cover)
Syrena
Later that night, he comes into my room with more food.
It smells delicious. Something with meat and veggies.
“Brought you a stew.”
“It smells good,” I say.
I know I shouldn’t be nice to him but playing along might be the better thing for me to do if I want to survive.
He sits down in front of me and feeds me once again, just like before. Now that he’s done it a couple of times, I’m more aware of when he’s going to push a spoon or a fork into my mouth, and I actually start to anticipate it.
The meal tastes delicious, and I can’t help but chow down eagerly, awaiting the next bite.
Him feeding me like this … it reminds me of a drug addiction.
You hate it, but you don’t want it to stop.
That’s how I feel right now.
“All gone,” he says, smiling right after. “You sure were hungry.”
“Sorry,” I say, shrugging. “I just like food a lot.”
He laughs. “I can tell.”
I lick my lips to get the last bit of juicy sauce off, but then his finger circles around my collar, pulling me closer.
I hold my breath as his face is inches away from mine. I can tell from his breath scattering on my skin.
“If I take this off … will you stay?”
I don’t know how to respond. All I can do is nod.
“Promise me.”
Why does he care so much?
“But you … wanted to kill me,” I mutter.
“I don’t want you dead,” he says. “Please, believe me when I say I never wanted you dead.”
“Then why did you attack me?” I ask.
He sighs, and I can hear the strain in his voice. “Because … it’s who I am.” His finger releases the band around my neck, but he grabs the chain instead, holding me close. “Please. Just … promise me you won’t escape.”
Is it a threat?
Will he hurt me if I try?
Possibly.
But taking off this collar and being freed from this single room is better than being chained up. If it means I’ll have to promise him something, then so be it.
“Okay,” I reply.
He places both hands on my cheeks, and I can sense his closeness. For some reason … his touch makes my face tingle.
Shit.
“Thank you,” he says.
Soon after, the collar around my neck clicks and releases. Then he takes off the zip ties from my wrists.
I’m free.
My hands instantly go to my neck. Touching myself to make sure I’m still okay. I don’t feel pain. There are no wounds.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Now, if you behave, I’ll let you roam free in my house. Understood?”
I nod.
I don’t know why I’m so complacent. I normally never am. This isn’t me.
But something about his voice just makes me … weak.
Fuck.
He gets up and then grabs my hand, pulling me up too. But because I’ve been sitting for so long, I feel dizzy, and I collapse … right into his arms.
“Easy,” he mumbles, his voice much sweeter than before.
What is this? Why is he so nice all of the sudden?
I don’t understand this man, yet he’s petting me as if I’m a kid he needs to take care of.
I push myself away from him and say, “I’m not weak.”
“I never said you were,” he says, and he snorts.
I take a deep breath and listen to the sounds around me, waiting for him to say what he wants me to do. There must be some reason he’s keeping me here.
Still, if I’m going to be cooped up in a man’s house like some pet, I’d like to know who he is. What he looks like. Or at least … get familiar with him so I don’t have to be scared anymore.
He grabs my hand again, but when I don’t follow him, he says, “You can trust me.”
I frown. He says it like it’s the truth, but how would I know? All I know is the man keeping me locked up in a room after attempting to take my life in the desert. Trust isn’t exactly the easiest follow-up.
