Every time they talk around me instead of to me.
Doctor.
Woman.
Hostage.
Something fragile tied to a chair waiting to be rescued.
Good.
Let them believe that.
The door creaks open again.
Same man.
Same controlled expression that never quite reaches his eyes.
Light spills across the concrete floor as he steps inside carrying the smell of cigarette smoke and cold night air with him.
My wrists ache where the rope cuts deeper into raw skin when I straighten slightly against the wall.
He notices immediately.
His gaze flicks toward the blood staining my bandage.
Then back to my face.
“You wake.”
“I try not to make dying a habit.”
The corner of his mouth shifts faintly.
Not amusement exactly.
Interest.
Better.
Interested people pay attention.
And people paying attention can be manipulated.
He crouches in front of me again, elbows resting loosely against his knees while he studies me like a puzzle he hasn’t solved yet.
“You are not afraid.”
Not a question.
I hold his stare evenly. “Should I be?”
“You should.”
Probably true.
Fear curls low and cold inside my stomach every second I’m trapped in this room.
