The next two days pass in much the same way.
Max sleeps on the couch while I’m cuffed and zip-tied to the headboard, this time with my hands at the bottom instead of the top.
Progress.
Every morning when he wakes up, he stokes the fire, prepares breakfast, and leads me out, repeating the process for lunch and dinner. Then he retrieves more wood from the garage, keeping the stack ready for the bitterly frigid nights. I’m sure we’re going through the supply much faster than Dimitri ever anticipated.
Sometimes Max talks, other times he doesn’t. He feeds me at every meal, though he doesn’t let me touch anything other than a cup of water. He doesn’t trust me, the bastard, not that I blame him. I don’t trust him either.
He leaves me no opportunities to make a single move. Even when he sleeps, if I so much as roll over, he wakes up. Hell, he wakes any time the temperature drops.
He’s always in my business, standing outside the bathroom every time I go. At least he lets me shower.
Of course,hegets privacy. He roams all over the house, disappearing wherever he wants while I’m stuck in this bed.
Just another way to try to break down my psyche.
I hate to admit that it’s working. I’m so damn bored, I’m willing to do anything for some mental stimulation.
All the while, he continues to search the house. For what, I’m not sure. Every time I come out, though, the mess has grown.
Not destructively like that first day. But he’s clearly opened every drawer and cabinet, examined everything, and upended my sanctuary.
Outside, the snow continues to fall. Even if Dimitri turned back around the moment I called, he wouldn’t have gotten here for three or four days. He’d have to hike up and down the mountains.
I doubt he would survive that.
At least once a day, Max knocks the snow down from the windows and doors, ensuring we don’t lose that meager light or access to fresh air.
Meanwhile, I just lie here. Waiting. Anticipating.
Losing track of time.
Slowly going insane.
On the second or third evening after dinner, he enters my room again. “Get up.”
I groan, trying to picture myself any place other than here. “I don’t have to use the bathroom, and I showered this morning.” He’s so controlling, he even tells me when to pee.
He cuts the zip ties securing me to the bed. “That’s good, because we’re going downstairs.”
Downstairs? So he found the stairwell to the lower level in the pantry.
We’re going to the basement, where Dimitri did all of my training, the place that marks this safe house as not a home, butas a professional setting with the trappings of privacy. A lair in disguised.
“Fine.” Because what choice do I have?
Max leads me to the butler’s pantry, every wall stocked with spices and nonperishables. The rattan rug covering the floor’s swept to the side, revealing an open trapdoor.
Concrete stairs send stabbing icicles up through my bare feet, and I wish I’d taken a minute to grab some socks. Without the heating running, and with the door closed, little warmth reaches the basement. And despite Max feeding the fire, the cold creeps deeper into the house every hour.
Once we hit the bottom, Max veers to the side and flicks a switch to turn on the bright hanging lights, showing he’s already familiar with the layout. I wonder just how long ago he found the stairs.
The basement opens into a fighting arena, with weights, a bike, a treadmill, a stair machine, a rowing machine, punching bags, and everything else you’d expect to find in a professional gym.
The sights are familiar, as are the scents.
Old sweat and rubber. Under those smells is rust and iron. I’ve spilled blood on nearly every surface down here. Trained my body and my mind. Learned how to do things the proper way. Heard the story of Roman’s life and the horrors he committed while posing as a doting father.
