Page 28 of Trust

As soon as the bolt unfastens, I’m on my feet and behind the table, as if that flimsy barrier could shield me.

Chris enters, and I sense the rage within him, though his face gives nothing away.

“Sit.” He points, the command so sharp it bites.

Too spent to push back, I do as he says.

He’s on me even before my butt touches the chair, snapping cuffs around my wrists like I’m a high-risk criminal.

“Hey! I—”

“I need to check your injuries,” he cuts in flatly, “and I trust you even less now. So stop complaining!”

My mouth opens and closes, unable to find anything to say.

“I’m sick of your attitude,” he adds.

The words hit harder than I want to admit. I’ve heard them before. Too many times. From someone else who also treated me as a burden any time the cameras were off.

He disappears for a moment and returns with a small bucket and a first aid kit the size of a toolbox. When he lifts the lid, gauze, several tubes, and medical tape come into view. He fills the bucket with water, then gathers everything he needs on the table. “I’ll have to get rid of your pants.”

Scissors in hand, he slices up the sides of my leggings and tears them open all the way to my knees, pulling the fabric apart like it’s paper. The cloth sticks to the dried blood on my legs, and it hurts like hell, but I don’t flinch, don’t show any weakness. That’s until he’s tugging off my sneakers. Then I can’t help it. I grimace and suck in a breath. My feet resemble raw meat.

Annoyance and disappointment pinch at his features before he exhales deeply.

“I’m sorry.” The apology tumbles out before I can catch it. The pain barely touches me now. Helplessness is what makes me wince.

He pauses. “For running away or hurting yourself?”

I don’t respond. Unable to face him, my gaze drifts elsewhere. I’m not sure which is worse, admitting I regret escaping or failing at it.

He dips a strip of gauze in warm water and washes the dirt from my knees and shins, revealing angry scratches beneath. They’re not severe. Nothing needs stitching, but there are lots of them.

“Try to hold still.” He picks up a bottle with clear liquid, harmless in appearance until it hits skin. The sting is instant. It burns like fire racing under my flesh, and I clench my jaw, suppressing any sound that wants to get out. When he touches the raw patches where blisters and chafing tore my skin, I kick. A reflex he was ready for. He catches my ankle and firmly presses it down.

It’s agony, but I breathe through it.

After he’s done cleaning and treating the broken skin, he wraps my feet with precision. I watch his steady hands. They work fast. He’s no stranger to this. “Anything else I should know about?” he asks.

I shake my head. He watches me for a beat longer, then nods once, snaps the kit shut and leaves. Right before I panic about being shackled and alone, he returns with a steaming plate of food. My stomach growls loudly as soon as the smell hits my nostrils. He holds up that stupid spork as if studying it.

“I’m going to feed you.”

And gone is my appetite. I gape at him, unable to process.

“You can eat my way,” he states evenly, “or not at all.” There’s no threat in his voice. That’s what makes it worse. It’s simply a fact.

When I don’t say anything, he’s already on his way out and only stops at my desperate “Okay!” Gosh.

Turning back, he sits down on the bed and pulls my chair between his knees. Too close for me to cause damage, close enough for him to reach my mouth. He feeds me small bites in silence.

The food tastes better than it should. Or I’m just that hungry. My pride’s somewhere at the bottom of the lake he pulled me out of, but right now, I don’t even know if I care anymore. The calories will give me strength to fight back against whatever comes next.

When the plate is empty, he stands and unlocks the cuffs. My wrists sting where the metal bit in. I rub them absently.

“Get cleaned up,” he says, gesturing at the sink. “As best you can.” At the door, he turns. “If the light comes on, you are to sit in the chair.” He stares me down. “Disobey again, and I’ll keep you alive, nothing more.” Then he’s gone.

Only after the bolt slides into place, does some of the tension ease. I flex my fingers and carefully push myself to my aching feet. I drag myself across the room to the sink, and press the pump of the dispenser. A thin ribbon of soap coils into my palm. It smells faintly medicinal as I rub it over my skin. The tap groans when I twist it, releasing a sluggish, lukewarm stream, but at least it’s clear. I rinse, watching suds slide down the drain, then grab the scratchy towel to blot the water from my hands. I fish the toothbrush out of the paper cup, squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles, and scrub until my gums sting.