Page 64 of Hunt You Down

It didn’t really matter what I said at that point. He was going to kill me no matter what.

“Ask André about that,” I snapped, cleaning my mouth with the back of my hand.

His boot cracked against my jaw, and I spit out a mouthful of blood. Based on a quick inventory with my tongue, the chunk that I felt wasn’t a tooth.

“Smart-mouthed little shit,” he muttered.

I may have put up with a lot from him, but I wasn’t about to sit in soiled clothes—not anymore. I stripped my shirt, and winced through wiggling my jeans off. Regan re-entered the room, tossing a handful of clothes at me.

“Put these on,” he barked. “You’re disgusting.”

I suppose bathing is out of the question.

Though at least clean clothes were better than the alternative. But as I unfolded them, I felt sick all over again—they were the clothes I’d thrown away at the mall. The coffee stain from that morning was still there. As I unfolded the shirt, it kicked up a wave of André’s cologne. At the memory of his hands on me that day, how happy he was to see me comfortable in my own skin, my mind was made up.

I’d accepted the fact that Regan was determined to kill me, and I was going to let him. It was just easier. I needed the reminder that I had something to fight for.

When it was just me and Dylan, I thought dying would be an easier option. I was nothing but a burden. Constantly having to worry about me, he never got the chance to live a normal life.

But when it came to André, something hit differently. He’d been settled in his life—he was successful, he was rich, and he was happy. Then he changed it all.

For me.

Just six months ago I was nothing more than a hook-up, and now I had a key to his apartment. We had plans for the future. I tried to imagine that he was losing his mind trying to find me, but the self doubt trickled in.

That didn’t matter.

I couldn’t live with the fact that I might not see him again. I had to fight for him.

So from then on, I took the attacks in stride. Every punch, every kick, every insult—I didn’t let them faze me. The pain became almost unbearable. Usually, Regan’s fits of rage only lasted a couple hours, but now he acted on repeat. I’d only close my eyes as he punched me in the face, the stomach, the ribs. He’d throw me to the ground and kick me until I threw up. He’d make me clean it, then take me to the bedroom.

Rinse and repeat.

I lost track of the time, of the days. All I wanted to do was fall victim to the unconsciousness, but I fought like hell. I forced myself to picture André’s face when they did. I imagined his hands touching me. The night he bathed me at the hotel was my safe space; the tenderness he showed me my light in the darkness. I was determined to be there again. I wanted André to burst through those doors, scoop me into his arms, and put me in a steaming hot bubble bath—with him behind me.

If I focused hard enough, I could smell his expensive soap. The best thing he did was when he would wet a washcloth, letting the scalding water drip over my chest and shoulders. I loved it when he did that. I could feel the warmth spreading over me.

A jolt of pain brought me out of my fantasy. My eyes shot open, and I drew in a breath. My back ached, kidneys protesting the repeated abuse. I picked my head up and glanced around me. My vision was blurry. It took quite a few minutes for me to orient myself, only doing so once I saw the bleached spot beneath my head.

How long ago was that?

That particular spot meant that I was outside the bathroom. As tenderly as possible, I worked my hands underneath me and pushed myself to my knees. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming. Sitting on my ass, I scooted to the edge of the hall and peeked around the corner. It was still dark out, which meant that if Regan wasn’t assaulting me, he was asleep—finally. I glanced over my shoulder, and the bedroom door was shut. It almost seemed too good to be true.

I rose onto my knees but the moment I placed a foot on the floor, shooting pain in my back sent me to my ass again. I resigned myself to sliding into the bathroom. I tugged myself in enough to close the door behind me, leaving it cracked so I could see the bedroom. I watched it carefully, easing my hand behind the cabinet beneath the sink. The door squealed, and I slowed my pace. I just needed it open enough to reach my phone. I fully expected it to be gone, but let out a sigh of relief when my fingertips found the rounded edge of the screen.

Thankfully, it turned on. I was surprised to find that I still had a signal. It wasn’t much, but enough for texts to start pouring in. I put the bright screen face down in my lap. The mattress groaned beneath Regan’s weight, but the door didn’t open.

I waited on edge for the vibrating to stop. It wouldn’t take much for Regan to see the glow of the screen, even with it turned all the way down. It was the only light in the house. I gave up on waiting, opening my text thread with André.

Christ, what was I supposed to do now? I couldn’t call anyone. Figuring out where I was would take too long, and gave me a higher chance of getting caught.

I didn’t have an address, and I didn’t know if André could track my phone. If he could, he wouldn’t be able to for long. The battery was dangerously low.

Suddenly, a notification popped up with a pin on a map. “Share your location with André?”

Yes, that’s exactly what I need. I hit the share option—then the door flew open, crashing into the side of my head. I threw my phone across the room.

My temple caught the handle on the cabinet door, blood gushing down the side of my face.