Page 43

I guess it is a fitting ending, after all. My love of the darker things is coming to bite me in the ass. I think about the predicament I’ve landed myself in long and hard as I sit cross-legged on a bumpy mattress fit for a prison. A loose strand of hair falls into my face, and I lift my hand to brush it out of the way for the hundredth time since I’ve been in this room. And for the hundredth time, the clank of the metal cuffs against the bed frame reminds me that I’m manacled to the damn thing. Rolling my eyes, I resort to blowing the strand from my face like a peasant.

The stiffness begins to set in as I arch my back to ease the tension. I’m not entirely sure how long I’ve been in here. Long enough to know I’m already over it. The masked freak threw me in here, uttered some nonsense about needing time to think, and then shackled me to the bed and left me inside the room, alone.

I resorted to the dramatics of screaming early on but shortly gave up on that method once my throat felt like I’d swallowed a bunch of razor blades. My captor clearly doesn’t care anyway. They are clearly deranged, and you cannot reason with a deranged psycho. I’ve watched this movie plenty of times, and I know how it ends.

I scan my surroundings for what feels like the millionth time, the blandly colored paint-chipped walls seeming to close in on me now. Other than the sorry excuse for a bed that I’m sitting on, the only other object in the room is a gallon bucket tucked into the corner. I don’t need to dive very deep into my imagination to know what it’s for, and I’ll be damned if I resort to using the damn thing. I’ll sooner die from a ruptured bladder than use that bucket. The sicko probably has cameras on me, and the thought of being watched by Mr. or Ms. Crazy Pants while I relieve myself makes me want to vomit.

On another heavy sigh, my mind soon wanders to Callum, wondering if he’s still locked in that damn cell. What if the psycho freak killed him? I’m not sure if my thoughts are merely a product of dehydration and mental exhaustion, or some version of the truth. The optimist in me wants to think it’s the latter, but I can’t help but hear that tiny voice in the back of my mind that speaks otherwise. I mean, come on, this isn’t exactly an optimistic situation I’ve found myself in. Even so, I can’t stop thinking about Callum. I want to know how Kaila died. Did he kill her? Surely there’s an explanation, one that I may never get. I feel horrible for pressing him on the issue now that I know he lost her.

Thoughts of him are the only ones keeping me sane at the moment. I lean my head back against the hard wall, wiggling around atop the mattress to relieve the pressure on my tailbone. I want so badly to lie down and rest, but I don’t have the energy to move. I am exhausted. My eyes fall shut as I picture Callum’s honey-brown ones. The image of him in my head begins to warm the panic within me, if only a little.

THUD.

My eyes snap open at the sound of the door slamming against the wall. My head jerks toward the noise, and I freeze when I lock eyes with the last person I ever expected to see. For several long seconds, I can do nothing but stare, taking him in. This is certainly a plot twist I did not see coming, and it only brings fire to my glare as I stare at him with disgust that I hope he can feel.

“Why?” I seethe.

“Lydia.” He sighs, his expression one of pity. I want to smack it right off of his smug face.

“Psycho.” I smirk, glaring up at his face as the fury burns beneath my skin. Why would he do this to me … to us?

“Beg your pardon?” he asks, narrowing his eyes.

“What? I thought we were addressing one another by name,” I say, sweetly. My response earns me an exasperated sigh that only widens my grin.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, you know,” he says, stalking toward me.

I press back into the wall, wishing it would open up and swallow me whole. When he tilts his head and narrows his eyes, I immediately wish I hadn’t shown the fear that’s surely written all over my face. I can’t help but feel like this is personal, and it scares the shit out of me. My skin crawls knowing that I don’t have the upper hand right now, no matter how much I pretend otherwise.

“Are you afraid of me, Lydia?” he asks, looking very unhinged.

I am afraid, but I consider the question. I know that anything I say will most certainly be held against me. I decide that I don’t care, though. Holding my tongue has never been my strong suit, and there’s a very real possibility that I don’t make it out of here alive anyway.

“Nope, only disgusted,” I say plainly.

My response earns me another head tilt, and I’m pretty sure I hear a faint chuckle to go with it. Great, I do not need him thinking that I’m a bitch and funny. Can a psycho stalker have Stockholm syndrome for their victim? I shiver at the thought of it. I do not want that for myself. Especially now that I know who my stalker is.

The bed springs squeak as he sinks beside me. This time, I make sure that I don’t back into the wall or appear afraid. It’s quite the challenge, because I am very much terrified right now.

What if I’m tortured, forced to do things I most certainly do not want to do, or at the very worst, murdered? I have no idea what his plans are, or why he’d want to capture us in the first place. A hand clamps around my ankle, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts and dragging my gaze downward.

“Let me go,” I snarl, dropping the sarcastic bitch act and moving straight into fight mode.

I might be small, but I know how to survive. Of course, that would be a hell of a lot easier to prove if my wrists weren’t shackled to this prison cot.

“Little banshee,” he says, almost seductively. The bile rising up the back of my throat is instantaneous. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. You are so strong. I know you would have made it.”

He runs his hand up my shin slowly, moving closer to me. I suck in a breath, lifting my gaze to his in panic. What the hell is happening right now? Why is he doing this?

Fury takes over, and I don’t think twice before kicking my foot out hard. But my captor is quicker, grabbing my leg and gripping it tightly. My panic escalates when his other hand finds my opposite leg, tugging me flat against the mattress. The metal clings loudly against the bars as my arms are stretched over my head. He quickly places the mask back on, crawls onto the bed, and stops only when the mask is mere centimeters from my face.

“You’ll do well to realize that I’m in charge here, little banshee,” he says, the words laced with venom.

I hold my breath, fear seeking to consume me whole. He sits back up and reaches into his robe, grabbing another pair of cuffs. My eyes widen in shock as he shackles my ankles to the bed frame near my feet. I buck atop the mattress, causing the restraints to dig into my skin.

“Why are you doing this to me?” I plead, tears clouding my vision.

“I didn’t want to do this, but this is the way it has to be,” he says, his voice strained.