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Chapter Seventeen
Bodies are pressed against Carter.
Too. Many. Bodies.
They’re wet. Frigid. They must have gotten the hose recently.
Though… Carter doesn’t remember that happening. Not that he remembers much lately. Time in the cell is a blur, which he thinks is probably for the best.
There’s an ache in him. A need. He… god, he misses someone.
Severely misses someone.
But who?
He smells scotch and spice. He knows that smell. That’s – who is that?
Sir.
Carter has a sir. He shouldn’t be in the cell. He should be in sir’s manor. In sir’s bed. He should be with sir.
It’s his day off. They watched a movie. Cuddled.
Sir gave him his consent.
Sir snapped his teeth at him, growling as he called him little red. Carter had giggled.
Why is Carter in the cell if he has a sir who makes him giggle?
“It was all a dream,” someone whispers. Carter whips around, but nobody is there. It’s just black. A dark, empty, nothingness. “You were dreaming, Carter.”
Carter turns again. “Who’s there?”
Nobody.
Nothing.
Carter blinks rapidly, trying to get his vision to form something. Anything. A shadow. A vague shape. A shade of grey.
“You haven’t been sold yet,” the voice explains. “Nathan Roarke wasn’t real. None of it was real.”
That voice… Carter knows that voice, but he can’t place it.
“Who are you?” Carter demands. “Fucking show yourself!”
“I can’t. They won’t let me see you. They took you away.”
They took Carter away?
He’s right. They did. They took Carter away.
They put him in the dark.
Oh god, the dark. That awful cell. Is Carter really still in there? Starving? Thirsty? Lonely beyond belief? Did Carter conjure sir as a way to cope?
No.
No way.
