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He stands, unfastening my wrists, and then he steps back.
I eye him for a moment, not sure what to think. It’s like he didn’t want to touch me longer than necessary, which I appreciate. I don’t want to be touched. Not by anyone here.
Except …
No. Especially not him. Not after the way he slid an ice pick down my arm. I glance at the small dot of blood on my wrist and shudder.
“Come,” the guy says, and he turns abruptly, opening the door and pausing.
He stares at me expectantly, and after a moment of hesitation, I stand up and look back at the chair and then out the door. I hope I never see this room again.
“Where are we going?” I nervously ask. I’m talking to his back as he strides down the cement hallway in front of me.
He must not think I’m anything to worry about since he’s not keeping me in front of him. I envision myself kicking forward, catching him in the back of the knee and pushing him to the ground, but I think better of it. Even though I took self-defense classes, I highly doubt this man would be fazed. He looks like he takes some sort of defense class every waking moment.
I’m not sure any amount of training would have prepared me for actually being kidnapped and held in a basement. It’s a surreal experience, fraught with too many emotions.
He doesn’t answer, and I try again.
“What’s your name?” I ask. I need to get as much information as I can.
Before I know what’s happening, he stops, pivoting on one foot as his forearm connects with my throat, shoving me against the wall. My head bounces off of it, and blackness crowds my vision for a moment as I blink and try to find my bearings. In one second, he has me pinned, my toes barely touching the floor. He keeps his body apart, his forearm still holding me, and I don’t even have time to defend myself before his face is an inch from mine. I try to scream, but his hand cuts me off.
“I don’t know who the fuck you are, Wryn Coleman, but rest assured, we are finding out everything we can about you. If I were you, I wouldn’t even attempt to get to know anyone around here. You don’t need to know my fucking name to sit down and answer questions like the good little girl you should be, if you know what’s good for you. Then, you should pray like hell that he doesn’t tear you limb from limb for show before tossing your body parts in the ocean as chum.”
Spittle lands on my face as he lets loose his stream of words, and I can’t do anything but listen and try to draw air in through my beaten and battered windpipe. It’s my second time of being choked out in two days.
Then, a slow smile spreads across the man’s face as he narrows his eyes.
His message is clear.
“Blink once if you understand,” he hisses.
I try to focus on him. My hands claw at the cement behind me, and I let my lashes fall slowly and then crack them open again. He pulls his arm away, stepping back, and as soon as my feet hit the ground, my knees buckle. I’m on the floor, exactly like last night, dragging air into my body and clutching at the delicate skin around my neck. I gasp and then cough, bent over while he stands and watches me. The tips of his nondescript black shoes are in my eyesight, and it makes me angry. I’m fucking pissed that he’s standing here, looking down at me. A predator watching his prey.
I shift suddenly, kicking one leg out along the ground, and I hit his shin. He grunts, his leg moving slightly, and then he steps back, chuckling.
“You’ve got spirit—I’ll give you that.” He hauls me up by the back of my dress, and I can hear some of the stitches rip. “Oops. Hope that wasn’t expensive.”
“Doesn’t fucking matter since your boss ripped open the crotch of it last night,” I mutter, and then I shake his hand off. I turn away from him as he steps around me, continuing down the hallway.
He leads me up the same set of stairs he carried me down last night. I wonder if this is the only way in and out. Surely not because that would be stupid, right? We step through the door and into the back of an industrial-sized kitchen. A woman bustles around, but she doesn’t look at us. Maybe this is a regular occurrence for her. Captive people being led through that door.
She pounds her flour-coated fist into the dough in front of her, flips it, and then she’s back to striking it.
I follow the grumpy guy out into a hallway, and we pass a few more closed doors before we come out into the main foyer, where I entered last night. He turns and starts up the stairs. I don’t see anyone else. I’m not sure if there’s no one here or if the staff are keeping themselves scarce. At the top of the stairs, we turn, and he opens the third door on the left.
“This one is yours.” We step inside. “A guard will be outside the door if you need anything. The comm there goes straight to the kitchen if you are hungry,” he says, pointing to a button beside the light switch. “There are a few items of clothing lying on the bed. You seem to be about the same size as her, but if they don’t fit, we can get you something else later.”
“Who is her?” I ask, and Grumpy glares at me. “Don’t ask questions—got it.”
“Bathroom is through there.” He points, and I nod.
“Okay, thanks.”
“Don’t thank me,” he says cryptically.
I have a guard, so I guess that definitely makes me a prisoner. I’m confused as to why Grumpy moved me to a guest room after what Connor said last night.
