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Goddamn, I need it to not be true. I need it to be a lie. Just the thought of her suffering the way he claims would be unbearable. I can’t imagine what it would mean for her if it’s true.
Her lack of response hits me like a ten-ton truck, right in the chest and having the power to lay me flat.
“Donavan may have gone about it the wrong way, but he was here to keep you safe. The video you were sent was a threat.” Her voice is monotone, emotionless.
My hands lower to my stomach, the threat of getting sick right on the floor becoming more real by the second.
“They made you do those things?”
Bile burns my throat, both from imagining what she went through and also from my guilt for how I handled being sent the video. I blamed her. I hated her for what I thought she was doing. Knowing that she was forced, that she’d been tortured for months, all the while protecting me from knowing the truth since the moment I arrived on campus, makes me sick.
Her head dips, the motion too simple for the truth the confession holds.
“You’ll tell me everything?” It’s a plea, and I know the last thing I want is details of her abuse, but I deserve the pain too. If she weren’t on campus for me, she wouldn’t have been forced into that situation.
Guilt eats away at me, and instead of making excuses and trying to point the finger somewhere else like I normally would, I let it sink inside of me. I deserve the pain from it.
The woman who untied me steps forward. “We have a room set up for you two to stay in tonight.”
Ayla looks to the man who made her confessions, but he takes a step back. I have no idea who he is, but it’s clear that he’s someone to her when she looks a little disappointed at the distance he’s put between the two of them.
“That would be great,” Ayla says.
I can guess the female sticks close to us as we are escorted to a waiting SUV because she either doesn’t believe me that the man didn’t hurt me or she’s here for Ayla because of how badly she was hurt.
At my sister’s insistence, we’re driven to my dorm so I can get some clothes. The woman escorts me inside, her eyes looking everywhere, as if she expects more danger than I’ve already encountered. I make quick work of gathering clothes, including enough for Ayla, before heading back down to the SUV.
The hotel they drive us to is a hundred times better than the one I stayed in last night, but I find myself more apprehensive than I did walking into a motel room with a stranger.
I know Ayla will answer every question I have, but I’m wishing she’d refuse as we’re shown the room provided for us.
The woman issues a warning, telling her we’re free to go, but requesting we take an escort with us if we decide to leave. I catch a glimpse of a man before the door closes, and the shadow of his feet outside our room never leaves.
Ayla seems as nervous as I feel as she drops to the sofa in the living area of the massive suite.
We spend the next several hours crying as she explains what happened and how she made all these sacrifices to protect me. She doesn’t point fingers. She doesn’t put the blame on me for what she went through, and I hate her a little for not doing it. She’s so much stronger than I could ever be, and I know I would’ve caved early on.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m the younger sister and had so much protection growing up, but I know myself enough to know I would’ve given in.
“It wouldn’t have mattered. The deal wasn’t ‘do what we say or we’ll take her and set you free.’ I was always going to be hurt,” she says as tears stream down my cheeks. “I just couldn’t let you get hurt too.”
I nod, her explanation making me feel a little better, but I don’t think there’s an answer or anything she could say to make it all go away.
“We still aren’t safe?”
The man standing outside the door is proof of that.
“That’s why Nash sent Donavan,” she explains. “He wasn’t supposed to fucking kidnap you though.”
I swallow against the lump lodged in my throat. It’s weird to hear my sister use such language, but I guess she’s no longer the same person I once knew. What she’s been through has changed her as much as it would anyone.
“I hate him,” I say, running the man’s name through my head.
He doesn’t exactly look like a Donavan. It’s a little too clean and proper for such a vicious person.
