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“Peter told me how much you loved mac and cheese,” Red says as he busies himself at the range.
I watch him work with heavy-lidded eyes, tired but too awake to sleep. When he’s done pouring the ingredients into a saucepan on the range and just stands there stirring, my gaze wanders around the kitchen again.
I spot a knife block, several big knives jutting from the wood.
Could I grab one without him noticing? My eyes flutter closed, head sinking until my chin is on my chest.
I slip off the kitchen stool, creeping over to the knife block and sliding free one of the smaller ones. The mac ’n cheese makes a wet sucking sound as Red stirs the pot, and it sounds just like my pussy did not half an hour ago when he was raping me. My fingers tighten around the knife’s grip, and I charge silently up to the tall man, stabbing as hard as I can with the knife, aiming for the back of his heart and hoping the blade is long enough to pierce that sick, black organ. Red yells, spinning around to backhand me, his face contorted more in anger than pain. I fall to the floor, scrambling up as he reaches behind him to pull the knife out of his back. “Bitch!” There’s spittle on his lips as he lunges for me. I try to keep out of reach, but my body is sluggish from the drugs, my mind stuffed with cotton wool. Red grabs my hair, yanks me over the floor, and slams my head against the beautiful ceramic tiles, leaving a streak of blood and a few strands of hair behind on the glossy surface. “I warned you, cunt,” he spits into my ear. The knife appears, the same one I used on him, and he hacks it into my neck before dragging it through my flesh—
My eyes pop open, my heart hammering in panic. There’s a bowl of gooey mac and cheese in front of me, Red’s hand on my shoulder. He hands me a spoon, and it takes me a second to realize that he wants me to eat.
I’m not hungry, but there’s a part of me that knows I should keep up my strength. So I dig into the bowl of mac and cheese and spoon some into my mouth, making the appropriate noises as I force myself to swallow the sticky mess.
Red comes up behind me, the antique brush in his hands. I pause in the act of taking another bite as he uses his fingers to untangle the soft waves my hair dried into. Then he starts brushing my hair. The old brush creeps me out. I can’t stop thinking about lice, but thank God the medicine turns down the volume on everything—even my emotions.
I carry on eating, forcing down each bite, reminding myself that I need to stay strong to escape. When Red is done brushing out my hair, he applies the lotion to my locks. He seems happy when he’s playing with my hair, so I don’t protest. Instead, I focus all my energy on getting as much food down my throat without puking.
I don’t want to upset him again, not like I did back in the room. I’m pretty sure I’ll remember his punishments for years to come. My lips tweak into a dry smile.
What had Fyre called it? Exposure therapy?
What a joke.
All the progress he’d made—we’d made—undone in a few hours. I can feel my mind shrinking as my subconscious tries desperately to disassociate. I can’t taste a thing, and the drugs aren’t to blame for that. My senses are shutting down in an effort to spare me from what’s coming.
Pain.
Torture.
Degradation.
My spoon scrapes against the bottom of a now-empty bowl, and I put my hands down on either side of it, palms flat on the table. Red is still busy toying with my hair.
He’s humming.
I recognize the tune, but not the song.
Peter used to hum that to me when he dressed me up.
“Such a pretty dolly,” Red murmurs, his fingers brushing the side of my neck as he arranges my short locks just-so around my shoulders.
My fingers twitch, tips dragging over the tablecloth like I’m trying to claw myself away from his touch. But I have neither the strength nor the willpower.
I blink, tip my head down, and stare blearily at the tablecloth. It feels weird. Thick and slippery, but somehow sticky at the same time.
Because it’s not a tablecloth. It’s wax paper. I recoil with a gasp when my mind finally makes the connection.
The entire kitchen island is covered in butcher’s paper.
14
FYRE
“—fucking heavy,” someone mutters. Either the sound of that voice, or the pull on my heels as I’m dragged over the floor, rouses me from my stupor. My eyes flicker, but thankfully I regain enough control to prevent my eyes from opening fully, for my muscles to start resisting.
I keep my lids at a slit, trying to puzzle out where I am. I’m surprised, even grateful, when I realize I’m still inside the lake house. I guess Red’s friend didn’t hit me quite as hard as we both thought.
Thank God. I didn’t need brain damage added to my already overflowing plate of troubles. The pain at the back of my skull suggests heavy trauma, though. But I’m not dizzy, nauseous, or uncoordinated, so I’m hoping that rules out a concussion.
