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He moved past the window and she hissed. Sunlight pierced her corneas and she covered her eyes. Squinting, she zeroed in on the dust motes drifting through the air and every fiber of woven thread sewn into the curtain.
She counted the exit points. One door, two windows. Somehow, she knew they were on the second floor. A shirt and hat hung from pegs on the wall. Was there time to steal clothes or should she run naked?
He poured liquid from a pitcher, the trickle of water interfering with her perception of other sounds. As soon as he stopped filling the glass she could once again hear the trill of insects chirping outside and the birds calling from the trees. There was way too much nature to be the city. Wherever they were, it wasn’t near home.
“Drink this.”
Shifting into a praying mantis slash Daniel son Karate Kid pose, she bared her teeth. “Don’t come any closer!”
“I’m only offering you water—”
“Ha! You think I’m stupid?” She kicked the cup out of his hand. The metal dish clattered to the ground.
His eyebrow arched, triggering a strange memory she couldn’t place. Pushing the sense of déjà vu away, she kicked the air again, warning him back.
“Perhaps I should remind you that you’re naked.”
“You think that’s going to stop me, you fucking psycho? I’ll go Hannibal on your ass if you get any closer. I want my clothes and a phone. Now.”
He sighed and took a step closer. She hissed then clapped her hands over her mouth. Hissing? Really? She wasn’t feeling like herself.
Retrieving a black shirt from the dresser, he extended his arm. “You may wear this.”
Hesitantly, she snatched the garment out of his hand with more force than intended. He kept his back to her as she unraveled the fabric and held it up. It wasn’t a shirt, but a dress, a hideous, plain, frock-like dress.
Instinctively, she knew this was the first step of brainwashing. The bad guys always stripped their victims down and took away all signs of individuality. “This isn’t mine. Where are my clothes?”
“I’m giving it to you. Consider it yours.”
“I don’t want it. I prefer pants.”
He scoffed. “I think not.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, do you? Do you think not? We aren’t in bloody London! And I’m not wearing some cult frock from one of your medieval fantasies. I want a fucking pair of pants, and I want my phone!”
His mercury irises flashed like blue lightning. Under such a threatening glare, her bravado abandoned her, but she forced herself not to show fear.
“I’ve asked you to refrain from such foul language. I won’t ask again.”
She wanted to snap, or what, but she also didn’t want to find out what the what was. Huffing, she yanked the drab sack he was trying to pass off as clothing over her head.
His mouth formed a flat line as his stare did a quick assessment of her. “We need to speak, Delilah.”
“Yeah, okay, let’s start with where the hell am I? What the fuck did you do to me? And where the hell are my real clothes?”
“Control your tongue. My patience wears thin.”
“Your patience? Hello...” She shoved a thumb against her chest. “I’m here against my will. Your patience can eat a dick.”
A growl rolled through the room like thunder. “Last warning, pintura. Mind your tongue.”
Pintura? She locked her jaw so her teeth didn’t chatter. Name-changing was another sign of brainwashing. She saw it on an episode of 60 Minutes.
As tempting as it was to tell him to fuck off, she couldn’t stop thinking about the girl from Silence of the Lambs that Buffalo Bill trapped in the well. If this guy asked her to rub lotion on her skin, she was going to lose her shit.
Who knew how crazy he was? If she didn’t actually watch her mouth, he might end up cutting out her tongue. Who would look for her? Gran and Pop, dead. Lance and McGuire, gone. She was fucked. True fear settled in and she whimpered.
“May we speak now?”
Sarcasm was her first defense whenever she was scared, but in this case, saying the wrong thing could get her killed.
“Talk,” she barked.
He frowned, silently studying her. Was he waiting for an engraved invitation?
“Well?”
He drew in a deep breath and sighed, dragging the chair in the corner of the room closer to the bed. He straddled it, crossing his arms over the back. The thickly corded muscles she had found so attractive now terrified her. His broad shoulders bunched under the crisp black linen of his shirt.
The bastard was probably going to sell her to some sex trafficking ring. Her stomach lurched at the thought.
“Are you planning on standing up there through our discussion?”
Sitting on the bed put her at a disadvantage. He was bigger in every way. She could at least give the illusion that she was taller. “Yes.”
