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“Good,” I reply, but Bram’s question still hangs in the air, along with all the others I know Seb and Callen want to ask.
“What are we going to—” Seb begins, but I wave my hand to silence him.
The truth is, I don’t know what we’re going to do with Ivy, but we can’t have her starving to death before we get answers.
“I need to feed our prisoner,” I say, then storm away before either of them can hound me.
I head to the kitchenette at the end of the corridor. The cupboards are stashed with stale bread and plenty of tinned goods. I find a can of baked beans and empty the contents into a plastic bowl that would be best suited for a child, then pick a few spots of green mould from the bread before tossing that in too. She can eat it cold with her hands. I’m not risking getting scolded or sliced by real crockery.
Once her breakfast is prepared, I head to the dungeon. I push the door open as quietly as possible and tip-toe down the stairs. In an ideal world, she’ll be asleep, and I won’t have to speak to her at all. I’m not ready for that yet.
I turn the corner to see Ivy sleeping against the pillar. Her hands are still cuffed, and her ankle is still secured. However, a few things are out of place: an empty plastic bottle that wasn’t here yesterday lies at her side, her cheek is bruised, and her t-shirt has been turned into a party streamer that shows off a fresh cut on her chest. She didn’t have any of these injuries when she arrived.
Someone’s been here. Nausea makes my stomach roll. Has Torean and his men visited her? What did they do? I try to stay calm, but that’s easier said than done…
I place the morsels within reach, but far enough away that she won’t risk spilling them if she turns around.
“So, that’s it?” her croaky voice rasps as I go to leave. “You’re just going to keep me tethered up?”
I spin slowly.
“How do you expect me to eat when my hands are tied?” she asks. She’s right. “Or are you planning to starve me?”
“You have food,” I reply coldly. “I’m sure you’re smart enough to figure something out after all your time in the Killers Club.”
“Can I use the bathroom?” she asks.
“You have a bathroom,” I say, pointing at the bucket nearby that I was planning to task Callen with emptying later.
“A real bathroom,” she says.
“I can’t let you do that.”
“Why?” she demands. “Do you think I’m going to smother you with toilet paper or turn the toilet brush into a shiv? You can sit and watch if you want.”
“I said,no.”
“All I want to do is have a proper wash and use an actual toilet,” she says. Her voice cracks. “Bram wasn’t the only prisoner the Killers Club kept.”
Fuck. Her pleading tone makes my heart constrict. Looking at her, I can’t help seeing the woman I thought I loved, but my mind is filled with contradictions.
“You’re not a monster, Freddie,” she says. “Please.”
“Fine,” I relent against my better judgement. There’s a bathroom at the top of the stairs she can use. “But I’m not leaving you alone, and I’m tying your ankles.”
“Do whatever makes you feel good about yourself,” she mutters sarcastically.
How did we come to this?
I approach her, taking out the spare pair of cuffs stashed in my pocket.
“Stand up,” I order. “And don’t think about doing anything stupid, or you’ll never leave this place again.”
She struggles to her feet. I don’t offer to help, and she doesn’t ask.
When she’s upright, I hand her the cuffs. “Put these on your ankles.”
She sighs, doing as I ask. With them on, she can move, but there’s not a lot of give in the chain, meaning she can only take half a step at a time. It’ll reduce the risk of her running. She won’t get far without the use of her hands and legs. I kneel down, twisting the key in the lock to release her from the chain binding her to the column.
