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“Ah, welcome back.” Tomasz’s bodyguard smirks. His thin lips stretch oddly to one side.
Looking down my soiled body, he releases me. It shouldn’t ease the fear roaring inside, but the loss of the contact is pacifying in a way.
In one long swoop, his hand cuts through the air, hurtling past me before it smacks loudly onto the girl’s face, sending her flying off the double futon I’m on.
“Suka!” His yell is punctuated by his spit at her feet.
Her whimper is the only marker of her consciousness.
That’s my fault. She told me not to move. Not to speak.
Oh God.
Without a word he looks me up and down before he leaves with a disgusted sneer.
The pain in my head thrums on in the background as I jump off the futon once he’s left the room. My ankles crick in my heels, and all I can do not to scream is bite my tongue. Warm blood floods my mouth, and although I’m scared, something about the taste gives me fight. I refuse to go down like this.
Kicking my shoes off in any direction, I straighten myself. The smell of vomit makes me shudder. At least the acrid taste has been replaced with that of my blood.
I’ll make sure every drop is repaid if it’s the last thing I do.
Kneeling by the blonde girl, I brush her hair back. Her face is battered and bruised, but even with the swelling, I can tell she’s beautiful. Her long limbs are emaciated.
She’s a ball of trembling fear huddled in on herself. Blood drips from her hairline to her jaw in crimson streaks.
So much blood.
Fuck.
I can’t breathe as memories prickle my skin, my scars burning.
Her stiff limbs stick as I try to straighten her. Dizziness tumbles around the extremities of my soberness.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, making an effort not to hurt her any more than she already is.
She laughs, tears cutting through the blood streaks, creating new paths for it to river down.
Finally managing to sit her against a fallen chair, I freeze.
Jesus. Oh Christ.
Her cream dress is mottled with fresh and dried stains. Blood amongst other things. Her thighs are bruised and scratched. The skin on her knees looks like it’s about to break.
My hands count a few of her wounds as I try to gauge how badly damaged she is. In the back of my mind I’m walking myself through the tour Oliver gave me with all the secret passages and nooks to hide in. I need to know that she can make it out of here, but the more I check her, the clearer it becomes that she’s incapable of climbing stairs and navigating dark passages.
Her thighs are crusted over; she can barely press them together as she tries to scurry away from me in vain.
“I’m going to help you. Okay?”
Her laugh rattles again.
Ignoring her response, I keep checking her over. I have no idea what I’m looking for, nor why I feel the compulsion to make sure she’s okay. Except for the fact she tried to save me and the familiarity I feel for her…I have no reason.
When my hands are about to pause over stomach she slaps them away. It’s the most life she’s shown since Tomasz’s thug left.
“Are you in pain? Have they hurt you?”
The questions are so fucking stupid she laughs again. I’m not stupid. I can deduce what she’s endured form the horrific marks on her body.
