A fucking braid.
I never wear my hair in a braid.
“Hmm?” the man asks, flipping the page.
“My hair,” I gasp. “Who … who braided my hair?”
“I did,” he says simply, closing the book and fixing his eyes on me. “You don’t remember?”
My gut continues to twist and turn, my breath hitching in my lungs. “I don’t remember. I don’t…”
I try to think. I remember running. Running through the forest. That’s why there are so many scratches on my chest and arms and legs.
And yet they don’t seem as fresh as they should.
“How long have I been down here?” I ask, though I’m terrified of the answer.
“A couple of days,” he says.
“A couple of days!?” I shriek. How is this possible?
“You really don’t remember?” he asks, placing the book down on the floor beside him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His tuxedo looks damn expensive. Why the hell is he in a tux, keeping me in a basement?
Don’t even let your mind go there…
“No, I…” I think. It hurts. I remember the Uber, I remember the guy…what was his name? Ezra? He hit me. Then this asshole showed up. I managed to kick him in the face and then I ran through the forest, faster than I’ve ever run, all downhill, it was like I was flying and then…
I ran right back into him.
And that’s the last thing I remember.
“Hmmm,” he says, after watching me for a moment, looking down at his cufflinks as he adjusts them, gleaming in the dim overhead light. “Seems you don’t remember much. Perhaps that’s for the best.”
“Tell me what happened,” I tell him. “Please.”
Did he touch me? Hurt me? Rape me?
I gingerly run my hands over my arms, over my thighs, feeling sick and dirty, shaking from the fear slowly building inside me.
With a tired sigh, he gets to his feet and slowly walks over to me, hands casually in his pockets. He stops a meter away, cocks his head as he peers down at me curiously. “I brought you to my house. I brought you down here, where no one can find you. Does that answer your question?”
I shake my head, my heart shattering over his words.
Where no one can find you.
No one will find me.
“What am I not remembering? Did you…” I break off, unable to say the words.
He frowns, looking annoyed. “I see. You want a play-by-play, Ms. Warwick? I brought you down here, then I had my friend bring you into the washroom, run you a bath, and you got in it, willingly, I might add. We gave you privacy, that is until you attempted to drown yourself in the tub. We brought you out. Brought you fresh clothes. You insisted on wearing your own. You got changed.” He pauses. “If you think we turned our backs like gentlemen, you’re only half right.”
I try to swallow the brick in my throat. “Then you braided my hair.”
“You asked me to,” he says with a sniff. “Just be glad I didn’t chop it all off. Would have been much easier that way.”
It doesn’t make any sense. Why would I ask him to braid my hair? My subconscious attempt at trying to appeal to his weak side, his good side?
I glance up at him. He’s staring down at me with those intensely cold eyes, that permanent line between his dark brows. I’m not sure this man has a good side.
“Then,” he goes on, “you went to sleep. You’ve been doing nothing but sleeping ever since. We’ve brought in food, water, but you didn’t want it. You did attempt to stab me in the eye with a fork though. That would have hurt, had you not been so terribly stupid and slow.”
I think about that for a moment. I’m proud that I attempted to fight back and escape, but it saddens me to the core to know how easily I failed, and how I’ll fail again. How the fuck do I get out of this situation?
“What do you plan on doing with me?” I ask softly, trying to bury the fear. “You let me bathe, you let me sleep, you brought me food, water. Why are you doing this to me? Why are you keeping me alive?”
He scoffs, his mouth crooking up into a half-smile. “You’re worth nothing if you’re dead. You do realize that, don’t you?”
I give my head a shake, my brain exploding with stars. I press my fingers into my cheek. It’s swollen and sore. I stare into nothing, feeling nothing but pain.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a moment, and I’m so surprised by the polite, tentative tone of his voice that I glance up at him sharply. “It’s about your parents.”
My heart seizes. “What about them?” I whisper. “Please, please don’t do anything to them.”
He lifts a single brow. “I wasn’t planning on it. Your parents are Elaine and James Warwick, are they not?”