My eyes focus in on the locks. I’m safe, but then why do I feel anything but secure?
Sweat continues to ooze from my pores like my body is trying to expel the nightmares through my skin. My mind tries to shut off, but it can’t block out the men. And I can’t get rid of the shakes that ricochet through my body.
The door handle stops rattling. I exhale. Enzo realized he couldn’t get in.
I’m alone.
And I don’t know how to feel.
I’m alone to face the demons in the dark. Alone to heal myself. What if I can’t heal myself? What if I just stop eating and drinking until my body finally gives out?
Dr. Miranda wouldn’t allow me to do that. Neither would Westcott or even Enzo. Enzo would hire someone to break through the locks and force feed me before he let me wither away into nothing. I still have my suspicions that the only reason I’m here is so he can heal me and then get more money when he sells me.
But for now, I get one more day alone.
I hear a loud crack.
I jump.
The door.
Another pound against the door, followed by another crack.
Shit.
I grip my knees tighter as my teeth begin to chatter.
Pound.
Pound.
Pound.
Then crack.
The door splits along the edge. Enzo pushes the door open wide enough for him to step through.
He’s dressed in a black suit; his tie has loosened around his neck like he just came home from a normal day at the office. But that’s where the normalcy stops. His dark hair is ruffled and longer than the last time I saw him; he could use a haircut. The shadow of hair on his sharp jawline has thickened. Sweat trickles down his forehead.
Blood.
Tiny droplets of blood rest on the collar of his shirt, tie, and cufflinks.
What have you been doing Enzo? And do you plan on doing the same thing to me?
I had so many questions of why he wanted to break down the door before. Most ended in something horrible happening when he made it through the door. But now seeing his face, those worries vanish.
Enzo is shattered.
His eyes are dark with fear, his brow wrinkled with worry, and his lips tight with anxiety.
He’s concerned about me—about what he would find when he opened the door.
My lips open to comfort him, to tell him no one was torturing me, it was just a nightmare, but I can’t, because I’m not fine.
His eyes travel over every inch of my body, inspecting, trying to figure out where I’m hurt and where I’ve healed.
We both continue to stare at each other, like whoever stops first loses.