Before Angel leaves the room, I know in my gut that Javier has threatened someone he loves, and with what I know about the man, I wouldn’t put it past him to follow through with those threats at the first sign of Angel not obeying him.
I don’t make direct eye contact with him, but I make sure to keep my focus on an area of the room that puts him in my line of sight. I want to be brave. I want to lift my chin and show him that he doesn’t scare me, but I’m not brave, and I know he can tell by the uncontrollable tremble of my body that I’m beyond terrified.
I pull my legs up, bending my knees and wrapping my arms around my legs, but I don’t feel any safer. I know he’s watching me, and it feels like the way a sociopath stares down at a hill of ants before pulling out a magnifying glass to watch them scatter as he burns them. His gaze is just as hot on the side of my face.
We sit in silence for what feels like forever, and it’s almost worse than violence. The anticipation, the adrenaline, the apprehension of just waiting for something terrible to happen is wrecking my nervous system. My spiked heartbeat, the heat at the tops of my ears, and the shivering make me wonder if it’s possible to go into shock just sitting here.
I whimper when he stands, a response I have no hope of stopping.
I cringe away when he nears, my body instinctively leaning further back, but he doesn’t hit me. He doesn’t reach his hand up and run it through my hair. He doesn’t whisper all the evil things he’d like to do to me. I thought it was bad when I’d drop my guard and Charles Knight would do that shit—a simple brush of knuckles down my cheek or seeing him stare at me for a long moment before hitching his pants to emphasize an erection. Just the memories make me want to vomit.
I keep my head down, my eyes on the floor as his shadow casts over me.
“Here,” he says, his voice soft and void of emotion.
I don’t look up. I physically can’t face him.
I jolt like I’ve been struck by lightning when something drops in my lap because I was expecting violence not—I look down—a pair of socks?
He puts distance between us, his chair creaking when he sits back down, but I still feel his eyes on me, the pair of socks resting between my stomach and thighs.
I leave them there, my eyes locked on them as if they have the power to transform into something living that will also find a way to hurt me. Am I supposed to put them on? Be grateful? Say thank you?
“Your feet have to be cold.”
They’re freezing. The basement is warm enough that with the blankets we’ve been provided we stay fairly cozy, but this part of the house isn’t as warm, and the struggle with Angel forced all of my blood to my heart, leaving my extremities on the frigid side.
“Go ahead. Put them on.” I don’t detect a hint of malice, but it also doesn’t sound like he’ll be happy if I refuse.
This is another one of those situations where I don’t know if he genuinely wants me to obey, or he wants me to refuse so he can force me.
Pleasing him doesn’t feel right but upsetting him will only bring trouble.
So, I obey, moving my legs out and pulling the thick gray socks on my feet. The warmth is instantaneous, and I am grateful to have them, but I won’t say so because I know they come at a cost.
The sounds of fingers working over a keyboard fill the room, and I chance a glance in his direction. He’s focused on whatever he’s working on and doesn’t bother to look my way. It feels deadlier than his stare because he’s just as aware of me as I am of him. I know he’d be on me in a flash if I jumped up from the sofa and darted toward the door. I look that direction, my eyes moving but an inch. It’s not that far away. I’m closer to the door than I am to his desk, so maybe—
“I know you don’t want to believe me, but the world out there is much worse than the one you’re facing here.”
I drop my eyes, not looking at him. It’s possible he’s still focused on his computer and is just talking, not actually saying this because he caught me looking. I was incredibly careful not to make it obvious.
“I know every instinct in your body is telling you to run, to escape, but you’re safer here.”
Tears burn my eyes because this feels like psychological warfare. I bet he’s getting a thrill out of torturing me. I open my mouth to tell him to just get it over with. Whatever he’s planning has to be better than sitting here wondering what’s going to happen, but then the office door opens.