The burning sensation returns and I wrestle with the tears before they can fall. Momentous efforts go into sweeping them back into the pools of despair I reserve deep inside my soul. One day, when the cement breaks open, I fear it will sweep me away with the waves of pain I’ve kept buried behind a dam.
But today is not that day. I hold onto that truth and let it be my life raft.
I try my wrists again but this time the locks are so tight I can barely feel my fingers much less wiggle free of the clamped metal.
I flex and extend each digit trying to work blood to the tips and it works for the most part. At least the tingling fades to a muted irritation.
I’ve been up here hours, a full day? Two? I don’t know. I could have slept for an hour or a day. Judging by the weary aches running through my body, though I’d bank on only a short while.
I latch onto details of the room that looks nothing like a dark, dank dungeon as he’d called it last night. I’m spread out on a four-poster bed with midnight black satin sheets and a matching spread with gold trim. The comforter matches the drawn curtains. Everything else is either gleaming wood or crystal. Nightstands on either side of the bed hold lamps. Or did before I happened to them.
Not exactly your typical biker decor but a high-profile mafia man fit in here just fine.
It would actually be homey and comfortable. Maybe even pretty if it wasn’t my prison. But a dungeon it isn’t. More like a decked-out attic with a view. He seriously needs a dictionary if he thinks this place should be called a dungeon. I’ve been in plenty of modern dungeons—aka basements—to know what one looks like. This is the man’s bedroom, his sanctuary. Not the dungeon.
That said, the man had enough money to own one. Serious money. The walls appear off-white but upon focusing I notice the finely woven brocade design of golden flowers on white. I used to study interior design magazines and pore over all the lovely details the rich and famous used in their homes on nights I felt nostalgic for a home of my own. Unlike all those pictures on the pages of the magazine, not one single photograph or artistic painting decorates the vast amount of painted space nor do any decorate the dresser or nightstands. Then again, they could all be on the floor smashed under my efforts at escape. Who knows? What I do notice is the walk-in closet to my left and the rows of neatly hung clothing. A mix of suits and jeans.
Soft lighting illuminates rows of shoes like I would stack books on a shelf. A center island showcases what I think must be priceless watches with how they are under lock and key. The gleam of the fancy wrist pieces catches the smallest amount of light.
I crane my neck to the side and spot a familiar orange book with a bold title across the front:How Not to Give a Fuck.
I snort. I’d say that’s not going so well for him given my current prisoner status.
The man granny called Devil strolls through the door, breaking up my thoughts. On the one hand, he’s holding a pan of water and hair ties. In the other is a brush. There is a God.
I track Devil’s slow, even steps as he silently moves across the room to the side of the bed I’m cuffed to. He places the pan of water on the nightstand and starts wordlessly cleaning my wrists.
To get free, it took hours of twisting and pulling to get my thumb to work free of the cuff. Red puffy marks and a few scratches were left in the process. They match the ones on my ankles from the auction house.
Devil whistles low and turns my hand this way and that. He looks sincerely worried over my injuries. His touch is gentle and not at all as harsh as his appearance. He gives the term liking tattoos a whole new meaning. The only place I can see he doesn’t have ink is his face. Ripped jeans, white cotton pullover, and again the same leather vest all the other men are wearing complete his look.
And then the answer to one of the million questions swirling in my brain pops out. No one lives in this city without hearing about the Savages. I’m only surprised it took me this long to put two and two together.
“Savages?”
He continues cleaning for a few seconds before tossing the sullied rag back in the pan and moves to help me sit up. “Was it the skull on the back of my cut that gave it away?” he grunts and hefts me up until he has full access to my ratty-feeling swaths of hair.
“Took you long enough.”
But it still doesn’t make me understand what is going on any better.
An easy smile pulls over Devil’s lips at his sarcastic remark.
“Look, just let me go and I’ll disappear. You can say I got away.”
He starts whipping the brush through my hair with even strokes. “Ares arrives and sees you in a mess after telling us to care for you; he’ll kick my ass into next week before I get a word of explanation out. Stop moving.”
“Then let me go. Problem solved.”
“Not happening. But nice try.” He hits a tangle in my hair and bends over it feverishly working the knots loose until the long lengths fall loosely around my shoulders again.
“Why the hell did you have to try and escape? Look at your wrists, your dress. The hair. What a fucking mess, woman. I stand corrected, Ares sees this shit and he’ll go from wanting to kick my ass to straight-up putting his blade through my chest.” He laughs but there’s not a drop of joy in the sound.
Devil continues to comb my hair until it’s straight and off my face. The tension inside my chest lessens a fraction. When he starts to twist and weave with a bizarre smoothness I can’t help but wonder.
“Why are you braiding my hair?”
“I had a sister once. She didn’t like her hair in her face either. Mom never put in the effort to learn how to braid and my father was the reason she hated her long hair. He’d yank on it every time she didn’t obey his commands on the spot.” I feel the darkness in him curl around the edges of my own energy before he continues. “So I get it.” And he leaves it at that.