Perceptive.
“Thank you,’’ I whisper, not liking the uneasy feeling of gratitude I feel for his small show of kindness.
“You’re welcome, Nova.”
“Where’s your sister now?”
“Dead.”
His softly spoken reply brings about a stinging pain at the edges of my eyes. Why did I have to agree to a girls’ night out? If I’d gone straight home and stayed there instead of giving in to my little sister’s wishes we’d all be safe right now and my best friend would be alive.
I reach for my cuffs again frantically. “Get them off me please. Please.”
“Hey, hey, whoa, there.” He takes my hands in his and I feel his calmness take over me. He wraps arms around me and I don’t know why but I calm down enough to stop tearing at my skin.
God, he must think I’m a lunatic. But I don’t know how much longer I can stay like this and keep any level of sanity. I turn my thoughts back on the hard facts. They drive my tears away and bring me back on task—getting someone to free me.
With the softest voice I can muster I say, “Ares? Who is he?”
“Yeah, the prez.” His hands go back to fussing over my hair.
That doesn’t mean much in my world. I know jack about the MC life and all the slang and names. I work at another angle. “Is he the one…” I work my throat faster to fight back the panic at the truth I’m about to voice for the first time. “The one who bought me?” So I know who to shoot the next time I get my hand on a gun. Or stab. I can do knives, too.
“You mean the one who saved you.” He looks into my eyes with a hard glare and I suddenly see why people would run in the opposite direction if you ever saw him walking down the street. He can do intense like nobody’s business.
Instead of doing the smart thing and shutting up I, of course, do the opposite of what my internal survival instincts scream.
And with the decision goes all attempts at being soft and sweet. I pucker my lips in disgust and growl, “How can you say that? Save me? He’s going to be the one who kills my sister and me!” I slam my mouth shut hoping he doesn’t catch on to my slip up. I jerk on my hands and use the strength I built up overnight to shake his hands loose from my hair.
He steps back and narrows his eyes on me but I refuse to meet his questioning gaze. I do and that opens up a conversation I don’t want to have.
The girl who was transported to this hell hole with me comes into the room just then. “I’ll be back,” Devil grunts, leaving me alone with the girl. She’s near my age. Maybe a year younger. Last time I saw her there were circles under her eyes no amount of concealer could completely hide and a heaviness about her.
I look at her now and gone is the caked-on makeup, the feeling of dread and in its place is an airy feeling I don’t compute. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and she’s wearing jeans half a size too big, but the smile on her face looks at home. And so does she.
I watch Devil’s fleeting back as she enters, bringing with her the smell of food.
Thank God! Finally someone who will help.
“I need you to get the key.” She’ll help me. I know she will. I lock eyes with her and see hope. Like real bona fide hope. What the heck? None of that fake shit I used to plaster on my face for my sister’s sake, either. This girl looks…happy? When I’d met her she’d been naked, cold and coming off a night of pleasuring men. I could smell the sex on her. Twisted and as screwed up as that sounds, there is true calm in her eyes now.
I guess this is a step up in her eyes since she has real clothes that don’t involve netting, chains, and leather. But one hell is no better than another.
“Oh man, they got to you.” I shake my head and question the food on the plate as she slides my way. Not that I can pick it up and feed myself. I shake my cuffs to make that point and she smiles sheepishly.
“The key. There has to be another one around here,” I try again and she only slides onto the bed instead of, you know, rummaging through the drawers to find something to pop these locks. She has to be around my sister’s age. Barely hitting twenty if that. She fidgets with the ends of her shirt. I practically see little butterflies flying around her head; she has such a sweet demeanor.
She hasn’t seen or lived through the horrors thrust upon me. Good for her. Truly, but bad for me. They must have brainwashed her at the other place. Someone this pliable is easy to control. But not me. I’m not weak.
“You need to eat,” she insists all but ignoring my current state.
I’m tempted to kick the food off the bed, but she doesn’t deserve my wrath.
I back up toward the head of the bed, my chains rattling and shifting as I move to push my back against the headboard. “Yeah, I think I’ll pass.”
“You won’t be strong when you really need to be if you don’t eat.”
My stomach unceremoniously grumbles at the smell of pot roast, carrots, and fresh, warm bread.