I want to do something, to hide, to disappear, but I can’t remember how to do a single thing, even live.
For a minute, all I can hear is his breathing, his feet dragging through the water when he moves, and the unmistakable whirr of a phone camera. Then the water near my feet ripples, and I can feel his presence so close it’s as if he’s touching me. I cower away, a sickening mewling sound clogging my throat.
“I’m going to help you.” His voice is firm but edged with urgency, bordering on panic. Fumbling fingers pull at the knot of rope behind my head. I almost sob when it loosens, relieving my aching jaw. He carefully draws the gag from my mouth, the rope and the hood along with it. I can feel the wet weight of it come away as he pulls it free, soaked with snot and spit and tears. When he pulls the hood from my head, I can see faint light in the east, through the budding trees, but shadows still shroud the swamp, and I can’t see him past the glare of his headlamp.
“Water,” I whisper, mouthing the words on a breath.
“Right,” he says. He bends and unzips a bag, and a second later, he produces a metal bottle. Some silly, residual warning from my programming shivers through me—never take an open drink from a stranger.
It makes me want to laugh. What can anyone do to me that hasn’t already been done? What can anyone take from me that hasn’t already been taken?
I have nothing left of value, not even my body.
The bottle shakes as he tips cold liquid into my mouth. At first, I can’t separate my dried tongue from the bottom of my mouth, but after a second, it pulls free. I drink greedily, swallowing though the water burns my dry throat, my traitorous body performing the act even though my brain knows I don’t want this. Water is life.
Royal is right. Death is preferrable.
When my rescuer pulls the water back, my body protests, but it doesn’t reach my lips. I close my eyes, too exhausted by the small act of swallowing to do more. All I can do is whisper the words that circled my head all night. “They came back for me.”
“I know,” he says. “But I’m going to get you out of here now.”
His fingers work at the knots on my hands next. I bite my lips to keep from crying out. Swallowing the scream of pain that forces itself to my throat, I bite down harder, until I taste blood. He gives up and goes to his bag, and I see his silhouette and the beam of the light fall on a glinting silver blade when he pulls it out.
All at once, my entire body is shaking uncontrollably. My teeth chatter together so loud I can hear them over the sound of the insects and his heavy breathing. He steps toward me, and I shrink away, and then his body presses against mine. He’s so hot, so hard, I want to scream, but only a ragged, choked sound escapes my bruised throat. His chest jerks against my shoulder as he makes a swift movement, and I hear a metallic twang, and the relief in my shoulders almost makes me scream again.
When my hands come free, I crumple like I’m made of wet paper. With a curse, he drops the knife to catch me as I fall. His warm hand lands on my breast, and my nipple contracts. Neither of us move for a second. A shock goes through me that my body can still feel anything but pain, even if it is an involuntary response.
I’m still alive. My body is alive, even if the rest of me died on that tree.
“They came back,” I whisper through chattering teeth, my brain insisting he know something, that he understand. But I can’t put into words the horror of what happened to me tonight.
“I brought a blanket,” he says. “Can you stand?”
I shake my head, and he pushes me back against the trunk. Instinctual terror rips through me again, and I push away, collapsing in a heap at the foot of the tree. I can’t comprehend what’s happening. A blanket falls over me. Strong hands grapple to lift me and wrap me. My hands are cocooned inside the fabric, but I don’t fight. The last of my fight drained away in the cold hours before dawn.
“Who are you?” I whisper, my voice sounding like someone else’s. Or maybe it sounds ordinary, like it always has, but I’m someone else now.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
It doesn’t matter. I know as much as I need to know. He’s one of the football players, someone who felt bad enough to come back for me, even after he joined in with the others. He did this, and yet, he came back. I don’t know if that makes him better or worse.
The sky overhead is partially blotted out by tiny leaves, but the pale light creeping into the swamp from the breaking dawn has increased even since the man found me. All I can see as he kneels beside me putting away his water bottle and zipping his bag is a black beanie and broad shoulders. When he lifts his face, though, I take in what I didn’t register when blinded by his headlamp. A silver mask covers the top half of his face.
I should feel something about that, but I don’t.
For a moment, in the darkness, I can almost believe it’s one of the Dolce brothers.
But that’s stupid. Of course it isn’t one of the Dolces. Most of the guys in the world have broad shoulders and own beanies. And the accent is all wrong. The accent belongs here. The Dolces don’t.
Without thought, I pull my good hand free and reach for the mask I can barely make out in the scant light. He grabs my wrist. His grip is hard, punishing the bruised and broken skin.
My mouth opens in a silent cry.
“Don’t even think about it,” he says. “Or I’ll tie you back to that tree and leave you. Understood?”
I nod, pain choking off my words.
“Never, ever touch the mask,” he says. “And we have a deal.”