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It has to have been at least two weeks by now. I sleep more than I’m awake. My appetite is gone and the food he leaves me sits untouched on the bathroom counter.
I hear the door unlock and the sound of his footsteps, but I don’t have the energy to move. My face is pressed into the wall and my back aches from laying on my side awkwardly, but I try to force myself to fall back asleep even though I can sense him in the bathroom with me.
If I’m asleep, he can’t make me eat.
And all I want to do is sleep.
But rough hands grasp my shoulders and roll me until I’m facing him, and I yelp in pain. I scramble away on my butt until my back hits the wall, my eyes wide with fear as I meet his face. I wrap my arms around my knees and curl into a ball, trying to create as much space between us as possible.
His eyes are bloodshot and glassy as he gazes at me. He’s mere inches from me, sitting on his knees with his hands on his thighs. “Give me your arm,” he says.
That’s when I notice what’s on the linoleum floor next to him.
A sealed syringe. Vials. A cotton ball. A tourniquet.
And a roll of blue medical tape.
I freeze.
I’m not above begging. Whatever he wants to do is not happening.
“It’s new,” he assures me, as if that’s my worry. “You won’t get infected.”
I’m pinned between him and the wall, and I barely have time to struggle before he yanks my arm. He grips me hard enough to bruise, and I whimper as I struggle.
This isn’t happening.
“Please,” I gasp, tears filling my eyes. “Please don’t do whatever you’re about to do.”
“Shut up,” he hisses, far too close to me. “Or I’ll make it hurt.”
Leaning over me, he wraps the tourniquet around my upper arm, squeezing tightly.
“Make a fist,” he orders, still holding my arm out.
“Please don’t make me?—”
“Cooperate, and I’ll tell you where she is,” he throws out casually.
I freeze, unsure if I heard him correctly.
“What?” I whisper.
“April. Your friend, right?” he insists. His grip on my arm loosens as I slowly clench my fist. “I’ll tell you where she is.”
He could be lying. His eyes are crazed and his mood changes constantly. It could all be for nothing.
But if he isn’t…
“Stay still,” he says softly. I keep my gaze down on the scuffed tile, willing it to be over. He finds a vein easily, and tears silently drip down my cheeks as he draws my blood.
“You need to eat when I give you food,” he continues. He’s too close to me. His muted, artificial Alpha scent swirls around me, and it makes me nauseous.
When he’s finally done, he presses a cotton ball to my skin, holding it in place. Three vials of my blood sit on the floor next to my knee.
“She’s alive,” he says.
She’s alive.
