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I think my soul dies a little more.
Two
Ruby
The pipes groan as I turn off the water and step onto the towel. It’s damp from my previous showers. Nothing down here seems to dry. Not the towel. Not my hair. Not the weeping grief that wracks my bones.
My belly protests and my eyes lift to the small, frameless mirror, that is stuck to the wall above the sink with the exposed plumbing. The steel basin of the sink gives me the same heebie-jeebies that it gave me when I first saw it. The steel door of the bathroom had been closed and locked before the devil that had thrown me in here had unlocked it, warning me not to get myself stuck inside. He’d also warned me that the privilege of plumbing would be removed if I failed to behave, and a bucket would be provided in its place.
The idea of that horror kept the temper that had egged me to destroy my previous prison firmly in check. Still, I couldn’t seem to shove down the other emotions. The fear. The anxiety. The depression, and now the grief.
I don’t understand people who stress eat. I can’t fathom it. Like Mama, I’m a stress starver.
With all the knots in my belly, there’s simply no room for food.
I glare at the sunken shadows in my cheeks before I look away from the mirror to the door, I always leave cracked. So far, no one has invaded my privacy down here while I’m showering. But that doesn’t mean I trust that it won’t be invaded.
My skin is still sticky from my shower as I fight to shove my feet into my leggings, yanking the material into place. An ever-present chill has my teeth rattling as I pull the sweater over my head, scurrying from the bathroom into the cell. I curl beneath the blankets on the narrow bed and train my wide eyes on the bars. Although my cell is lit up with lamplight, and there is a bulb wired into the center of the room that swings like something out of a horror movie, everything beyond the bars is cast in eerie shadows that have brought to life things I thought dead from childhood nightmares more than once.
Chilled to the bone and weary to the soul, I tuck my chin into the blankets and force my burning eyes to close. I have no sense of time, but considering he visited not long ago with a hot bowl of soup—I always wait until after he visits to shower—I figure it’s getting late.
And I am so tired.
Living in constant fear with nothing to do, would make anyone tired. I am mentally and emotionally drained. Syphoned by a soul-sucking devil in a suit with eyes shrouded in sin.
My eyes flutter open and then closed, open and closed, open and…
I jolt upright in the tiny bed, my heart a hammer in my chest. The beat of it against my breastbone is so loud, so violent, it’s all I can hear as I strain to see into the shadows beyond the bars.
I look for what feels like forever before I convince myself I’m being silly, seeing demons in nothing but smoke. My heart begins to slow, and I ease myself cautiously back to the bed a moment before the shadow moves and he steps into the dim light of the lamp that I always sleep with on.
My unsteady heart lurches and a whimper escapes my lips before I bite down hard to keep the rest contained.
He never visits twice.
I can feel the heavy darkness of his gaze on me as he moves to the bars. He pulls a key from his pocket and slides it into the hole, his wrist twisting, the lock sliding open with a loud clink.
He swings the door wide, his mere presence a threat that has my arm hair standing erect. “Come with me.”
When I don’t move, he steps into the cell with me. Blood rushes behind my ears and for a moment, I think I forget to breathe.
He reaches out a big hand to peel the blankets from my trembling body. Then that same big hand curls around mine, capturing it.
He pulls me from the bed, and I gather my wits just enough to pull my hand from his. My fiery temper—I owe it to my fiery hair—flares. Before I can consider my fear, I’m shooting him a glare, biting out a bitter, “Don’t touch me.”
His lips curl in a grin that, well, it’s unhinged. The man is a lunatic.
A psychopath.
Depraved.
“If you don’t want me to touch you, I suggest you do as you’re told. I don’t like to repeat myself, and I have very little patience for dawdling.”
“I don’t like you.” The words slip out before my mouth snaps closed; the clap of my teeth audible.
He steps closer, until we’re toe to toe. My breasts nearly graze his chest with my sharp inhale of surprise, before I stumble back a step. Because I have the worst luck—I have been kidnapped—my heel clips the uneven stone floor, setting me on the trajectory for ass-over-teakettle.
The speed and agility at which the man moves should terrify me. It would terrify me, his quick instincts, if they weren’t used to keep me from that very humiliating, and likely painful, sprawl on the floor.
