Page 49 of Kylie

His gaze remained locked on me, and I could tell it angered him to know his plan had failed.

“For a guy who claims to know so much about so much, you’re kinda clueless. My mother didn’t give a shit about me,” I told him, keeping my tone as cool as possible. “She left us.”

“Did she?” That smug look was back on his face. “Or did she hightail it to protect you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t bother tellin’ me she was runnin’ from you. Yeah, maybe that was part of it, but she’d been lookin’ for greener pastures for most of my life. She would’ve left no matter what.”

“She cared more than you think,” he said flatly. “Enough to make a promise.”

I knew all about my mother’s promises. She’d made me plenty. And failed on damn near every one.

I peered up at Martin. “And how’d that work out for you?”

He nodded his chin toward me. “It hasn’t. Yet. But you, my dear, are going to ensure that she pays for that betrayal.”

“Me?” I was confused. “How?”

Martin stood tall and glanced at his watch before shifting his attention back to me. “Don’t you worry about that. I promise, it’ll all be over soon enough.”

“What does that mean?”

He turned toward the door. “You let me worry about that.”

“What does that mean?” I insisted, moving toward him as he stepped out into the hallway.

His gaze slid to the mattress and the red bucket—the only other things in the room. “I’ll be sure to get you some more protein bars and water.”

“What does that mean?” I shouted, lunging forward as he closed the door.

I slammed my palm on the wood, but it fell on deaf ears. A moment later, an engine started. Shortly after that, the sound faded into the distance.

Chapter Twenty-One

Thursday, June 30, 2022

Kylie

Fifteen days.

I would’ve noted the number of hours and minutes, but my brain was too fuzzy to do the math.

But fifteen days was how long I’d been here, based on my estimation. That included the day I arrived.

Provided I hadn’t slept for days at a time, of course. Which was possible at this point. I was weak and groggy, and there were times I couldn’t keep my eyes open. The heat was unbearable. Not even the breeze that blew up from between the floorboards did anything to alleviate the swamp-like humidity. I’d found one spot about two feet from the southernmost corner where I could actually feel some wind. Not always, but from time to time. I would press my nose to the floorboards and pretend I was inhaling clean air.

My clothes were plastered to my body, stained with sweat. I smelled like … I didn’t even know what I smelled like. Lucky for me, the heat exhaustion dulled my senses. Not to mention, the bug bites split my attention. Because I was constantly looking for the next culprit to attack, I never really relaxed. Then there was the chain. Not only was the cuff splitting my skin open, the relentless sound of the metal when I shifted kept my brain from relaxing.

The only way it could possibly get worse would be if my period started, which it would eventually, I was sure. And that was going to be really gross.

Not that Martin gave a shit. If history repeated itself, he likely wouldn’t stop by for another ten days, and by then, I wasn’t sure he would be able to stand to be in the same room with me.

If I were even alive at that point. Heatstroke was a real thing after all.

Given that the only things I had to keep me company were the red bucket, the disgusting mattress, and the shackle that was tearing into my flesh, I found it difficult to want to be awake. I hadn’t had a shower since the hospital, and I could only imagine what was growing on me. There were bites up and down my arms and legs, from ants or mosquitoes. Or maybe spiders, but I tried not to think about the big web I could see in the crawl space beneath me.

At times, I would sacrifice hydration so that I could sparingly use some water to cool myself down, mostly pouring it on my wrists and feet. Not that it helped.

Then again, I tried not to think about how gross I was or that the cut from the rusted metal shackle on the top of my foot looked really red around the edges. It was most definitely infected. Not surprising, given my living conditions. And the last damn thing I wanted to do was ask Martin for medicine. He would think of it as a gift and expect something in return. God only knew what he’d come up with.