Page 42 of Love You To Pieces

Deacon only gives me a quick smile, his eyes impossibly blue in the sun, then salutes me from the yard before heading back to the workshop. I just watch him, tracking every single movement. Not that there’s anything I can do about it, or him, or any of this.

I can’t get out of here.

Not without a better plan than the ones I’ve been working off of.

Taking a deep breath, then another, I close my eyes and count to five, trying to ground myself against the glass. The sun is warm on my skin, and after a few more seconds, I finally push away from it.

I need a better plan.

I need to do…something. Anything productive that will help me get out of here, instead of keeping me trapped in this house with these men until they get tired of me and decide it’s time for me to join my friends.

Somehow, I find myself back in the dining room, staring down at the plates of food. My stomach turns at the remnants of the meal, but instead of walking away, my movements become automatic. Instinctive. I pick up the plates, taking three trips to get them all into the kitchen, falling into the familiar routine of cleaning up.

After all, my shocked and stupefied brain reminds me as I start doing the dishes in slow, dream-like movements with the hot water running over my hands. I’m a guest here.

I don’t know how long it takes for me to do the dishes. I barely know what I’m doing at all, and the only way it gets done is because the movements are automatic, easy, and thoughtless. My hands work on their own, scrubbing, drying, and stacking dishes on the counter like I’ve been doing this all my life.

There’s something comforting about the action, but when I’m done, I just stand there at the sink, my brain sending awful whispers through my head about how many times human flesh was cooked and served here.

Waste not, want not.

The words echo in my skull, as though my brain is trying to make sense of the meaning or turn them into something less fucked up. If I try hard enough, maybe I can see the sense in them. Make them different and shift this whole situation into less horrifying.

No, I finally decide. No, there’s no way I can justify this.

Even if it’s necessary

Even if it’s survival.

This is different from what I did. That I can promise myself with almost absolute certainty as my feet take me back upstairs. I pass by the room I’ve been sleeping in without my consent, though I backtrack, for some reason, to stare at the closed door of the abandoned primary bedroom with its gorgeous walk-in closet and ensuite bathroom.

Again, I can’t help but wonder who slept in here that makes it such an important room to leave empty in homage to them.

Their parents, maybe? It certainly looks grand enough to belong to the most important person in the family, even if the furnishings are far from what I’d find in some Nashville penthouse. Though upon further introspection, I find I prefer the rustic, country charm to anything in the city.

Not that it matters, I chastise, shaking my head and pushing myself away from the closed door. This place isn’t my home. It’s not a fun vacation spot, or somewhere I want to be.

It’s a prison, a cage, a fucking waiting room as the clock ticks down to my inevitable demise.

There’s something so concrete and final about that thought in my head now. They never intended to let me go. I don’t know why they’re keeping me alive, but I can only imagine that the two men have one use for me.

Then why didn’t they kill you before? That stupid voice in my head won’t stay quiet for long, no matter how much I wish it would. I stroll past the bedroom again, still not stopping, and eventually end up in the large, comfortable bathroom at the end of the hall, across from Fox’s and Deacon’s room.

Memories of last night bring another question to my mind, though it’s one that isn’t nearly as important as the others. Are they really brothers? Because if so⁠—

My adopted brother.

It hits me, then, that Fox was so careful to put that adjective in his words when he first introduced me to Deacon. Like it really matters to them, like it has to. Normally, people I’ve met don’t refer to an adopted sibling that way. They’re just part of the family. But I suppose in this situation, the lack of blood relation is a pretty important detail.

Without making the conscious decision to do so, I strip off my borrowed clothes and turn on the shower. With the door closed, it doesn’t take long for the bathroom to fill with steam, and the shower head whistles a little as the hot water heater gets going.

I can’t help standing in front of the mirror, even as it fogs up, to look at my face. I’m still so pale and wretched-looking. Like I’m dehydrated, maybe malnourished. Like perhaps I haven’t gotten a real, proper sleep in weeks, even though I feel like sleeping is all I’ve been doing lately.

“Fuck me,” I groan, letting the mirror fog up without trying to stop it. With one last look at my face and the almost unrecognizable appearance glaring back at me, I shake my head and scoff.

I have to do something, or I really am going to be next.

But right now, the only thing I can think of is how much I want to waterboard myself in a very hot shower and dream of being home, with nothing going wrong.