Page 63 of Hunt You Down

Slowly, my lungs remembered how to function, but I didn’t dare move. When Regan returned, he had a glass of scotch in his hand. He slid down the wall in front of me and sat on the floor, taking a sip of the amber liquid.

“What did I do to deserve this?” I croaked.

Regan only scoffed. “Baby boy… If I can’t have you, no one can.”

This is it. He’s going to kill me this time.

Despite my current state, Regan made me scrub the floor clean. The smell of the bleach made me gag again.

“Go ahead,” Regan said, leaning in close to my face. The alcohol on his breath made my eyes burn. “There’s plenty of bleach for you to work with.”

While I cleaned, Regan drank. I knew he’d built up a tolerance over the years, but I still hoped that each refill would be the one to knock him out. It’d only happened a couple times, but I learned to welcome those quiet moments. Unfortunately, it seemed like it wouldn’t happen that night.

When the once blood-stained floor was scrubbed to Regan’s approval, I was offered a weakly put together sandwich. I wasn’t hungry, but I picked at it anyway. It might be my only chance to eat for a while. Regan gave me a glass of the rusty water from the tap, and it tasted as bad as it looked. I sipped slowly, determined not to get sick again.

“Let’s go.”

Before I could even drink half the water, Regan grabbed my arm and pulled me off the floor, throwing me in the direction of the hallway, past where the light from the bathroom ended and into pitch-black darkness. The further I walked, the stronger the smell of mold got. Regan kept a tight grip on my shoulder but even without it, I knew better.

I only stopped when the hallway did, waiting for him to open the door before I advanced into the bedroom. The weak light only let me make out the outline of a bed—the only furniture in the house besides the loveseat in the living room.

Regan’s hand trailed across my shoulder, down my waist, and around to my stomach. “Pretty boy’s been feeding you good, huh?” He clenched his hand onto the small gut I’d developed over the last couple of months.

The move roiled my gut again, abs burning from the effort of throwing up. I swallowed down the nausea, but Regan’s next move threatened to undo all my efforts. He cupped my butt, and I whimpered.

I didn’t dare shout. I could have said no, but it wouldn’t have mattered. In fact, it might have only spurred him on.

I tried to control my breaths, but Regan was too in tune to it. He fed on my fear. His hands clenched tighter, and his hips rocked against my back.

He shoved, and I found myself face-down on the bed. One of Regan’s hand put pressure on the back of my neck, and the other undid his pants. All I could do was close my eyes and brace myself.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Somewhere along the line, I passed out.

The only thing I remember is pain. Everything hurt. I faded in and out of consciousness, but forced my eyes open every time. I had to.

The only indication of time passing was the light outside the window. At some point, Regan had taken me from the bedroom and thrown me on the living room floor. At least he thought to put me on my side. Or maybe that was just a lucky toss. The pain from opening my eyes was enough to make me nauseous, and turning my head nearly did me in. Prying my eyes open, I noted thin beams of sunlight across the TV. If I could just get to my phone…

But I couldn’t even raise my head. I took in a breath, barely managing to get oxygen into my lungs before they seized up. Stomach acid threatened my throat, but I forced it down. Blood dried and crusted my skin, and my pants were wet. Regan was always up with the sun, no matter what, so it was only a matter of time before he came to find me to continue his torture.

Wincing revealed the bruises settling in around my nose and eyes, but I couldn’t feel much more than excruciating pain. I tried to distract myself, settling on a spider crawling up the wall, but the moment it disappeared into the ceiling, my eyes shut once more.

Things got spotty from there, whether from unconsciousness or my brain protecting me, I wasn’t sure. Regan gave up on feeding me, only offering enough water to keep me alive. I just had to make it until he passed out. Then I could get my phone. What I’d do once I got it, I didn’t know, but it was my only chance at survival.

That night, I managed to sit upright with the help of the couch behind me. Every move churned my stomach. My body ached from head to toe.

Regan leaned against the doorway to the kitchen with his morning glass of scotch in his hand and a smile on his face—he was admiring his work.

“If you’re going to kill me, why not just get it over with?”

Gravel laced my tone. I was surprised Regan understood what I said in the first place, much less entertained me with an answer. “If I’m going away anyway, why not enjoy myself?”

He downed the last of his scotch, then decided I was in the prime position for what he wanted. With a foot to either side of my thighs, he unzipped his jeans. I knew what I had to do, but it didn’t stop him from jerking my head around. He gripped my hair so hard I thought he’d scalp me, and wrenched my head so violently that my neck felt close to snapping.

I did exactly what he wanted, but I couldn’t stomach anything more. He barely cleared my lips before I vomited down the front of my shirt.

Regan scoffed and kicked my legs away as he zipped back up. “You never could swallow.”