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He sighed and shook his head. "I already watched you barrel down that hallway once, and I patched up Drake's triceps, his thigh, and I saw that nick you left on his face too. Those plastic spoons were thick, honey. The fact that you managed to break one and get a chunk out of him shows your determination, and he's not going to forget that soon. I know better than to underestimate you already."
I rolled my eyes then used the bathroom so that I wouldn't have to go in the woods later. I washed my hands then came back. "Can I have a sweater? I'm cold."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah. I think he put them in the middle drawer."
He fetched me one that was nice and warm.
"Can I get some thicker socks too, please?"
"Sure thing."
He retrieved them for me, thinking I was going to take off the other pair. I shook my head. "I have the worst circulation. My toes are always cold." Little did he know, I was prepping for a run outside. I had no shoes in here, so two pairs of socks was the best I was going to do.
“Now, there is no getting out of here,” His head inclined towards the loc on the door. “So I’m going to leave you free so you can use the facilities when you need to. Don’t make me regret that.”
I whispered, "Thank you for not hurting me."
He frowned then. "I'm so sorry that is a thing you had to thank me for. When Drake said he was bringing a girl home, I had hoped for something else. Someone I could show off my cooking skills to. Someone who might help me bake."
I laughed. "I'm not exactly the baking type."
"Oh, by help me bake, I meant eat what I make."
"Well, if you feel like baking scones at any point, I volunteer to eat."
"I like you,” he said then shook his head.
I searched his gaze and read the sincerity there. But I’d seen sincerity before. My mother had taken care of me. Pretended to love me. I needed to guard myself better.
Trust no one.
I refused to fall victim to Stockholm Syndrome. There was nothing anyone could do to convince me that Drake Foster wasn’t the devil.
17
Daphne
As soon as I was alone, I ran I to the window but I immediately balked at how far down I’d have to jump. That three-story dip was suddenly looking like a bad call.
It hadn’t seemed that high yesterday when I saw it from the outside. But now…Damn it.
What I wanted to do was cry. I wanted to curl up in a ball, close my eyes, and wither away. I was tired, I was scared. Hell, scared didn't even cut it. This was a baseline terror I had never really known before.
As a teenager, I was always afraid that my mother would find a way to get back at me. Always afraid that Child Protective Services would send me home to her. But this was not that.
This was a visceral feeling in my gut, a heart-pounding fear that made me very aware of how much I wanted to live.
This fear was tangible. The bullet had a face and a name and a massive six-foot-plus body that was more than capable of breaking my neck.
This fear was real. It had shoulders broad enough to block out the sun, a jaw chiseled enough to make angels weep, and eyes that thought too much. And his name was Drake Foster.
Stop crying and get your arse up.
Even though there was a part of me that really wanted to give up, I just couldn't. There was a time when I promised myself that I would never be a victim again. That no matter how scary, I would take control of my life. I’d failed at that so far, but if ever there was a time to finally unearth some courage, it was now.
I looked around the room. I wasn't exactly winning at this point, as I was currently stuck playing Rapunzel locked in a tower.
