Stumbling with my words, I reply, “I—I heard someone screaming.”
“And that gave you permission to roam about?”
“Well, no, but-”
“But nothing, Emory. Something terrible could have happened to you. You do NOT know this place, and you were told not to venture into the West Wing.” His aura is radiating betrayal, But why? I stand there muted by my confusion, as I listen to him, “What even gave you that idea in the first place?”
He turns from me, facing the balcony. “Nevermind, that isn’t what is important right now. Do not go wandering about anymore. Do you understand?” I hear him but I am still stuck on the way he said my name. That is the first time he said my name, and not the little pet names he is always calling me. I stand there for a moment, enamored by his use of my government name.
“Did you not hear the...” I fumble my words as he stalks toward me. It doesn’t, however, keep me from continuing. “Scream?”
He interrupts again. “Do. You. Understand?!” Emphasizing each word. I let out a long, drawn-out breath.
Rolling my eyes to the back of my head, “No,” I respond. “I do notunderstand.” Putting as much accent on the word as I can.
He straightens his back and looks down his nose at me. “Are you being... defiant?” He pauses, giving the end of his question an ‘oh really’ inflection.
“Again, no.” I straighten my stance, convincing myself of my confidence on this matter, “Defiantwould mean you owned me, and last I checked... no shackles are holding me here.”
The noise that left this man's body in response was alone, enough to discredit my statement. “They may not be physical. But mentally—I have you.
Hook.
Line.
And sinker.”
He is in my face now, his nose mere millimeters from mine, “I am the only one who knows where your sister is.” Deviance flashes in his eyes adding a charge to the electric blue they adorned. He lets this statement sink in, before he steps back. “However, if it’s restraints you want, little bird. I can fucking give them to you.”
Just like that, I forgot about the screams I heard. My mind hyper-focused on the image of me being chained at his feet. A plate of grapes beside him as he sits on the chaise like a king does his throne, feeding me like a captive Egyptian princess. Then, the image flutters—all the information my brain has received in a span of an hour, skips from one topic to the next. I get whiplash from the extensive emotions that rush through my system.
Ugh, can my body,pleasemake up its mind. Hot from the way he speaks to me. Bothered by his hesitation to elaborate on my sisters’ whereabouts.
Finally, I can convince my thoughts to focus on the images I had of my sister slumped in the alley, and the image that sent me on this path. I burn them in my brain, trying to form a constant reminder of why I came here in the first place. Squinting my eyes, I try to remember the differences in her face, but the only thing that comes to mind is her weary smile, barely visible in the dim overhead light in the car the night of the accident.
“Now that we have settled back on common ground...” he waits for me to come out of whatever trance I was in, then continues, “What all did you hear, or see?” The cloth dances on his face, as I imagine him licking his teeth—waiting for my answer.
Hesitantly, I do just that. “Common ground?” His words do more then pull me from my stupor, they infuriate me, “What makes you think anything you said put us on ‘common ground’.” His head tilts with one raised eyebrow.
Fuck, this man can read me like a book, and he knows just howspicyI like them.
I sigh as I surrender, “I heard someone screaming and followed it to that room.” Stopping as I felt him shift closer, “Not seeing anyone, I took advantage of the situation and went for the door. That's when you found me.”
“Screams, you say?” I feel his hand brush my cheek, “Was there anything else you heard?” Holding that same hand in front of me, he smears the tear he collected, between his thumb and forefinger.
I didn’t even realize until now that I am crying, “Yes, in fact, there was.” I raise my hand to my face, using my wrist to clear the rest of what little liquid remains. “Scratching. Moaning. Who was on the other side of that door?”
He relaxes his shoulders. “Please, get some rest. We have a long day ahead of us.” He turns on his heels, right before he saunters out the door, without another word or answer to my question.
Chapter 15
Oliver
"Sacrifice is the language oflove, spoken in actions more then words."
Flashback a few hours
After Emory collapses in the tub, I lay her in bed and slip a petite, black nightgown of silk over her frail form. As she lay there, my very own… sleeping beauty, I tuck her under the covers. Kissing her forehead, I catch a glimpse of a pen that lay stagnant on her nightstand. Rummaging through the bedside table, I grab a notebook from the drawer. The lines forming letters as they curve and swoop. Words appear on the paper before me as I scribble a moment more. Glancing at her peripherally, I steal one more glance—her body shimmering with the residue from the bath as it mixes with the beads of sweat forming on her pores.
