As I start to cough and splutter up the water he removes the straw. He quickly turns me to my side before I can choke on my own vomit.
I feel his deft fingers compile every loose strand of hair to hold it back.
Not wanting his fake kindness I try to swat him away with weak hands but he continues as he pleases.
With my eyes slowly coming to focus I vaguely see him take a washcloth, dab water on it and gently wipe the remnants of bile from my chin and lips.
This time when I go to swat his hand I see why I was having trouble. I’m bound by fucking cuffs.
For a terrifying moment that renders me paralyzed I can’t remember how I even got here.
Where the fuck am I? Why am I bound? Am I clothed? Who is holding me captive?
I furiously blink the tears away. I loathe how my first response is to cry.
The memories come flooding back like snapshot reels of a movie. The highlights of the film scream at me.
I was chased down. Drugged. Kidnapped.
All by the hands of the enemy.
I have to get out of here.
I eye my surroundings. It appears I’m in a mock bedroom. There’s no windows for light to filter in. Only walls that feel suffocating and a steel door with a lock on the outside given the key in his hand. A camera is perched on the corner of the wall. Perfect eye view to keep watch of the entirety of the room. No means of privacy. No means of escape.
This can’t be.
I was close. I was so fucking close to being free.
God, ma is probably sick with worry and ridden with guilt. If I hadn't cried about marrying Sebastian she never would have given her blessing for me to run away.
I should have just grinned and bared it. Pa was right. I was being selfish. And because of my selfishness I’m here. Caught. Bound.
Pressure weighs down on my chest. So much so it feels as if I can’t breathe.
No, you’re stronger than this Imogen. Think. Find a way to escape. Whatever means necessary. Make ma proud. Prove pa wrong.
I eye the key in his hand. If he bent closer I could head butt him and snatch it.
“You won’t be able to retrieve the key.”
“That’s not what I was thinking,” I say suddenly and harshly.
“Lying is one thing I’ve always been quite well at detecting. It’s the pitch of the voice. The defensiveness. A certain cadence. People who tend to mask the truth often fail miserably.“
I raise a brow. “Am I always going to be under scrutiny with you?”
“I observe, Imogen,” he says my name again and it has the same effect as it did the first time. It sounds far too intimate for being his captive. “It’s part of how I understand.”
“Understand?”
“People,” he says and doesn’t elaborate further.
He hands me back the glass of water. I cup it in my hands. Maybe if I break it I can use the piece of shard as a weapon.
“Slowly this time,” he advises. As I slowly sip the water I finally take in the man who has taken me.
Even wounded, there's an understated elegance to him. Almost as if the man was born into royalty, not the mafia. A face sculptors would weep to replicate. Hair perfectly tousled to where it looks messy and kept simultaneously. Broad shoulders that strain the fabric of his cashmere crewneck sweater to taper down to a narrow waist.
