“I know everyone in this town,” he says, cutting me off as he lifts a pair of navy-blue flannel pajama pants from a shelf. “As for your father, I’m sure he’ll assume you stayed late to work, or maybe,” his voice sharpens, meaner now, “you hooked up with one of your customers. Stayed the night. Girls like you do that kind of thing, don’t they?”
It’s not a question. It’s an accusation.
I put my hands on my hips. “I don’t do—”
Without warning, he turns his back to me and drops the towel.
I whirl around instinctively. Not fast enough. My eyes catch the defined lines of his back, broad, muscled, rigid, and…lower, but it’s not the shape of him that steals my voice.
It’s the scars.
Hundreds of them. Thin raised strips of tissue, crisscrossing his back like a roadmap of ancient worlds. Some are pale, nearly white, as if the color’s been leeched from them over time. Others are newer, still tinged red and raw, like they haven’t fully healed.
They’reeverywhere.
I notice in that split second that one scar looks different from the rest. It’s on his right shoulder blade. An elaborate-looking cross, but with eachline of equal lengths, almost like a plus sign. The edges are thick and raised. The center portion curves downward, depressed into his skin.
Abrand.
I realize with horror that he’s been branded, the way ranchers brand their cattle to show ownership. I can’t imagine how excruciating it must have been to receive that mark. How the flesh must have smoked, seared, when the brand was burned into his skin.
I know from my history books that monsters aren’t born. They’re made, and whoever made Carrson knew exactly what they were doing. Pity stirs, uninvited. I shove it aside, knowing it’s a luxury I can’t afford, not when he has me trapped in this house, threatening me with every breath he takes.
No. Let someone else cry for the boy with the broken back. I’ll save my tears for when I get out.
If I get out.
Once he’s tied the drawstring of his pajamas tight around his waist, he turns and finally acknowledges me.
“Strip,” he says. “Take off your clothes.”
“What?” I squeak, shocked by his abruptness.
“Take. Off. Your. Clothing,” he enunciates slowly, like I’m stupid.
“Absolutely not.” I plaster my hands to the front of my shirt, ready to fight him. This is a nightmare. Blackness flickers in my periphery as I resist the urge to pass out.
Carrson gives an annoyed sigh, rolling his eyes. “I’m not going to touch you. If that’s what you’re worried about. Not tonight.”
Not tonight.
That leaves a thousand possible tomorrows.
“Then why do you need me naked?” I ask, not believing him even a little bit.
“So I can make sure you don’t have any weapons. Don’t feel like getting shanked in my sleep tonight.”
“Wh—what?” I splutter, “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Can’t you just frisk me or something?”
A tiny snort, close to a laugh. “Do I look like the police?”
He most definitely does not.
“You need to be naked and in bed.” He uses his chin to point to the monstrosity he calls a bed. No way am I sleeping in that thing.
