I try the latch and it's locked.
Of course it's locked, but I don't care. It's the best view I've gotten in a long time.
I walk over to the bed. My fingers brush the edge of the bed frame. It’s solid. Real wood. Smooth beneath my skin.
My stomach twists.
I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve anything close to this.
I turn away and notice another door. I push the door open, turning on the light. It's a bathroom.
It's got a toilet and a sink with a mirror above it, and a shower.
For a moment, I just stare at it.
Then I step inside and turn the handle.
Water bursts from the showerhead, steaming instantly. Warm mist peppers my face.
"Oh my god," I say, sticking my hand into the stream. "Hot water."
I stare at the stream like it's a miracle and suddenly I don’t care about anything else.
Not the fact that I’m in a locked room.
Not the fact that Callum Killaney could decide to kill me at any moment.
Or the fact that I tried to kill myself on a basement floor less than an hour ago.
All I want, the only thing I want, is warmth.
I peel the torn bloodstained robe from my body, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. It sticks to me in places where dried blood and dirt cling to my skin.
Then I strip off the rest, the thin undergarments stained with mud and God knows what else.
I step into the shower and lean against the wall as the hot water hits my skin.
It burns at first, too hot, but I don't move. I let it scald me.
Let it wash away the filth and the feeling of being hunted through the woods. The feel of hands grabbing me, dragging me, throwing me into the back of a van.
And the smell of smoke and burning flesh that I feel still clings to my skin.
I close my eyes and tilt my head back and the water streams over my face, my hair, my shoulders.
Then she enters my mind and makes me think.
I shouldn't like this. This isn't for me.
I don't deserve clean water. I don't deserve warmth or comfort or anything resembling kindness.
I'm a traitor. A runaway. A failure.
My throat constricts and a sob breaks out of me before I can swallow it. Then another. And another. I bury my face against my arm and let the water drown the sound of my crying.
I don't even know what I'm crying for.
Maybe it's where I am. Maybe it's the drugs still rattling around in my system or the exhaustion clawing at my bones.
