He’s still stroking me, apparently not the least disgusted by my stench. He even buries his head in my hair, like he’s breathing me in. If he really is, it should only humiliate me further, since I’m now aware I stink. Instead, my starving heart latches onto his touch, regardless of the form it takes.
When he pulls away, it nearly kills me.
“Please,” I whisper in a voice that shocks me. It’s so broken. “Please don’t leave.”
He’s already standing, his hand around the doorknob. “It won’t be much longer.”
“Please.” I’m on the floor, crawling after him. I can’t even stand anymore, I’m too dizzy. “Please. How long have I been locked in here?”
“Four days.” He pauses a beat. “Only three more days, my pet.”
Three more days. So I’ve barely done half my time. The promise of freedom, or at least of liberation from this cell, only makes the thought of the days left harder to bear. With the time passing, I had started to believe this was my life now. But now I can feel freedom again, just out of reach.
It also occurs to me that four days were enough to reduce me to this hopelessly needy state. I had thought before my abduction that I was already broken beyond repair. Now I’m realizing just how much lower I can sink. How will he find me in three days’ time?
He seems to understand all this from the silence that follows his words.
“I’ll make things a little easier for you, pet,” he murmurs. “These last few days won’t be nearly as hard.”
His voice is warm and low, but it no longer soothes me.
He opens the door, and before my eyes have even taken in the burning fluorescent light, it’s been quietly shut. I’m plunged into darkness once more, and this time, it feels final.
-
Damien was right, in a way. Certain things do get easier. Now, when the tray comes, it’s laden with good things. Chicken, pasta, pie. I’m still not hungry, but some of the boredom is alleviated by wondering what my next meal will be. None of it feels like breakfast, so time remains meaningless. I do my best to calculate, try to count the meals, but my mind is so foggy I keep forgetting. I make scratches in the wall, but they’re lost amongst those of past prisoners. After a while, I give up trying.
Things are also made somewhat better by two more trays being slipped under the door every so often. One holds three towels in tight rolls, two of them wet, the third dry; a bottle of soap, deodorant, a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a hairbrush. The second tray carries a pile of clean clothes. I quickly give up brushing my hair, but I’m relieved to remove my smock and wash in this limited way. The clothes are invariably a dress and underwear, and a pair of flats. I’ve never really worn dresses before, but these outfits remind me of Damien’s words.From now on you’ll wear a dress.
Yes, yes, I want to. Please, I want to. Let me out, and I’ll wear whatever you like.
My eyes grow blurry at the thought of him. I’ve begun to embrace the strange aching need that I feel when I think of him. Mymind has stopped trying to make sense of it. He’s the only one whose touch ever made me feel good. And he holds the key to my freedom.
It should be easy to calculate the passing days by the trays of clothes and towels, since they probably come only once a day, unlike the food. But I’m incapable even of that. When the trays don’t break the boredom, I spend my time lying on the floor, my mind drifting between hazy states of wakefulness and fitful sleep.
It’s small consolation that I sleep too lightly to sink into the old nightmares.
-
When the door opens again, it shocks me. Damien told me there were three days left, but time had become abstract. When he suddenly stands in front of me, I can only stare.
In one stride he’s beside me, lifting me up. But I can’t stay up, the room tilts around me. His jaw tightens and I cringe, wondering as I did last time whether he’s angry at me, but he only hooks an arm under my legs and carries me out.
It occurs to me again that I’m not the one he’s angry with, but the thought is a lot more muddled than before. I don’t have much energy. My head sinks into the warmth of his chest as he carries me to the elevator.
“Seraphina Connor,” he whispers as the doors ding shut. “I like that name.”
I look up at him, equally surprised that he knows my name and that he apparently didn’t know it before. It feels a little absurd that someone would abduct me without knowing the first thing about me, but even more unbelievable is the thought that he’s named me.
I vaguely note he’s pressed the fourth-floor button before the elevator doors open and he walks down a corridor, still carrying me. This hallway is much nicer than the basement one, its floor lined with a thick velvety carpet. We reach a door and he unlocks it. I only see the small entrance hall but it feels more luxurious than any room I’ve ever been in. There’s a gleaming hardwood floor bordered by long tufted benches and hooks, probably to hang coats and bags and other things I don’t own. The double doors opposite me are lined with mirrors.
Damien has set me down and I gasp when I see myself. Without meaning to, I cringe back from him, my eyes glued to the reflection. My skin has always been sallow, cheeks sunken-in under jutting cheekbones, eyes scarily large, but this is something else. I look like a zombie.
For the first time, Damien seems to misinterpret my reaction. He apparently thinks I’m cringing from him.
He doesn’t seem the least bit upset, though. “I want you to rest,” he says, and though I notice a glint of amusement in his eyes, his voice is as soothing as ever. He walks over to the double doors and opens them, but I’m too focused on him to peek through them. “You’re going to stay here for a little while,” he adds. “Everest will check in on you tomorrow. I’ll leave you alone for now.”
I open my mouth, trying to tell him that’s the opposite of what I want. I vaguely know of Everest Grant, the walking Ken doll, the only Devil I haven’t met yet, if that word is the right one for my encounter with the other three men who all apparently want me dead. But I don’t care about Everest. The only thing I want is the soothing touch that belongs to my kidnapper, to the man standing in front of me.
