Gray pillows greet my tired eyes.
I sit up and scan my prison cell, gaze settling on the fur throw that still lies at the end of the bed. I drag my fingers through the soft fabric.
Objectively, the room is beautiful and comforting.
Yet unease crawls beneath my skin. I shove the throw aside.
Even now, I can sense him. Not his cologne or soap or even sweat. But that sharp, elusive trace of frosty metal and electric air hovers around me, woven deep into the rug and rising off the white walls.
The bed is no longer warm and welcoming. Stumbling off the mattress, I have a sudden, fierce need to get clean.
Akin to a five-star hotel, the bathroom matches the bedroom.
All gleam and no substance. Black granite countertops, subway tile, sterile white paint, and gold fixtures decorate a space as big as my entire apartment.
Empty and impersonal as a showroom.
The shower hisses on, and streams of water knife down from extravagant jets.
I stand beneath the spray until my skin stings and my fingertips pucker, trying to rinse away yesterday’s terror.
The fear clings to my flesh, stubborn as a bruise that won’t heal.
Some memories just don’t scrub off.
I yank on my hopelessly wrinkled dress and finger-comb my hair into some semblance of manageable as I return to the bedroom.
I’ll make the most of this new day.
The soft, unmistakable click of the lock halts me in my tracks. My breath sticks. Heart hammering, I edge away from the door, shoving my back against the far corner by the window. Every muscle strains as I wait.
Silence.
No footsteps.
The door remains shut.
I stay frozen in this small, sterile room, my pulse still thundering so intensely, he must hear the erratic rhythm. After all, sharks can feel vibrations. I picture him on the other side of the door, listening for the shape of my fear.
Then his voice slices through the thick silence, low and steady from somewhere in the hall. “Come here.”
Not harsh, not loud, and not a demand. Just dropped into the room like a stone in deep water. A certainty. He knows I’ll obey the order.
The door opens easily.
The hallway stretches before me, a slab of minimalist intent, pale walls, and spare lines. One wrong move may shatter the illusion of stability. Wary, I step lightly, as though the floor itself could betray me.
He’s waiting, anchored on one of those low, modern leather couches that probably costs more than I cobbled together last year. Sculpted arms ripple beneath a tight black t-shirt. With a pure, blank expression and those cold eyes, he tracks my every move.
A predator’s patience, coiled and watchful.
What’s left of my purse sits on the coffee table.
What an asshole.
No. Not an asshole.
Just a broken man I’m here to help.
