Page 10

Instead of lingering, I wash quickly, never taking my focus off the door. I locked it, yes, but I’m not naïve enough to think that a simple piece of metal will keep the monsters away. Locking it was symbolic. A test. And the fact the door remains closed surprises me. Pfft. Shocks me, is more like it.

I dry off and slip my arms into the bathrobe, wrapping it around me as tightly as I can. The thing is huge. Obviously, because the man who lives in these rooms is as well. But the material is thick and soft and warmer than it has any right to be. But it’s not practical, not when I need to be ready. Not when I might have to run.

Slowly, and oh so carefully, I open the door and peek out into the room.

“Feel better?” Teague asks from the other side of the bed.

My gaze darts around, taking in as many details as I can manage.

He checks his watch, glances at the small pile of clothes neatly folded on the edge of the bed, and tilts his head like he’s listening to something only he can hear. And he’s across the room. Not crowding my space. Not looming. Not threatening in any way at all.

My body buzzes, flight and fight at war with the fall back to freeze.

“Those might be more comfortable.” He nods toward the bed. “It’s just a t-shirt and some lounge pants. That robe looks like it’s about to swallow you whole.”

I nod because words are stupid when they’re stuck and won’t cooperate. The urge to fidget is strong, but I stuff it down. Only prey understands just how important stillness is when a predator is watching. And after all I’ve been through, it’s wise to assume everyone is a predator.

The moment drags out as he watches me. And me? I keep my eyes peeled for any indication he’s going to pounce.

“I’ll, uh…” His whole body seems to expand with his breath before he blows it out again. “I’ll step out so you can change.” He turns and walks out of the room, swinging the door behind him.

Everything this guy does has me tilting on my axis. Like I’m caged but consulted on what kind of bars I want. Restrained, but respected? That can’t be right. It can’t be. All of this is just smoke and mirrors, lulling me into that false sense of security before the bottom drops out and I have to retreat into myself again just to survive.

My survival strategy does not include getting voluntarily naked unless I’m behind locked doors. I haven’t been able to do that for years. And this door isn’t merely unlocked; it didn’t even close all the way behind him.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

But this robe is cumbersome. It’s a problem for me and as much as I would love to hide, I need to be able to move freely. I hold up the lounge pants and stare at them, thinking this room is familiar, like I’ve spent time here. Or maybe that’s just my brain playing with trauma trying to trip me up again.

On silent feet, I tiptoe to the dresser and slide open the top left drawer. Familiar leggings are rolled neatly in a line of pretty shades of pink. I pluck a pair out and slide them on instead. For my top, though, I’m sticking with the oversized option Teague left in the pile for me.

I glance at the door and give myself a pep talk worthy of something much greater than pulling on a t-shirt, but here we are and this needs to happen. So, I drop the robe and pull the soft gray fabric over my head. The shirt is so big, I get kind of lost in it. The fabric tightens as I twist it around looking for a way out. I shove my arm through a hole, fairly certain it’s a sleeve, when I hear voices.

I twist and shimmy as the internal buzz increases. This is why I need the doors closed, locked. Secure… -ish.

I can’t see.

I’m stuck in gray cotton, and the twisted shirt is becoming more and more like a full body restraint—a straitjacket. Air saws in and out of my lungs, faster and faster, becoming way too shallow to supply enough oxygen. Passing out is not an option today. Not now.

The voices from the other room dip low, but anger laces through them both.

I finally manage to shove my head through the neck and pull the shirt into place when Teague lets out a sharp, “Fuck. Son of a bitch. Go. I’m right behind you.”

I peer through the gap and everything about him screams anger. His tight shoulders, the clenched fists at his sides, and the red flush on the apples of his cheeks.

I bet he hates that tell.

I step back into the shadows when he looks in my direction, hoping that the movement isn’t enough to draw his attention. But he stalks out the door behind the older gentleman I’ve seen working in my time here. His name is there, just out of my reach. I know him, but I don’t.

The door swings slowly on its hinges, stopping with the latch resting against the doorjamb.

It’s open.

The door is open.

It’s open, and no one is reaching back to close it.

Silently, once again, I tiptoe through the sitting room and pause with my shoulder pressed against the wall. Listening. Waiting.