I will myself not to cry, because he’s not here, so what’s the point? I could waste time feeling sorry for myself, wishing someone were here to help, but I was taught differently.
I have to fight.
I make use of the bathroom, and can’t help but pause when I pass the large mirror. My black hair is disheveled and knotty, falling down to my hips. My blue eyes are slightly red, and wide in my face. My whole right cheek is puffy and bruised, where that bastard George hit me.
He’s going to regret doing that.
I splash some water on my face, and decide to look around one more time. There has to be something I could use. Anything.
And then it hits me.
The mirror.
I look around for something to smash it with, but the only thing sturdy enough is a lamp with brass stand on the small bedside table. I guess it’s going to have to do. I use it to crack the mirror, and manage to pull out a piece of glass, cursing when I accidentally cut across my palm.
Exiting the bathroom, I look around the room to find something to wrap the piece of mirror in. My eyes land on the flimsy scarf he used to gag me. Fucking asshole. I wrap it around one end, making sure it’s as thick as I can get it so as not to cut myself again when I use it. After hiding it under my pillow, I sit back down on the bed to wait for whatever he has in store for me.
I play out various scenarios in my head, hoping to prepare myself for whatever is going to happen next. My fighting skills are limited to basic self-defense, a few classes here and there. I should have been better prepared for this moment, I realize. There’s only one thing I’m skilled in—shooting. My father insisted on it, and Dom taught me how to shoot. It doesn’t mean shit, since it’s doubtful I’ll be lucky enough to get my hands on a gun.
I don't know how much later, the door opens, and he walks inside. He’s shadowed, but I’d recognize his silhouette anywhere. He carries a plastic plate of food and a bottle of water, and places it on the floor.
On the floor. Like I’m a pet, or something.
My stomach growls loudly as the food smell hits my nose, reminding me I haven’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch.
“What do you want from me?” I ask him, trying to keep my voice strong and unwavering. I assume I’m here so he can collect a ransom from my dad, but I could be wrong. I know that he’d willingly pay whatever they want in order to get me back.
Devon stands there, watching me in silence. When he finally takes a step forward I stand up and walk straight up to him. The way he eyes me with disdain makes me bristle.
“You’re not going to get away with this,” I spit out at him, my hands trembling in fury.
“I'm pretty sure I already did.” He gives me a cocky grin that I'd really like to wipe off his face. “You're here, aren't you?” he asks, lifting his shoulder in a shrug. I move closer, invading his personal space, hoping to get any kind of reaction from him. He shakes his head, watching me in amusement. “Yeah, that's not going to work this time.”
I lift my hand to slap him but he catches it before I make contact with his face. I maneuver my leg to knee him in the balls but he blocks me just in time. I elbow him in the stomach, which is as hard as a rock, and I’m sure it hurts me more than it does him. Gripping my upper arms, he drags me through the room, pushing me face down onto the bed.
“You raise your hand to me again and you will regret it. Next time I'll send someone up here who isn’t as nice as me. Now get used to your surroundings, cause you’re going to be here for a while,” he says.
I inch my hand under the pillow searching for the piece of glass. As soon as he takes his weight off me, I turn and swing my arm, trying to cut him anywhere I can. It's a small victory when the shard makes contact with his arm, cutting his skin, but it’s nothing serious. He grabs me by the shoulder and pins me down again.
“Fuck,” he curses, taking in the weapon. I squeeze it in my hand and try to swing again, letting him know I won’t give it up. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” He pries the shard out of my clenching fingers, and then puts his hand around my neck, squeezing.
Warning.
“You move, and I’ll fucking kill you,” he growls, strengthening his grip. I let my body go limp.
He looks at his hand around my throat, and then his eyes find mine. I try to swallow, but he's practically suffocating me. He snatches his hand away and I gasp for air.
“I didn’t even think of the fucking mirror,” he mutters to himself, sounding shocked, and maybe even a little impressed. He pulls out some rope from his back pocket. His fucking pocket. The man is psychotic.
“Now, you’re going to stay here like a good girl until I clean up your mess,” he says condescendingly, binding my hands together, raising them above my head, and then tying them to the iron headboard. “Try and move, and you'll regret it.”
I can still feel his fingers wrapped around my throat. I fucking despise him.
He strides out of the room, coming back with a bag, dustpan and broom, and various tools. I ignore him as he cleans up, and when I hear the drill I know he’s taking down the rest of the mirror. I squirm, trying to remove the binds, but he’s tied them too tight. Bastard must have been a boy scout or something. Just my luck.
“Anything else up your sleeve?” he asks, chuckling as he walks past the bed and outside the door, the broken mirror in his arms.
I bang my head on the headboard. Seven fucking years of bad luck, all for nothing.
This time he comes back empty handed. He leans over me, untying me, and frowns when he sees the blood dripping down my palm. I rub my wrists as he leaves once more. Each time he locks the door behind him, obviously not taking any chances. He returns what must be half an hour later, carrying a huge bag.
“Clothes, toiletries and shit,” he says, dumping the bag on the floor. Then he surprises me by throwing me a package of Band-Aids.
I look at him curiously, my eyes dancing between the Band-Aids and him.
“Don't want any more blood on my sheets.”
I narrow my eyes. Fucking asshole. I grab for the package, taking out one Band-Aid. His gaze burns through me, but I ignore him. I apply it to the cut across my palm, and then I touch the side of my face, trying not to wince in pain. “I could use some painkillers, too,” I tell him.
“Yeah. Tough luck,” he says, shrugging.
“Why the hell are you being so mean?” I never thought he would be like this. The Devon in my head is someone else completely.
“I'm just being me.” His words are cold, emotionless. Realization hits me—this really is him, no matter what I made him out to be in my head.
“Look . . . ” I say, but his back is already turned to me. Without sparing me another glance, he leaves.
The sound of the lock is final, and echoes throughout the room.
I want to call out, I want to beg for some answers, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
How is this going to play out?
I try to make up some plan in my head. I might not be able to fight him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. Obviously I can't escape, not without some heavy strategizing.
My stomach rumbles. I can still smell the food he brought in. I'm so hungry, but I’m not stupid enough to eat it. Who knows what he did to it?
I sit on the bed, wrapping my arms around my legs. I put my head down on my knees, and allow myself a moment's weakness.
How the hell am I going to get out of here?