Chapter 23

23

Aubree

With his head resting on his paws, Blue lay outside of my room. In spite of the door being propped wide open, the dog didn’t move, never once attempted to cross whatever invisible barrier kept him from wandering inside. Had I not seen him in action and gotten a taste firsthand of the speed and strength he possessed, I might’ve thought him lazy.

I approached the door, aware that his eyes were tracking every step, and stopped just short of the doorway.

His gaze shot away from me, like something had told him don’t look at her, and maybe she’ll go away.

I reached my hand beyond the doorframe, and a low, guttural growl erupted from his throat. When I retracted, it stopped. Naturally, I reached again, but quickly yanked my arm to my chest when the dog’s head lifted from his paws.

“Okay, so as long as I’m in my room, we’re on friendly terms. Is that it?”

He pushed himself to a sitting position, as though responding to my question.

“Tell me something, Blue. Is he an asshole to you, too? Because I’d be willing to treat you nicer for a little … freedom? I’m not talking … through the front door, or anything. Maybe just, you know, a shower? I’m dying here. Washing in the sink sucks.”

The dog’s mouth widened with a yawn, his gaping maw lined with sharp teeth, and I suddenly couldn’t believe I’d survived getting trapped between those unholy weapons of destruction. Damn. Like that scene in Jaws when Roy Scheider turned his back while chumming, and the big ass shark surfaced.

“Okay, so, look. The other day … when I tried to escape. You know, it was nothing personal. I’d like to start over.” I reached out a hand, careful to keep it inside of my room, wondering if he’d bite it off to the wrist. “Truce?”

The dog lifted his paw, placing it in my palm, and I shook it, chuckling. “So, you wanna come in and hang out?”

His head cocked to the side.

“It’s okay. Come. Come in.”

Head bowed, he took cautious steps into the room, as if I’d coaxed him into breaking the rules. Maybe I had.

Once inside, he slipped past me, sniffing around what must’ve been uncharted territory for him, judging by the way his tail wagged and he dragged his nose over every corner. Inching my way backward toward the hallway, I kept my eyes on the dog as he continued to explore the room, nudging my heels off on the way. He could have them for all I cared.

Taking a deep breath, I bolted for the door and slammed it behind me, before the beast could catch me.

Fuckin’ A. Freedom. Ha! That was almost too easy!

Whimpers rose from the other side of the door. Literally, dog-crying. I’d never heard anything like it, as if he was heartbroken that I’d up and betrayed him, and like a crazy bitch, I suddenly felt bad.

Go! Go!My head told me to run.

Where, though? If I called a cab, the driver might recognize me, and then I’d be back at Michael’s House of Hell. After three days away, he’d probably already covered the furniture in plastic, waiting for my return so he could hack me into a million pieces.

Besides that, I didn’t have a phone. Didn’t know where the hell I was. Perhaps thick in the center of a shitty Detroit neighborhood, which would make the hulking beast on the other side of the door less intimidating.

With a huff, I opened the door, and Blue sat back on his haunches with something that resembled a smile.

“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Shoulders slouched, I strode across the room and sat down on the bed, resting my chin on the palm of my hand.

Blue trotted up to me and, licking my cheek, set a paw on my knee. The gesture brought a smile to my face.

“What the hell do you do for fun around here, anyway?”

I pet him for what seemed like a good fifteen minutes, until he, eventually, lay on the floor beside my bed, while I picked up my book and continued reading.

Blue perked up, and the click of the door caught my attention.

A minute later, Nick stood in the doorway, carrying a brown paper bag, and goddamn, if my heart didn’t kick up like a pile of leaves in a windstorm. With his hood pulled back, it was easy to catch his stern eyes.

Scratch that, the man looked downright pissed.

“Why’s he in here?”

I shrugged at the question. “He was lying by my door, so I asked if he wanted to come in.”

“You talked to my dog?”

“You don’t talk to him? The silence in this place must drive you insane. Hell, even Tom Hanks had Wilson.” I scratched behind Blue’s ears, his stiffening neck and the way his paw clawed at the air telling me I’d hit the jackpot.

“Leave him alone from now on.” Nick whistled, but the dog didn’t move. “Stop petting him. Blue! Come!” Still the dog lay beside me, reveling in the sweet spot I’d found just beneath his collar.

A growl rumbled in Nick’s throat as he stormed toward the bed and looped a finger beneath the dog’s collar. Blue rose smoothly from the bed and trotted ahead of his master into the hallway, taking his place just outside the door.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know befriending the dog was breaking your rules.”

Nick swung around, hands on his hips. “He’s here to guard and protect.”

“Against what? Me?”

His jaw twitched, and I could see something bothered him. Our encounter the day before?

The way his gaze slid up and down my body had me feeling exposed, as if I’d stripped naked in front of him, and he could see every one of my scars.

Before he could storm out of the door, all pissed off and moody again, I stood up. “Hey … if I … promise to wear your … clothes, will you let me take a shower?” Every word arrived sour. I hated giving in to anything, but honestly, his clothes smelled a damn sight better than mine, and to hell with stubbornness. Clothes were clothes.

He stared back in silence.

“I’m about ready to crawl right out of my skin.” I lifted a chunk of grease-caked locks plastered to my face. “And my hair is turning … damp.”

He pulled out a bag he had clutched beneath his arm and tossed it onto the bed, the contents inside clattering on impact.

I hesitated a moment before lifting the corner of the bag. A sketchpad and pencils sat inside. “Thank you.”

“C’mon.”

I gathered up his T-shirt and sweats from where I’d tossed them onto the chair and followed him down the hall to what appeared to be his room.

The space was vast, mostly empty but neat, and smelled like his delicious cologne. The furniture inside was darker, the colors more masculine in browns and muted blues. Same dilapidated walls as my room, but somehow cozier.

I pointed to a door across from the bed. “Am I to assume that’s an actual closet?”

“Yep,” he said over his shoulder.

An expansive bathroom, with a frosted glass shower and Jacuzzi tub came into view when he pushed open another door.

Ugh, I’d stay away from the tub.

The small ones were okay, but I had a pretty intense fear of drowning—a weakness that’d always kept me on edge around large bodies of water. Michael had once tied my hands and legs and filled the tub to the level of my chin. When I’d hyperventilated and passed out, almost drowning, he’d realized exploiting that weakness wasn’t worth losing his toy. On another occasion, when I’d tried to escape, he tethered my hands and legs and water-boarded me. I shivered at the memory.

The bathroom was clean and tidy, with a long sink that housed dual faucets, as well as mirrors. God, did I want to see myself?

From a skinny closet, he pulled towels, washcloths—the simple things I’d missed in the last few days.

Without a word, he left the room, closing the door behind him. I didn’t like the haste and the undercurrent of edginess from him. The steady thrum of tension, telling me to keep my distance. Being ignored by Michael was a blessing, but with Nick, it felt like punishment. Only I hadn’t done anything wrong. My gut told me something troubled him.

The way he looked at me had changed, his stare, more intense, as though he studied me at every opportunity. Those eyes made me feel like a specimen, an experiment that’d gone wrong for him. Perhaps my scars had disgusted him as much as they disgusted me.

For the first time in three days, I stood in front of the mirror. Good grief. Much as I wanted to cry, I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. In my tattered dress, with my hair in disarray, and oily complexion, I looked like something straight out of the Stone Age.

I unzipped my dress but held it to my breasts for a moment. What if he had cameras installed in there? Though, really, did I care? If the guy had wanted to rape me, he’d had plenty of chances. My scars wouldn’t have deterred a true rapist—I should’ve known, because they’d never deterred Michael.

Even so, I hesitated to drop my dress. Not out of fear of being seen, but fear of what I’d see. The exposed skin remained intact, flawless as it’d always been. Michael had always been very careful about the wounds he inflicted. Never in the ‘hot zones’ as he called them—the parts that would be visible even in a cocktail dress. The scar on my wrist was the only exception, and I often wore bracelets or other jewelry, keeping my hands crossed to cover it up at formal events—Michael’s rule. It was a scar he hadn’t inflicted, which I think had always bothered him more than the risk of exposure.

Beneath the clothes told the bleak story of my life.

I allowed the dress to fall and stared at the scars reflecting back at me. Two just inside my thighs, the burn marks at my stomach, the slash at my hip that’d had to be stitched. Turning around brought the word that stopped Nick in his tracks into view—carved just above my panty line below a smattering of tiny marks where I’d been whipped too long and too harshly. The dark purple bruises that typically covered my legs and back had faded to yellow. Healing. I wondered what they’d look like once they’d disappeared. Michael had always kept a constant stream of healing bruises. I didn’t know what I looked like without them anymore.

Strange that my captor, the one who’d vowed to kill me the first night, hadn’t laid a single hand on me. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision, and for a brief moment, I couldn’t see any of the scars, until once again, they came into sharp clarity as streams trickled down my cheeks. I’d only cried with the first scars. There, stood beneath the unforgiving lights, parts of me began to heal and my shields began to crumble.

If there was one thing I’d learned in the political game of masks, it was when to crack. Not while lights beat down on my face, or when the city’s finest were asking me what wonderful plans my generous husband had in store. It was when alone in the dark.

I turned off the lights. The window to the left of the toilet faced the shower stall, letting in just enough light to see by while concealing what I wanted to hide.

There was a time I’d feared the dark, but I’d since found comfort in it. Felt protected by it.

I flipped the shower on, and within seconds, steam hit my face, leaving a damp layer across my skin. Once inside, I let out a quiet moan as the warmth of the water beat like fists against my body. Hell, maybe I craved the abuse, because, goddamn, the water’s violence felt good. My knees threatened to give out on me while the heat swarmed me like a blanket.

In the dark, I could crack and crumble, but no matter what, I’d never let the man beyond the door break me. As the spray lashed against my face, washing away the filth, I made a vow in that darkness.

I would never be a victim to anyone again.