Page 15 of Savage

I close my eyes, trying to will the room to stop spinning, but it’s like I really am on a boat, or some kind of amusement park ride. I retch again, trying to hold it all back, but all I can manage to do is aim for the floor instead of the bed beside me as every last bite of the previous evening’s meal comes back up.

Tears spill down my cheeks because I know he’s going to be angry. He’s going to think I did this on purpose, that I’m not really sick—that I’m just some stupid, lying addict who’s made herself throw up.

The door opens with only a soft sound, and I look up blearily. Savage walks in with a bucket in hand, already wearing rubber gloves.

That was fast. I’m too tired to check, but the speed with which he got here probably means he’s actively monitoring the cameras in the room.

I squeeze my eyes shut and roll away from him, wishing I had more than a simple blanket to cover me. I want to hide away forever; I want to disappear into the floor and never come back up again.

My eyes land on the closed curtains on the opposite wall. Forty-five floors up. How long would it take for my heart to give out on the way down?

My teeth chatter as I shiver. Behind me, I can hear Savage mopping up my mess without a word.

When he’s done, he simply leaves again, not even saying a single word to me.

It’s worse than if he’d railed at me or gotten angry at me, and I’m torn between despair and anger and utter misery because I’m so fucking alone and so miserable to boot. The room won’t stop its inevitable spin, and my head feels like something’s pounding on it from the inside. I’m freezing, but there’s only the one blanket, and it’s not nearly enough to chase away the cold. I need to use the bathroom—though I don’t even know how I’d make it there even if I wasn’t manacled and shackled to the bed.

In time, I manage to doze, falling in and out of an uneasy sleep as consciousness releases me then claims me again. Each time I wake, I have to turn to the side of the bed as I retch. Nothing comes out the next three times, but on the fourth, it’s like everything that’s been waiting to come up just… splashes out onto the floor.

It’s disgusting, and it smells horrible, and I start to cry even as my body shakes from fear and exhaustion and the fucking cold. Why does he have it so cold in this room?

The door opens again, letting light in from the hallway. Savage enters again with his cleaning supplies, and this time his nose wrinkles when he approaches me.

He still cleans everything up wordlessly.

He’s going to leave me alone again.

“P-please,” I whimper as he finishes with the mess on the floor. “Please don’t… Don’t go. I don’t—” A hiccuping sob interrupts my words, something I wasn’t even expecting, but I can’t seem to make the cries stop once they start. I don’t want him. He can’t possibly offer any comfort to me. Yet I’m so desperate not to be alone that I’ll take anything I can get.

Savage looks at me, his eyes as cold as the room, but he nods.

“You need a shower,” he says. He strips his rubber gloves off—the way a doctor does, never touching anything directly—and sets them aside with the cleaning supplies. Then he begins to undo the manacles. His hand is so hot against my freezing skin, and it feels like he’s tapping small needles over every spot he touches.

It’s still better than being left alone.

After my limbs are free, I try to get up, but my body is so weak that I collapse immediately.

It’s only been a few hours since my last hit, right?

A full day, maybe? But I can’t remember the last time I’d gone a full day without even a small dose. Paul and Donny would always dutifully help us shoot up so we’d be steady enough to dance.

Savage places his hand over my forehead and scowls. “You’re burning up.”

“I feel… I’m so cold,” I whimper, managing to look up at him even though everything’s swaying in front of me. I stop trying to sit up, curling back up in the blankets again even though I’m free of the bonds.

“Shower,” Savage says, tugging on my shoulder.

I shake my head, not even wanting to think about how much it’ll hurt to walk.

He sighs and gets one arm underneath my knees, the other around my back. “Hold on to me,” he orders, and lifts me straight up.

I gasp sharply and curl into his chest. He’s so warm, basically a furnace in comparison to the rest of the room. I cling to his soft t-shirt and try not to puke as he carries me toward the bathroom.

He fumbles to turn on the light. As soon as it’s on, I whimper and shake my head.

“Too bright,” I say, but he ignores me and takes me to the shower. He steps inside with me still in his arms, sets me down, and closes the shower door behind us.

I shiver more violently as my ass hits the cold tile floor, and I try to get back up. I end up grabbing at his sweatpants, but I can’t move.

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