Page 66 of Savage

So these are people who know. Dread settles into my bones, and my lip wibbles. What kind of people will they be? Horrible, probably, like he often is when he’s angry at me. Maybe that’s why he’s having them over, as yet another punishment for me.

I don’t know how much more I can take.

I’ve apologized, I’ve begged, I’ve been as obedient as I can, I’ve done everything he’s told me to do as quickly as possible.

It’s still not enough.

I look at him, trying to find some sign in his expression that I’m doing this right, that I’m doing anything right, but his face is stoic.

He leaves the kitchen without another word, and silence descends over the condo.

For a moment, I force myself to simply breathe, trying to fill my lungs with the air my body keeps denying me as waves of panic run through me. But when the doorbell rings the first time, it’s like a cold vise has gripped my throat, and I feel like I’m going to pass out.

I hear Hunter greet someone at the door, then a low whistle comes from the room. “Wow, have you redecorated?” an unfamiliar voice asks in an accent I vaguely place as British. I’m a little puzzled because there’s nothing that looks new or personal in the condo. “I think there’s a slight hint of color in the place.”

Color? Where? I certainly don’t remember any color.

A second voice chimes in, as cool as the first voice was almost… friendly, and devoid of any identifying accent. “Got an interest in video games now? Nice to see you have hobbies, though… I think your other hobby sounds far, far more entertaining.”

I don’t have to be told to know he means me, and my trembling gets worse.

“I’ll show you my new hobby in a bit,” Hunter says, and I hate that they’re calling me a hobby. I’m a person. “First, take a look at this,” he continues.

There’s silence for a moment, and I wish I could see what they were doing. All I can do is stand there, though, uncomfortable in the tight dress-like thing.

The man with the British accent speaks. “This is way too specific to be just a prank.”

What is he talking about?

I frown, and if I dared, I’d get closer to the living room to try to figure out what they’re talking about.

I don’t dare, of course.

“Yeah,” Hunter says. “I don’t know who it could be, though. I don’t know how this person expects me to pay, either, with how vague they are.”

Pay? Pay what?

I only get more puzzled the more they speak so cryptically, like they’re talking in code, but it’s clear to everyone but me.

“The demand will come,” the second man says. “They’re just trying to get you worked up first so they can scare you into compliance.” He snorts. “Well. They think that’s what will happen, anyway.”

“I’m not paying them anything,” Hunter growls, his voice so different than it usually is.

No, that’s not true. He sounded like that when he was full of rage at me.

“But I don’t want to wait around for their next move,” Hunter continues before I can get too lost in my thoughts… in my memories of my personal hell.

“I know a good private investigator,” the probably-British guy says. “I can have them look into things.”

“And I can ask my IT guy to trace the email,” the other man adds. “He’s very discreet.” A pause, then he continues, “He’s got a few interests he doesn’t want me to tell anyone about himself, and he knows how to stay quiet.”

I shudder, only able to imagine what kind of interests the IT guy has. It’s probably something like these men have, something that can only be classified as perverse and wrong.

“Thank you,” Hunter says, and while there’s reluctance in his voice, there’s gratitude, too. To hear him sound so expressive continues to be strange to me, and I wish I could see his face. But then he goes on, and my blood freezes in my veins. “Let’s have some snacks now.”

That’s my cue.

I go to the fridge, and I open it when the bell rings. I can’t hear what they’re saying anymore, but I’m sure it’s nothing nice.

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