Page 14 of Wanted
“Stand up, look at me.” He sounded disappointed and he hadn’t even touched her yet.
What had she done wrong? She got up, water dripping off her head onto her face. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. She hung her head.
“Look at me.”
Swallowing hard, she met his stare.
“Tell me one thing I may not do to you.”
She shook her head, her mind an absolute blank. Tell him no? It wasn’t her place. What he wanted, whatever he needed, it was her place to provide not to deny.
“That’s what I thought,” he said grimly. “You can’t consent, Anna, if you can’t tell me no.” His jaw clenched once and then relaxed, but his expression was never anything but stern. “Finish your shower. I want every part of you clean, head to toe. Turn the water off, dry yourself, put your shirt back on, and meet me back in the living room.”
He left and with it went that thin, fragile hope that she’d only just begun to harbor that someone might find her useful again.
She broke down in useless tears, her sore throat choking her as she tried not to make any sound. Helpless to do anything else, she also did as he’d instructed. She didn’t know if ‘head to toe’ meant shaving, but there was a razor in the shower and she put it to good use. Her hands shook, especially at first when all she could think about was if it wouldn’t be easier on everyone if she just cut her wrists.
That feeling of hanging in the barn haunted her, though, and that suicidal thought never birthed beyond a flitting thing—there and just as quickly discarded. She shaved, she cried, and then she got out, dried off, dressed, and made her way back out to the living room exactly as she’d been told.
Marcus was in the kitchen, pulling a glass casserole dish out of the oven. She could smell savory potatoes, ham and cheese, and her stomach cramped.
“Sit down,” he said without more than a glance at her. “Pick up the pen, I want you to write something down.”
Her long hair dripping water down her back of her borrowed t-shirt, Pony approached the table as if it were a coiled snake, ready to strike. She looked at the paper waiting for her, but it was blank.
Sinking into the chair, she picked up the pen, then looked at him.
“One,” he began to dictate. “Wake up, six a.m. Weigh in, bathroom, dress, make coffee.”
Pony obediently wrote it down, a tiny pinprick of startlement bursting in her gut as she brought each word into tangible being in black ink and her own painstakingly neat penmanship.
“Two, 6:15 am, exercise.” Marcus dished the casserole up into two white bowls. “Three, shower and dress for the day. Tomorrow we’ll go shopping and I’ll pick you up a few things. It won’t be Bloomingdale’s, but you’ll be covered. You don’t have to write that last part.”
Pony stopped and obediently crossed out the few words she’d written after ‘dress for the day.’ She waited, pen poised for him to start again.
“Four,” he said, coming to the table to set a bowl beside her before sitting down at the head of the table. “Set the table for breakfast and serve.”
Pony froze mid word, and stared. Serve? He wanted her to serve? Had she heard him wrong? Maybe he was joking. She glanced up to find him staring straight back at her, the stoniness of his expression saying clearly the man had never told a joke in his life. He absolutely knew what he was offering her and her stomach flipped, her heart stumbling in her chest. “Y-you want… me?”
“I do the cooking,” he said, ignoring her question. “I drink coffee until noon and after that, I prefer iced tea. Twist of lemon, no sugar. There should always be a pitcher in the refrigerator. You’re not writing this down.”
Snapping her mouth shut, she quickly bent her head to write.
“You’re not eating either,” he noted. “Can you not do two things at once? If I respect you enough to cook for you, should you not respect me enough not to let it get cold?”
She took a hasty bite and kept writing. Two chews in, the flavor hit her tongue and she froze all over again. The portion he’d given her was slightly less than half what he’d served himself. The potatoes were soft, the ham savory, and the vegetables and cheese perfectly blended. The warmth settled gently into her empty stomach, heating her from the inside out.
“Still feeling sick?”
She shook her head, touched that he would even bother himself to ask. “No, Sir.”
“Was it a stress response or too much sugar, do you think?”
Her stomach was so used to being empty these days, half the time she threw up the first time she tried to eat anyway. She bowed her head, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to answer either.
“When you’re done eating, I want you to do the dishes while I clean your room.”
She jumped, staring at him again only now appalled. “No, please, I can do it.”
