Page 90 of Delivered to the Devil

Janos puts his pants back on and adjusts his tie, appearing closed off and controlled once again. “I have to go. If I don’t go about business as usual, Gabor will know something’s off.”

Not knowing what to say, I pull the comforter up to my chin, desperately hoping he’ll let me stay and not send me out into the city on my own.

“Go use the bathroom,” he says, pulling out a white shirt from a closet and handing it to me.

Grateful for the small gesture, I accept the shirt and slip it on before leaving the comfort of the bed to do as he says.

“Through the living room, the first door on the right,” he instructs.

I can’t help but gape as I enter a beautiful, large, open living room. Shades of dark blue dominate the space around a large L-shaped gray couch at the center, lending the room a warm and welcoming atmosphere. The decor is simple and masculine with a few abstract paintings and a wall of gray bricks behind the couch. Janos is clearly well off, but there’s no showing off here—just like he has never needed to show off his power or strength. He knows who he is and what he has and doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone. I admire that about him, I realize as I make my way through the spacious hallway and find the same beautiful simplicity here.

In the bathroom, I pause before the long mirror and carefully peel the shirt to the sides. I swallow a lump in my throat as I see the long white welts covering my skin. The angry red color may have faded, leaving the scars a pale white similar to my natural skin tone, yet the welts stand out like streaks of blood on a white canvas—a chaotic mishmash of white shades. The sight never fails to shock me. I shove the fabric back to cover my skin and breathe a shuddery sigh as my mind mocks me with the memory of the vision of the scars that I’ll carry with me to the grave.

Shame coils tight in my belly as I remember that Janos has just seen all the ugliness. To distract myself, I turn on the faucet and splash cold water on my flushed face. I don’t have any makeup to hide my perpetually swollen eyes and the dark shades surrounding them; my face is exposed and vulnerable, telling the story of a scarred woman who can’t find peace in her existence.

After doing my business, I find my way back to the bedroom, where Janos is waiting with a handful of chains and handcuffs that clink together as he points to the bed.

I gingerly sink onto the mattress and watch as he threads the chain through one of the handcuffs, then through the bars on the headboard. Finishing the circle, he connects the two ends of the chain with a padlock that clicks shut with a metallic sound.

“Give me your left hand,” he says, holding out his palm.

Hesitantly, I place my hand in his warm, big one. “I’m not going anywhere,” I say as he snaps the cold steel of a handcuff around my wrist.

“I know.” The metal rattles as he closes the cuff around my wrist. He gives it a gentle tug and slides it back and forth, checking that it’s tight enough without digging into my skin. Turning his severe gaze to me, he brushes his knuckles over my cheek. “But I’m not taking any chances.”

He retrieves crackers, fruit, and a bottle of water from the kitchen and sets it on the bedside table along with a remote for the large flat screen on the wall. “There’s Netflix and HBO. I’ll be back late in the afternoon.”

I glance at the digital alarm clock on the nightstand. It’s only a little after nine. “What if I need to use the restroom?”

Janos leaves the room and returns with a bucket, which he places on the floor, along with a roll of toilet paper and hand sanitizer. Humiliation roils in my stomach as I watch the items, and the urge to protest crackles at the back of my mind. But I keep quiet. There’s no use in protesting. Janos has already seen me at my lowest. During our last few days together, I was so sick he had to carry me to the bathroom and stay by my side whenever I needed to go. And a new sort of worry takes precedence when I look back up at Janos.

He’s in his black suit. His work uniform.

“Where are you going?” I croak, recalling all the times he came at night, dressed in a black suit, stripping me naked and holding me down. Now he’s going to do that with another woman. “Are you preparing another girl for Gabor?” I bite my lips to hide the tremor.

“I don’t do that anymore.” He grabs my chin, boring his beautiful, dangerous gray eyes into the very depths of my soul for a potent moment before he releases me and leaves.

***

I’m still reeling from everything, trying to wrap my head around what transpired during the last hour, and I’m too overwhelmed to watch TV. Instead, I let my eyes drift across the room. Dark blue, gray steel, and clean lines dominate the space. It’s masculine and simple, like the rest of the apartment, yet warm and welcoming.Safe.

The red armchair sticks out like a sore thumb, clashing with both the color scheme and simplicity. I skip past it quickly every time my eyes roam in its direction. My mind is too muddled to grasp the meaning of it being here. But the chair is like a magnet, drawing my attention even as I lie down with my back to it. I end up turning around and just staring at it for a long time. It takes me back to all the times I curled up in Janos’s lap, seeking safety in the very arms that hurt me.

I climb out of bed and test the length of the chain. My body jitters to curl up in the chair and regain some of the comfort I always found in his lap, but the chain only allows me two long steps, and I can’t even touch it. With a heavy sigh, I sink back onto the mattress and pull the comforter close. Inhaling deeply, I realize that Janos’s scent lingers on the sheets. I burrow my head into the pillow and drag in the scent several times, finding that it’s even better than sitting alone in the armchair.

When I lift my head back up and see the red chair, it’s like waking up—coming out of the surreal haze. Suddenly, everything becomes clear.I’m at Janos’s place, inhaling his scent, watching the red chair—myred chair—which he kept.

Tears brim in my eyes. I can’t believe he kept it; I can’t believe I’m here.

I close my eyes and pinch my arm repeatedly, but it’s always the same room—the same red chair—that greets me when I look again.

Relief washes over me, but something ominous hovers in the background. Because I don’t know that I’ll still be here tomorrow. Solid iron may tether me to the bed, but this whole situation is hanging by a thread that might snap at any moment.

If Gabor somehow finds out that I’m here, Janos might not return at all, and the next time the door opens, it might be two other suit-clad men coming to prepare me for Gabor one last time.

The idea snakes its way around my chest until I can barely breathe.

Forcing myself out of the spiraling thoughts, I grab the remote and start the first best TV show I find. Then I lie there for a few hours, flitting back and forth between mindlessly watching TV, reeling from a burst of relief, and fighting off icy dread. Then I relieve myself in the bucket, eat a few crackers, and drink some water. The small change of pace seems to reset me somewhat, and when I lie back down again, the exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours finally catches up to me and knocks me out.

---