Page 19 of His Black Onyx

Chapter 10

Malia

Thank God he didn't bring me back into that damp, cold bedroom. Despite the humiliating experience of forcing me to take a shower under his watchful eyes, I could feel my chest tighten at the prospect of ending up all by myself in the darkness again.

I did as I was told, even obeying his command to shave while he watched. It was the most embarrassing experience of my life. My skin was burning with shame, and I know the blush on my cheeks was caused by more than the hot water raining down on me.

But it was oddly comforting, too. After spending so much time in the cold darkness of that moldy bedroom, still wearing the clothes and the smudged make-up from the night when I was abducted, the hot shower felt like heaven, despite the circumstances. And I chose to focus on the positive. I chose to be strong, just like I know my best friend was when she found herself in a situation way worse than this.

I can't let my fear win.

I can't let my fear win.

I don't know what lies ahead and I still don't fully grasp the extent of my situation, but if obedience is what it takes to make it through this, then that's what I'll do.

Because if what he said is true, I'll be going home at the end of this. Either way, I'll be going home.

When I stepped out of the shower, he presented me with a pile of clothes as unglamorous as they come. A gray sweater that is way too big for my small frame, a matching pair of sweatpants that hang loose on my hips, plain gym socks and a pair of sneakers that are two sizes too big. No underwear. I don't need a mirror to know that I must look ridiculous, and he confirms that with the way he inspects me after I got dressed.

"It'll have to do for now," he remarks, as I adjust the drawstring of the pants to prevent them from sliding any farther down my hips.

"Come."

Much to my surprise, he refrains from tying my hands again or securing me in any way. I hesitate when he opens the bathroom door and beckons me to step out before him into the hallway.

Should I run? Is there even the slightest chance I could reach the door at the other end of the corridor? How far would I get if I tried?

And what would happen when he catches me? There's no 'if' in that question, because I'm sure he wouldn't let me get away.

It would be dumb to even try. But I need to allow myself to at least consider it. I need to be aware, attentive, always on the lookout for a chance.

Because as intimidating and restrictive as he is now, he's bound to make a mistake. And the more secure he feels about the power he holds over me, the sooner he will make that mistake.

I can feel his eyes on my back as I saunter down the narrow, dark corridor. I notice that it is void of any decorations or other items that would suggest someone actually lives here.

"Right," he barks behind me as we reach the door opposite to the bedroom in which I had originally been imprisoned.

I comply, squinting when I'm met with the blinding spotlight that illuminates the room.

At first the room looks like a kitchen, a barren kitchen with nothing but a counter with a rusty sink and faucet, no stove, no fridge. The only appliance I see is an electric kettle on top of the counter. There are no shelves on the wall, and the few supplies and belongings that the men store in here are lined up on the floor against the far wall. The room is in terrible disrepair, just like the bedroom, with the wallpaper coming off in several places and the air dank and moldy.

There's a rather bulky, worn-out table with four equally shabby chairs positioned around it. I suck in a sharp breath of air when my eyes fall on the frightening array of items spread out across the tabletop.

Weapons. Guns and rounds of ammunition, lined up in an organized fashion.

"Sit," he snarls, gesturing toward one of the chairs.

I cast him a dark look before slowly following his order. I pull the chair away from the table before sitting down, keeping a safe distance from the weaponry display, as if even being too close to it would put me in danger.

"Don't get any ideas," he warns me, incorrectly interpreting my cautious look at the weapons. "None of them are loaded, and I doubt you'd be able to move quickly enough before I stop you."

"I've never held a gun before in my life," I confess, cursing myself for my constant desire to speak the truth. "They scare me."

He casts me a look that is hard to read, a mixture of confusion, concern, and amusement.

"They're used for our protection," he says, turning his back to me when he fills the water kettle from the rusty faucet. He sets it back on the counter and switches it on before turning his attention back to me.

"Tea or coffee?"

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