Page 15 of Claiming Sarah

Red and Blue take the place of real friends, and it never bothered me until I look down at Sarah, watching her shift into an upright position, completely oblivious to my double standing near her shoulder.

SARAH

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him to shove his phone somewhere sunless, but I bite back the words, bowing my head and letting my hair swing forward in a curtain to shield my face. I’m doing this for Lauren. At least, I tell myself that, squirming a little at the sticky sensation between my thighs. I doubt my screams earlier would convince a jury that my actions were selfless.

“Do you agree?” he asks, raspy voice skittering across my sensitive senses. I nod, knowing he can see me through his mask.

Grunting, he shuffles around, a lock clicking before metal slips free from my ankles. I wiggle them experimentally. They move without a hint of discomfort, whispering of a painless escape. But I know better, instincts screaming that the man moving to my wrist to unshackle it is dangerous and unpredictable. Something about him nigglesat my intuition, a sixth sense I honed in my years of nursing.

In a hospital setting, I’d avoid ever being left alone with him, keeping the door at my back.

Metal clanks to the floor, sounding loud in the small space.

“Ready?” he asks, withdrawing a hand from his pocket to help me stand. I stare at it a minute longer than necessary. A scar, about an inch wide—perhaps the width of a blade—sits in the center of his palm, and scars and calluses decorate his fingers. My father used to ramble about how you can tell a lot about a man from his hands, from whether he uses lotion to condition his skin and is unfamiliar with labor to how many hours he spends bailing hay.

Dayton’s hands look like they belong to a killer. Before I can think better of it, I slap one of my hands into his.

12

OURS

ZAIDEN

Her hand slips into mine, the impact stinging with inevitability.

“Ours,”Red growls, prowling closer, nose brushing through her hair. Blood splattered walls flash in my mind, and I stare at him in warning. Sarah ismine. I will not share her with my demons, even if they wear my face.

Tugging lightly, keeping my eyes forward, I lead my newest addiction out of her cell. My eyes drift to her frequently, gauging her reaction as we walk down the hall, floors groaning beneath our combined weight.

“Do you live alone?” There’s a slight tremor in her voice.Fear? Does she think I’ll share her?

“Ours,”Red and Blue intone in unison, trailing behind us. A shiver races across her, and she folds her arms over her chest, arms acting as a shield. Perhaps she can sense what she can’t see. Insanity.

“Make her like us,”Blue suggests, breath ghosting over my neck. I fight the shudder.

Restraints clamp down on my wrists and ankles. Hands holdme down. Tears stream down my cheeks. I scream and curse everyone present. A hand pries open my mouth. I snap my teeth at them, and they shove a piece of cloth inside, clamping a hand over my mouth to prevent me from spitting it out.

“Somebody fucking sedate him! I can’t give the shock with him wriggling around,” a voice booms outside of my line of sight. I fight harder, nausea climbing up my throat.

“No!” I scream, snot mingling with tears, jerking my body in every direction I can.

“You don’t have more of your buddies waiting around, do you?” Sarah asks, stopping in the middle of the hallway, emerald eyes trained on me. My breathing comes fast, and I force my body to relax, re-immersing in the present. No one will ever touch me like that again. They’d have to kill me.

And I’d have to kill anyone who even thinks of performing electroconvulsive therapy on Dr. Bell.

Remembering her question, I shake my head, motioning with my hand for us to keep moving. The kitchen is just around the corner. I barely remember disposing of the body in the incinerator out back, putting choice pieces of meat on ice for her.

It’s a good thing too, eyes tracking her reactions when we round the corner, and she pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. I mentally pat myself on the back for cleaning up the majority of the blood splatters from my dissection.

Wide eyes turn to clash with mine, causing my brows to rise. The kitchen is clean.What could she possibly be upset about now?

SARAH

He’s a killer. He’s a killer. He’s a killer. He’s a killer.

There’s blood on the ceiling, splatters staining the legs of the bar stools, and aged blood catching the light is embedded in the cracks of the tiled floor of the kitchen. I’m not going in there, taking a wary step back.

I let him touch me. His mouth and murderous hands tainted my skin. Bile crawls up my throat, and I’m shaking my head. I’m going to die here.

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