Page 12 of Under Fyre

My heart beats a little faster when Fyre comes near. His earthy smell is stronger today, like he just came out of the shower.

Suddenly I feel like I have the plague. When I move, I can catch whiffs of my dirty, sweaty flesh puffing up from under the covers.

“Good morning,” Fyre says as he sets a tray down on my bedside table.

It’s another sandwich—I guess he won’t go to the effort of cooking me a meal until he’s sure it won’t land up on the floor or in a bucket.

I can’t blame him.

I gave up on myself months ago.

A cold feeling spreads through me at the thought, but who am I kidding? Just because I didn’t admit things to myself doesn’t mean they aren’t true.

I know I’m a lost cause.

I don’t understand why Fyre can’t see it. He never struck me as the Mary Poppins of therapists.

“Morning.” I draw the blankets up around me, hoping Fyre won’t smell how filthy I am.

He takes the plastic wrap off the sandwich and asks if I want sugar in my tea.

“I don’t drink tea.” My nose wrinkles when I catch the scent of the pale, watery liquid. “Especially not whatever that is.”

“It’s chamomile.” Fyre hands me the mug anyway. “It’s soothing.”

“I’ve just woken up.”

His eyes lock with mine. He searches my face like he’s looking for something. I’m not sure if he finds it or not—his expression never changes. “Say you trust me.”

I lick my lips, take the mug from him. “I trust you.”

“Good girl. Now drink.”

How surreal.

Drinking tea while my captor sits less than a yard away, as enigmatic and attractive as the first day I met him?

He’s a fucking monster. I know that, and yet all I see is a man. There’s nothing sinister about Professor Gideon Fyre.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

I expect a vague or abstract response. Him trying to explain away his madness with words like “compulsion” or “obsession”.

Because that’s all this can be. He liked me. Became obsessed with me. Stalked me. Assaulted me. And, finally, kidnapped me. Oh, don’t forget the part where he gruesomely murdered Peter Monroe…forme.

“You consider me a teacher, Charlotte, but it’s not true.”

I almost butt in with something acidic, but he continues on so smoothly I don’t get a chance.

“First, and foremost, I’m a healer.”

Gideon drinks some coffee, his unfocused gaze strictly on the window. It feels strange watching him when he’s so…detached.

“I didn’t realize I was sick,” I say, when it seems Fyre has drifted away from the conversation and isn’t coming back. I was being sarcastic. Gideon obviously doesn’t pick up on that.

“Many don’t. PTSD is as insidious as early-stage cancer. Hardly any symptoms. Definitely nothing to be overly concerned about. Nightmares, maybe. Some emotional detachment. It progresses so gradually that it becomes your new normal without you even realizing it. Soon you’re locked in your house, no friends, no life, exhausted from constantly being on alert.”

“You think I have PTSD?”

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