Page 4 of Under Fyre

I’m frozen, watching, waiting to see if it will notice me.

When it works its way toward the house, it looks up and spots me by the window.

I shiver.

The dog’s ears cock-up. It races toward me, teeth flashing.

I duck down with my arms over my head, my panicked squeal muffled as I huddle in a terrified little ball.

It’s ridiculous to think that the dog can get to me. It would have to chew through metal for fuck’s sake. But one thing I know about fear is that it isn’t always rational.

In fact, most of the time, it’s the complete opposite.

There’s a low whistle, Fyre calling his dog. I stay huddled against the wall beneath the window until I can convince myself that the dog is gone.

Only then do I dare peek over the sill.

The yard is empty.

My breath leaves me in a rush. I stand on wobbly legs and climb onto the bed.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but my body feels strangely weak, like I haven’t eaten in a few days.

When my eyes land on the carton of milk, I immediately look away.

He’s drugged it.

If I drink it, I’ll pass out…then what happens?

Another ridiculous thought. Fyre is strong enough to subdue me. He could easily inject me with a sedative if he wanted to. Why would he go to the effort of messing with my food?

The fact that I didn’t wake up tied and gagged…that’s got to mean he’s not going to kill me, right?

I want to help you.

Snatching up the carton of milk, I stab the straw through the small foil-capped hole in the top and suck it dry.

It’s room temperature, but it’s still the best thing I’ve tasted in a while, even if it makes me thirsty. I go to the bathroom, empty my bladder, drink from the tap. Then I wash my face and stare at myself in the vanity mirror.

My green eyes have shadows under them. My hair is greasy and lank. There’s a toothbrush on the sink—still in its packaging. I use it, and that helps. I consider showering, but then I’d have to either put on my dirty clothes or those clean clothes in the closet.

Neither of those options appeals to me, not even a little.

So I go back to the room and sit in front of the door, my ear pressed to the wood. I don’t hear anything. Guess the doors are too thick, or Fyre isn’t at home anymore.

I don’t know how I manage to doze off, but a strange sound wakes me sometime later. At first I have no idea what I’m hearing, but when I do—

“Fuck!” I jump up, my heart in my throat as I stare at the bottom of the door.

There’s a snuffling coming from the other side—Fyre’s dog. I shove my hands under my armpits and will away the feeling of that hot, warm breath on my leg.

“Arrow!” I jerk when Fyre calls his dog, even though his voice is muffled through the thick door.

So at least I can hearsomethingthrough it.

I climb back onto the bed, and pull the blanket over my legs. It’s cold in this room—I guess Fyre hasn’t turned on the central heating yet.

The sun has moved behind the trees. The temperature is dropping rapidly. I guess it’s late afternoon, almost early evening.

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