Page 19 of Captive Souls

Right then, I had resolve. Even if I’d had nothing but processed gas station snacks since … breakfast this morning.

Despite the scant amount of substantial nutrients in me, I was certain I’d be able to withhold. That I’d be able to starve rather than relent.

But then I thought. Remembered. What starvation felt like and how vastly it differed from simple hunger.

I’d felt it once in my life, the memories were faded because of my young age, and I suppose my subconscious, trying to protect me from the horror of it.

The details were hazy, but I remembered the pain. The desperation. How I’d turned into an animal, tearing apart old cracker boxes to find stale crumbs that I would then split between Daisy and me, always giving her the larger portion.

I’d been a child then. Helpless. This would be different.

But would it? I was essentially as helpless as a child right now.

I tasted the acidic tang of bile as I considered this. The sharp taste brought me back to my body, to where I’d been standing in the middle of the room, staring at Knox, covered in sweat, holding a pile of wood. I glanced to where I should put it, if only to escape his gaze.

Apparently, he’d turned at some point as he was now looking at me. There was a flatness, a deadness in his expression that made the hair on my arms stand on end.

His eyes were deep, unyielding and … soulless. It was like there was nothing human or soft inside of them. Yet I couldn’t deny the pull I felt toward them, toward him. One that I’d told myself was a figment of my traumatized brain. I was searching for redemption in this story, in this man, that maybe if we had a connection, he wouldn’t hurt me. He was watching me so intently because I was his captive, not because he felt anything toward me. I reminded myself of that.

I swallowed knives at the thought that I was stuck in a one-room cabin with him for … however long. However long it took me to decide that marrying Stone was preferable to being here with Knox.

I quickly averted my gaze. “I’m going to have a shower.” Why I felt the need to tell him this, voice it to him almost as if I was asking for permission, made me rageful. I hoped that the cabin had hot water. The chances were slim, but a girl could hope. Even if it was safe to say hope was dead there. Knox had trampled on it with his loafers.

He didn’t say anything. Not even a hint of a gesture to acknowledge that I’d said anything. That further served to amplify my rage. Though I wanted to scamper off to the bathroom with my tail between my legs, I gritted my teeth and stood my ground, lifting my eyes up to once again meet that soulless stare.

I counted to ten in my head, holding it, unmoving, remaining silent. It wasn’t exactly a challenge because I knew I’d lose any kind of staring or menacing competition with him. It was more of a statement. That I wouldn’t wither under his gaze like a flower dying from lack of sunshine.

I might’ve looked like a delicate flower, but my roots were hardy, unyielding. I didn’t wear my strength on my sleeve like he did, but it was there, deep under the surface.

I would survive this. Him.

It was a promise I made to myself in those ten seconds.

Then, with my head held high, chin tilted upward in defiance, I marched to the bathroom.

It was only once my clothes were stripped off and I was under the spray of water that was somehow gloriously hot when my strength started to wane.

As my muscles loosened, fatigue flooded my bloodstream.

Why did I think I could handle this?

I had to work up the strength to schedule my dental cleanings.

The water rained over me, washing away my tears.

It was the first time I’d cried since I was taken. Not that there hadn’t been opportunities for me to indulge in a sob fest. Yet no matter how much I wanted to, I would not cry in front of Knox. He would not see that. He would not get that.

I gave myself a minute. A minute curled up at the bottom of the shower, stifling my sobs with my fist lest he hear them.

And once the minute was up, I was out of the shower, the biting air prickling against my skin.

My first instinct was to rush into my clothes, get comfortable, warm. But I needed to get used to discomfort. Needed to relax in the frigid environment.

So I squeezed my eyes shut and stood there, dripping on the bathmat, shivering, for another minute.

My clothes were as practical as you could get for someone like me—someone who loved color, who taught children for a living and expressed herself through clothing. The worn jeans I dragged on were covered in painted flowers, all in different colors, some fading from wear.

I put on a tight, basic tank, not bothering with a bra since I was slinging on a bright-pink, loose, knit cardigan over top.

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