Page 34 of Captive Souls

Something warm brushed against my forehead. Not the same warmth of the chest I’d been pressed against. Nothing was warm like that.

This was softer, wetter.

A washcloth, I deduced without opening my eyes.

My head throbbed painfully, so I assumed that opening my eyes to the reality of the situation would only make it worse. I decided to keep them closed a little while longer. Damn, they were heavy, impossibly heavy. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t know if I had the strength to open them.

There was a crushing, unyielding weight over my whole body. My limbs were heavy, and my stomach was excruciatingly empty.

Though I felt sluggish and out of it, my hunger was visceral.

The warmth at my head disappeared, replaced by a sharp sting.

My eyes popped open as I let out a hiss of pain, unable to move myself because I was too weak.

I was met with an icy, intense gaze.

Knox.

Inches from my face, watching me with a practiced concentration, cold expression in place.

“Hold still,” he ordered as I tried to wiggle. “I need to clean this.”

More pain at my head, eliciting another hiss between my teeth.

I glanced down at the coffee table. There was a bowl of water with a washcloth in it, the washcloth was stained crimson. My blood. I’d hit my head on my way down, obviously, which might have been the reason for losing consciousness. Or the mild starvation. Or the trauma of the past week.

I held still, considering the sequence of events, gritting my teeth as Knox cleaned my wound.

Then it struck me.

He was cleaning my wound. He had carried me in the gentle cocoon of his embrace after I fell. Which meant he’d come looking for me. Then he’d washed my blood.

My eyes traveled to follow the journey of his hands into a first aid kit.

“Doesn’t need stitches,” he told me, focusing on my head and not my curious gaze.

He was speaking too. Volunteering information when he could’ve just stayed silent. I hadn’t asked any questions. I was too shocked, tired, sore and hungry to do that yet.

He was speaking. Why? Did the silence make him nervous? Surely not.

And had I imagined the concern on his face as I’d briefly woken up.

Could he …careabout me?

I was considering this as he put butterfly bandages on my forehead. His fingers were gentle and cool, my body reveling in the caretaking touch from such a violent man.

He leaned back as if to create distance. “Stone wouldn’t like you if you were … damaged.”

Cold water washed over me.

I flinched away from him, pushing myself upright on the sofa, bracing myself as the room tilted much like the woods had. My head pounded, my stomach lurched, and I saw stars.

“Well, I should’ve fallen harder, then.” I sounded too weak for my liking. “I’d rather disfigure myself for life than be pleasing to that monster.”

I considered that as a very real, albeit drastic option. Do something to myself to make me unappealing to a sick fuck who liked his victims to be pretty. Would that save me?

The vain part of me recoiled at the prospect, but only for a moment. I didn’t treasure surface beauty. I wanted freedom and would be more than willing to sacrifice for that, though it sickened me that that’s what I might be pushed to do.

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