Page 35 of Striker

“That’s disturbing,” Striker says, sitting back down on the bed. “How old where you?”

“Six.”

His head twitches oddly. I notice he’s rubbing his forearms, his fingers kneading into the fabric of his shirt.

“I think being locked in this room is reminding me of that time. Every time I close my eyes, it’s like I’m in the closet, trapped and alone,” I say, looking down at my hands. A warm tear lands on my wrist and I wipe it away with my thumb, irritated at its appearance. His boots squeak as he stands up again. I glance back over at him. “That’s how I feel here. Trapped. Alone.”

A shadow passes behind his eyes and he looks away.

“She left me in there once for two days,” I say, watching his reaction. When his eyes close and his shoulders bunch, I think that maybe I’ve hit a nerve. Like maybe he—maybe none of them—are as bad as they want us to think. Or maybe they just draw the line at disturbing stories about children. “She got high and forgot about me, too caught up in her game with her men, I guess.”

“Get some sleep,” he says, his voice strangled as he suddenly marches to the door. “We’ll get you for breakfast after sunrise.”

My heart hammers when he reaches for the doorknob. “Striker.” He pauses and turns. His eyes look lost when they meet mine. Hollowed out, like my words created a crater inside him. I wonder if he fears the dark too. “Will you sit with me? Until I fall asleep?”

He hesitates, then releases the knob. Instead of sitting at the end of the bed, he takes the chair by the window and folds himself into it, resting his ankle on his knee, his eyes still holding that lost look as he stares blankly out the window.

After a while, he looks back at me, but he still looks vacant. Gone. Not even in the room with me. “My mother was a prostitute.” The confession slips out so quietly that I lean forward, unsure I even heard him correctly. “Isabella. She wasn’t always one. She was a someone’s daughter. Someone loved her. She had a little boy. Then she left him when she died of a drug overdose.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and I’m surprised that I mean it. I’m surprised at the stabbing sensation slicing through my middle. At how his words seem to spill out from him but not unaware. Intentionally. Handing me a heavy secret because he knows I can carry it’s weight.

Because I lived in darkness for a while just like him.

“I was five when she died.” His eyes move over to me, and he doesn’t look lost anymore. He looks completely present. “I was found in a closet, almost dead.”

I wince, an ache forming in my chest that some other child knew about that type of darkness and fear. That deep hunger and what felt like never ending thirst.

For a while we sit in silence and I watch the man who thinks they stole me, not knowing they saved me from a terrible life.

I slip under the blankets and curl onto my side, watching him. “So your mom fucked you up, too.”

He nods slightly, more to himself. “Father was worse.”

Chapter 15

Delilah

Iwake shivering cold.My eyes travel to the door and nausea ripples in my belly. It’s open, showing a bright hallway lined with windows, heavy curtains pulled back revealing the cloudless winter sky. Early morning light casts long lines across the wood floor.

Fucking Striker.

The man makes no sound. I know he’s the one who brings the tray of food, always managing to sneak in here without my knowing. Except last night. After Reaper stormed out, I didn’t get a tray of food, just an unlocked door and a strangling fear of what it meant.

Heat flames my cheeks, remembering Reaper, his ungloved hands moving over my body. His warning that sounded a little too much like he wished I’d have broken the window.

My stomach churns, another bout of nausea rolling through me, along with a pinch of pain. I clamp my hand over my abdomen and bite my lip. I’m hungry.

The house creaks, and my heart leaps into my throat, my eyes darting back to the open door. I half expect one of them to come leaping into view, but it’s just the house settling.

My belly rumbles again. They’re going to force me out. Starve me out. Last night I was so scared the unlocked door was a trap that I didn’t dare leave the room. Now I know they want me to. Or at least, they are inviting me to leave. Or maybe it’s a taunt.

Hungry? Come and get it, if you dare.

Problem is, Iamhungry. I’ve barely been eating.

I slide my legs over the edge of the bed, wrapping my oversized sweater tightly around me as I creep toward the door, heart rattling in my chest.

Calm down, Delilah. They are keeping you alive for a reason. Reaper could have hurt you last night, but he…

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