Page 19 of Brutal Savior

Twenty minutes. Jesus Christ.

“When it’s time to get out, I’ll ask you why you were punished and what you can do to prevent it from happening again. All I need is a sincere answer. It doesn’t have to be right. But if you stay silent or tell me to go and fuck myself, you stay in the chair. Got it?”

This just keeps getting better. I nod again.

“Excellent. I’ll leave you to it. There’s a clock on the wall over there”—he points—“where you can watch the time go by. Eighteen minutes to go. Have fun.”

He stands, then busies himself doing fuck-knows-what out of my eyeline. Now that he pointed out the clock, it’s all I can see. Second by painful second, the hands make their slow circles.

I consider rocking the chair from side to side and tipping it over, but even I can’t see the point of such a useless rebellion. I’dstill be manacled to it. He’d just stand it up, tell me I was going to have to sit for an hour, and disappear again.

This is how he’ll make you do what he wants.

It’s true, but I can’t see a single alternative. He’s a force of nature, impossible to overcome. When he said he’d be strict, I hadn’t guessed for a goddamn second he meant this strict. I check the clock again. Fifteen minutes to go.

Shit.

I close my eyes and try not to watch the time tick by. The pain is an infuriating throb, pulsing along with the beat of my heart. Almost worse than the pain, though, is the indignity of this. Being punished. Having to tell him what I’ve learned like he’s a school principal and I’m a bad pupil.

Who gave him the right to do this? It shouldn’t even be me in this chair. Suzy should be the one trying not to shift around because it just makes it worse. She should be the one at the mercy of this madman.

Thinking of her in this situation, though, just makes me sad. She’s too nice to be here. Maybe it’s a good thing I got taken instead. Saving Suzy is the only useful thing I’ve ever done, and even though it was a total accident, I'm glad she’s living her life.

Thinking of her feeding her cat, looking after her patients, and generally being free helps me get through the next ten minutes.

When the clock hits five minutes to go, Jacob returns. He crouches next to me, and he must be able to tell I’m struggling, as he cups my cheek in his giant hand. “Almost there, love. I know it hurts.”

Does he? He knows it hurts? Oh, the revenge I’ll take one day. But I’m out of strength, and his hand is solid and warm. I lean my head against it and close my eyes again. Everything softens, even the ache, and I don’t struggle as his free hand brushes my hair away from my face.

We stay frozen like that until, after a million years, he says, “Time's up. Open your eyes.”

I do, meeting his intense stare. There’s a softness there that catches me off guard. It’s intimate in a way I’m not sure I understand. His voice is deep and rich, with no edge of sarcasm as he says, “So, why were you punished?”

I’d been trying not to think about this part, but it’s here now, and there’s no way in this universe I’m spending a second longer in this chair. I lick my lips. “Because I attacked you and cursed.”

He nods, then a thoughtful look crosses his face. “Because you cursed at me. You can say ‘It’s fucking hot in here’, or ‘I hate this fucking song’ but not ‘Fuck off, Jacob.’ Understand the difference?”

I’d rather he let me stand than discuss the finer points of language, but I’m not going to start an argument about that now. “Yes. I get it.”

“Good. And how will you avoid getting punished in the future?”

I feel stupid saying basically the same thing again, but if it gets me out of this seat, so what? “Don’t attack you, and don’t swear at you.”

“Very good.”

He makes quick work of undoing the restraints. Then, without giving me a chance to stand on my own, he lifts me out of the chair. The blood rushes back in, worse than I was expecting, and I yelp as he holds me against his chest. “Your legs might be wobbly. Don’t want you to fall.”

How considerate. But as pins and needles hit my legs, I realize I probably would have hit the deck. He holds me as I wriggle and flex my muscles, then, after a minute, sets me carefully on my feet.

There’s a silence so long it gets awkward as we stare at each other. I look away first, unsure what to do with myself. He’s the crazy captor. He can decide.

As if he’s read my mind, he touches me lightly on the shoulder. “Right, I’m knackered. Let's get ready for bed.”

Bed? As in sleep? With him? The idea is so absurd I almost laugh. Practical considerations take center stage, though. It’s been hours since I’ve used the bathroom, and it’s getting urgent. “I need to pee first.”

He smiles at my bluntness. “Good to know. And after that, it’s time to get you showered.”

Chapter Eight

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