Page 24 of Brutal Savior

What feels like seconds later, I wake up slowly. I throw my hand over my face and grumble. Sunlight? What the hell?

“Thank God. I thought you might sleep till midday.”

I yelp, eyes flying open as everything floods back. The kidnapping. Jacob. The fucking collar. I claw at my neck and find it still in place. “Get this thing off me!”

Jacob comes into view, already dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt that shows off his ridiculous arms. He sits on the bed and places his hand on my head, a gesture that is equal partscomforting and patronizing. “Shhh, love. Calm down. You slept for fourteen hours. Take a minute to wake up properly.”

Fourteen hours? How? I must be the best-rested kidnapping victim in the world. I take a few deep breaths, soaking in my miserable fucking reality. I’m here. Jacob is here. And this is the day I get out of this screwed-up place.

Jacob plays with my hair as he waits for me with his infinite patience, which is already pissing me the hell off. I take stock of myself. I need about a gallon of water, a toothbrush, and the restroom, but other than that, I’m okay.

For some reason, I’m not surprised. Jacob doesn’t seem the sort to sneak around being creepy while I’m sleeping. “I’m okay. I just need the bathroom.”

“No problem. One quick lesson first. Each morning, you ask me to release you.” He bends down, emerald eyes serious. “‘Please release me.’ That’s all.”

“That’s stupid. I’m not saying that.”

“Then you’ll be here a while.”

I grit my teeth and survey my options. I can’t make an escape plan from here. He’s probably hoping I’ll give him an excuse to torture me with something. Make me piss the bed or something weird like that. I’m not going to give him the satisfaction.

“Please release me, my great and powerful lord,” I say in the most sugary, fake voice I can muster. Malicious compliance is my favorite method of pissing people off. Like the time the boss complained we were dressing too scruffily at work, so I bought a thrift store ballgown and wore it for three days straight.

A tight breath escapes him, and I find myself chewing my lip as his eyes darken. He liked hearing that, even though it was phony. Something dangerous shifts beneath the calm front he does such a good job of presenting.

But then it’s gone, and he shoots out a hand to release the catch on the collar. It clicks open, and I moan in relief. I rub atmy neck as I sit up. Jacob waves a hand at the bathroom door. “Go. I’ll sort breakfast.”

He’ll do what? My image of him keeps shifting. He still feels every bit the gangster, competent and dangerous. I can’t picture him as a scientist at all. And there are random domestic moments like this, where he seems way too normal for comfort. Just a guy making breakfast for his sex slave.

He strides off toward the kitchen, not worried about leaving me by myself. What if I find a weapon and use it to incapacitate him and escape? Unlikely. But the fact he's so unconcerned is kind of insulting.

I rush to the bathroom and take care of all the vital stuff, then wrap myself in a towel and spend ten minutes searching the bedroom for weapons. All the spanking implements are locked away, so unless I'm going to beat him to death with a dildo—some of which are really fucking large—I'm out of luck.

No luck in the bathroom, either. The smell of bacon wafts in, driving me crazy, so I move before he can order me to breakfast. I pass through the living room, following the scent to the kitchen. The door stands open, and I pause, thrown by what I see.

The kitchen has off-white walls and black granite surfaces. It's big by apartment standards and insanely clean. Not what I'd expect for a man living by himself. A six-seater wooden table takes up most of the dining area.

It's set for two, but the spread could be a hotel breakfast. Piled plates of bacon and sausages, a heap of eggs, and a giant bowl of chopped fruit. Chocolate croissants. A pot of coffee.

Jacob stands at the sink, washing his hands. He smiles at me when he turns, and the expression is strange on his stern face. I wave a hand at the table and make a show of looking around. “Are we expecting guests? The Dallas Cowboys, maybe?”

Jacob scoffs. “This? I'll be hungry again in an hour. Don't be polite. Get stuck in.”

He seats himself and does just that, piling food on his plate and eating it with the dedication of a man that takes food seriously. I've never been much of a chef, surviving on whatever I can swipe from the shitty catering jobs I work. After serving people sandwiches all day, the last thing I feel like doing is cooking.

I sit, tucking the towel in so it doesn’t fall. This doesn’t make sense. At least the kinky furniture and collar fit with my idea of what a depraved captor should do. If I'd guessed at what meals would entail, I'd have said getting fed from a dog bowl or something ridiculous. This is too normal, as if he’s about to tell me it's all been a mistake and send me home.

The smell of the bacon is getting to me, and I can't resist anymore. I stack some onto my plate along with a croissant. I nibble on it—just the right amount of crispness—watching Jacob demolish his food and go back for seconds. He frowns at my plate. “That's not all you're having. Don't you like the food?”

For some reason, I don't want to offend him. “It's lovely. I'm a really slow eater.”

“Take all the time you need.”

He dives back into his meal, oblivious to just how fucking awkward this is. I should be peppering him with questions. Where am I? What in the hell does he plan to do with me? How many other captives are here? Eve is one. Maybe I should try and get some time with her to see if she’s made any plans to escape.

I finish the food on my plate and reach for some fruit. Jacob gives an approving nod. It’s patronizing enough that it needles me into speaking. “Where am I? And don’t just say ‘The Compound.’ I know that. Like where, specifically.”

“I’ll show you on a map later.”

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