Page 56 of Captured Heart

Before I can muster the courage to say or do anything, a knock breaks the silence. Alex opens the door just wide enough to take a bucket from someone outside. He closes it with his foot and sets the bucket down on the floor.

Without a word, he pulls a bottle of water from the bucket and hands it to me. I hesitate, glaring at him, but my parched throat overrules my defiance. I grab the bottle and twist the cap off, guzzling it down. The first drop hits my lips, and it’s like mybody has been deprived of water for days. I drain half the bottle in seconds before I come up for air.

Alex crouches beside the bucket and rips the pillowcase off one of the dingy cushions. The sound of fabric tearing jolts me, and I instinctively step back. He topples a few ice cubes into the makeshift pouch and twists the end into a knot.

“You need this,” he says, holding the bundle out toward me.

I don’t move. I don’t want him anywhere near me, let alone touching me. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.”

Before I can respond, he pushes me onto the bed and sits down beside me. He reaches toward the bruise on my cheek, and I jerk away.

“Don’t touch me,” I snarl, glowering at him.

He exhales sharply through his nose, his patience fraying. “Stop being so stubborn.”

I slap his hand away when he tries again, and my fists clench as the impulse to fight him rises in me. I want to hit him, shove him away, anything to make him back off. But the fear of how he’d retaliate if I actually tried keeps me rooted in place.

He doesn’t ask again. His hand darts out, gripping the back of my neck with firm, unyielding pressure. “Hold still,” he commands, tightening his grasp when I continue to resist.

The strength in his hand sends a wave of heat and anger through me, but there’s something else, too. A strange, unwelcome steadiness in the way he holds me. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows how to take control of a situation that’s spiraling out of reach. Considering how he’s been manhandling me all night, his touch is surprisingly gentle. And I hate that. It reminds me too much of all the times he touched me...and I wanted something more.

The cool press of the ice-filled pillowcase against my cheek makes me flinch, but he doesn’t let go. My breathing is shallow as the cold seeps into my skin, dulling the throb of the bruise.

His thumb gently strokes the swollen edges of my eye. “Does it hurt?

He asks that with the same tenderness he used when he massaged my aching palm at the gym. How is this the same man? My emotions come crashing over me like a wave, the betrayal flooding back, sharper than the ache in my cheek. Tears well up, hot and stinging, but I blink them away. I won’t break in front of him. I refuse.

I look up, meeting his eyes, searching for something, anything, beneath the mask he wears so well. “What do you think?” I whisper, trembling despite my best efforts.

I’m not sure if it’s the vulnerability he hears in my voice or the fear he sees in my eyes, but he falters. For a fleeting moment, I see it. A crack in his armor. His jaw tightens, and his hand runs down his face as if he’s trying to wipe away some invisible weight. He looks...helpless. As lost as I feel.

He finally releases me, the sudden absence of his touch making my skin prickle. I sit there, rigid and silent, unsure if I feel relief or resentment. Maybe both.

He drops his head, resting his forehead on his clasped hands. “You should’ve answered your phone. Now we’re both stuck here.”

His voice is soft and muffled. I’m not even sure I heard him right.

“What?”

I find myself wondering if that’s why he called me earlier. To warn me? But that can’t be true because he was the one who captured me and threw me into the back of a van.

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at me. With a huff, he stands abruptly, his shoulders stiffening as if he’s sealing thecrack. The Alex who turns to face me is cold and composed once more. The tender flicker I saw is gone, crushed by the impenetrable walls he’s built.

He moves to the door without another word, then he drops down in front of it, blocking any thought I might’ve had about trying to escape.

The room feels colder, quieter, and infinitely more suffocating. My chest heaves as I try to calm my racing heart. I can’t tell if I’m more afraid of what’s happening...or of him.

11. Katelyn

Idon’t know how much time has passed since Alex slammed the door shut. It could be minutes. It could be hours. I suspect it’s the latter because the light that fills the room tells me it’s late morning already. I’m exhausted, but I’m too scared to sleep.

It’s chilly in here, and I’ve been sitting on the edge of the stiff, prison-like bed. The mattress is thin and lumpy, perched on a creaky metal frame that looks like it was salvaged from an actual jail cell.

It must be around one in the afternoon when someone knocks on the door. Alex opens it and the boy steps in. All of them call him Rookie, so I don’t know his name. He comes in with a tray of food (dry crackers, cheese, and a few grapes) along with a cup of coffee and a few sachets of sugar and creamer. He places it on the bed beside me.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

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