Page 3 of Seducing Scylla
Morgan
I’m rocking, my gut twisting with the motion. My eyeballs hurt and my lids do not want to open at all. I let out a pained moan and go to crush the heels of my palms into my eye sockets just to ease the pressure. But I can’t. I’m restrained somehow. The sharp ache in my shoulders comes rearing into focus with full force, the stiffness of being stuck in one position for too long burning in my limbs. I can’t even feel my fingers. Forcing my eyes open, the room spins and sways. Is it possible to spin and sway at the same time?
A familiar, sickly-sweet scent lingers in my nose, trying its hardest to cover the other more unpleasant smells of my surroundings, but only succeeds in making me nauseous. The smell brings forth the panicked moments ofbefore. Of the dead-eyed man and his hands around my face and body. The panic. Not being able to breathe. I still can’t breathe.
My eyes bulge, and I register a thin keening noise before realizing it’s me. I gasp a shuddering breath before I heave. The sour tang of bile fills my mouth before forcing its way out and splattering on the floor. The motion has me tumbling, overbalanced, and I unceremoniously land face first in the sticky bodily fluids I just expunged, given the tang infiltrating my nostrils. I retch again, a sob quickly following.
Lying in my own filth, arms tight behind my back, I can do nothing but take in my surroundings. It’s dark, wherever I am. A room, or a shed, given the thin streams of light filtering through tiny holes along the walls. I imagine I’m a rat being kept in a cardboard shoebox, holes poked in the sides so I don’t suffocate. The thin streams of light illuminate a long, cold metal enclosure. The coolness of the steel is a relief where my face rests, easing the roiling in my stomach somewhat.
My eyes adjust to the dimness, and I realize I’m not alone. A handful of bodies line the walls, most look as if they’re unconscious; slumped over with their heads drooping between their knees at an angle that is surely going to be painful when they come to. Some are sprawled out over the metal floor, arms trussed up behind them likemine. Someone weeps quietly further down, unnoticed earlier over the sound of my own panic.
“Hello?” I croak, my tongue darting out to wet cracked lips. My voice isn’t much more than a dry rasp and I’m not sure if I should be quiet or if our captors will hear me and come for us. The sniffling stops.
“Where are we?” I try again, my ragged voice bouncing off the steel walls.
“Shh, they might hear you!” she whisper-yells at me.
Well, that answers that question.
“Who? Who are they? Where are we?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!” The woman begins to sob again, her own reprimand quickly forgotten.
“Hang on,” I grunt, rocking onto my side, and using my aching shoulder to prop me up.
I screech at the pain tearing down my arms as I lurch forward, tucking my legs under me until I’m on my knees, my head resting on the floor. Panting, I sit back up and duck my head to wipe my vomit off the side of my face and onto my cardigan. With all the grace of a newborn giraffe, I struggle to get my feet under me withmy hands bound, but I manage to push myself up. My legs tremble, threatening to collapse, and my head is still swaying. I swallow the urge to vomit again, but I don’t think there’s anything left in my stomach anyway. One shaky step in front of the other, I make my way toward the sobbing.
I yelp, wincing as I trip over one of the bodies lying across the floor, my foot making contact with something round and bony. Stumbling, I dive forward, twisting at the last minute to avoid my face slamming into the steel beneath me, my shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.
I cough and groan, tears leaking from my eyes at the additional pain to my already bruised and abused shoulders. Whimpering, I lie on my side, eyes closed and breathing heavily through my nose, trying to regain my composure.
“Are you okay?” the woman whispers, sounding closer than before.
I stifle another cough from my winded lungs. “Peachy.”
Silence answers me. Squinting into the shadows from where I lay on the floor, I realize the woman is beside me.
“Sorry,” I grumble, feeling guilty over the snarkiness in my tone.
“We’re all in this together.” I don’t realize I’ve whisper-sung the words out loud until laughter bubbles to the surface, exploding from my lips, a little manic, and uncontrollable. She snorts, which makes me laugh harder, and then she’s laughing along with me. I laugh so hard tears run from my eyes and then I’m sobbing deep racking sobs as the reality of our situation drives home. We sober, the silence deafening after our outburst.
“I’m scared,” she whispers.
I sniff, stifling any more tears. “What’s your name?”
“Elena, you?”
“Morgan.”
“I’d say nice to meet you, but I’d rather I hadn’t.”
I hum in agreement. “So, what’s your story?” I ask, still lying on the cold steel at her feet., my previous burst of desperate energy sapped away.
Elena raises a brow. There’s just enough light filtering through one of the holes for me to see that her eyes are a grayish blue, and her hair is blonde. It’s drawn up into a ponytail that’s looking more than a little worse for wear. She looks fit, the shadows encasing broad shoulders, exposed by a singlet or a crop top. It’s hard to tell exactly.
“I was out running. I’m an athlete; a swimmer. I’ve got a comp coming up, so I beefed up my training. Kind of regretting it now, though. They got me on a secluded part of the trail.” Elena shudders.
I nod in sympathy. “Well, it’s not as bad as mine. I walked right up to them. Thought they were tourists and didn’t want them to get towed.” I roll my eyes. “I should’ve known better. Who else drives a beat-up old caravan, if not for creeps who go around kidnapping women?” I spit out bitterly.
