Page 43 of Cipher's Baby Girl
Most importantly, I notice a clock on the wall. The time on the analog display reads 12:47. We left the club around 11:30, which means, if the time on the clock is correct, we must have been driving for about an hour. Not too far from the city, then. Within range for someone to find us, if they're looking.
And they will be looking. Cipher will be looking. I’m sure of it.
The thought of him sends a complicated mixture of emotions through me—fear, hope, longing. Despite everything, despite hisanger and continued rejection, I know one thing with absolute certainty: Cipher will come for me.
"Drink this." Richard thrusts a glass of water at me. "Can't have you passing out again before the fun starts."
I take it with bound hands, the zip tie so tight it cuts into my wrists. The water smells clean enough, and my parched throat screams for relief. I sip cautiously, using the opportunity to glance out the window behind him. Trees, darkness. No indication of where we might be.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I lie. I hate how small and submissive my voice is.
Richard jerks his chin toward the door in the corner. "Don't get any ideas. There's no window in there."
"My hands," I say, holding up my bound wrists.
He hesitates, then pulls a pocket knife from his jeans. The blade gleams in the harsh overhead light. "Try anything, and I'll make you regret it."
The plastic falls away as he cuts the zip tie, leaving angry red welts around my wrists. I rub them gingerly, keeping my eyes downcast, playing the role he expects—the broken, compliant girl he thinks he raised.
The bathroom is barely larger than a closet—a composting toilet, a tiny, rust-stained wash basin, and, as Richard said, no window. But it's privacy, a moment to think, an excuse to have my hands free. I close the door, fighting the urge to sob as adrenaline and fear crash through me in equal measure.
Think, Rose. Think.
I drop my face into my hands, wincing as I touch the tender spot where Richard struck me. In the cracked mirror, I barely recognize myself—makeup smudged, hair tangled, a bruise already forming on my cheekbone. The burgundy dress that made me feel so confident and beautiful just hours ago now feels like a mockery.
My hand moves to my still-flat stomach, a gesture that's becoming instinctive. "I'll protect you," I whisper to my baby. "I promise."
I'm not the same frightened girl Richard sold six weeks ago. The Shadow Reapers—Abuela, Angel, Sophie, Luna, Rash—they've shown me what family should be. What support feels like. What strength I have inside me.
Rescue is coming. And I need to be ready.
When I emerge, Richard has dimmed the lights and switched from beer to whiskey. Bad sign. He’s a violent, unpredictable drunk.
"Took you long enough," he growls, patting the couch beside him. "Come sit with daddy."
I swallow back bile, moving toward him with small, hesitant steps. Each moment I can delay is another moment for rescue to arrive. Another moment to figure out how to protect myself and my baby.
"Richard," I say, "I'm feeling sick from whatever you injected me with. Could I have some more water?"
His eyes narrow, suspicious, but he nods toward the kitchenette. "Make it quick."
As I refill the cup, I hear it—the faintest, far-off hum of a motorcycle outside. So soft I might have imagined it. My pulse spikes, but I keep my face carefully blank as I turn back toward Richard, cup in hand.
"Sit down," he orders, patting the couch again.
I obey, placing as much distance between us as the small couch allows. He scoots closer immediately, one arm snaking around my shoulders in a grotesque parody of affection. His other hand lands on my thigh, fingers digging into the flesh exposed by my dress.
"I've been waiting for this," he slurs, alcohol heavy on his breath. "Ever since your mama died. But I was patient. Waited till you were ripe."
His hand slides higher, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. Instead, I force myself to think strategically. I need to keep him talking, keep him distracted.
"How did you find me?" I ask, leaning slightly away under the pretense of taking a sip of water.
Richard's laugh is smug. "Been watching that compound for weeks." His eyes roam over me, making my skin crawl. “Got lucky when I saw you girls leaving tonight, all dolled up like proper little whores.” His fingers squeeze my thigh painfully. "Just waited outside the club—and whadda ya know? Fate presented me with the perfect moment."
Another sound from outside—too deliberate to be the wind. A soft metallic click that raises the hair on my arms. Someone is definitely out there. I need to create a distraction, give them an opening.
"I need to use the bathroom again," I say abruptly, pulling away from his grip. “Whatever you drugged me with is making me sick."
