Page 33 of Tortured Eyes
Fourteen
I’m at a loss as to what to do other than sit. So, I ease myself down into the seat and listen to another thud against the wall beside us. The flick of a switchblade sounds at the same time, and I glare at Logan in response. He does nothing other than slowly offer it up to my hands and then cuts through the restraints like butter.
My wrists scream in relief, thankful to at least be free of the restriction on my skin. But my shirt and trousers still hang like rags over my body, proving I'm far from free. I don’t care that they reveal parts of me to him, though. After what I’ve already been through, what’s a little bit of skin?
Logan continues to rinse the cloth in the water before bringing it up to my face. He pauses for a split second, his eyes flicking to mine as if he’s asking permission. It must be in my imagination because Logan Cane doesn’t ask permission for anything.
The coolness of the cloth delivers instant relief to my raw and heated skin, and I let my eyes slip closed. I still have no idea of how long I’ve been here, or where here even is. It certainly isn’t the same place he took me to the first night, which means I have no idea what’s outside that door.
Before sleep can sneak up on me, I force my eyes open, and Logan’s face confronts me. Pain laces his every feature and seeing it is like a punch to my ribs. He wears the grief he’s suffering so clearly, and I have to wonder if that’s what I still look like, even four years on.
Get him talking, make a connection, make him see you as a person…
The internal commands rush through my mind. They're what I should be focusing on, but everything in my body screams to just rest, even if it is for just a moment.
“I’m going to wash your hands now.” He places his hand over mine before dabbing my skin and the worst bits of the blood from my knuckles. “You know how to fight.” It isn’t a question. Seems more like a musing to himself.
“I’m a detective. Plus, I make sure I can handle myself.”
“That’s good,” he mumbles, still focused on my hands and cleaning the blood.
The water he rinses the cloth in is now pink, but most of that is from the cuts on Logan’s knuckles, not mine. They're all much more vivid and bloodied than my few defensive wounds.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, watching his face frown. It’s a stupid question, but I can’t stand this pressure.
“You don’t want to know, Red.”
I think back to the fight and what happened after, the anticipation of what someone would do to me while I was lying bound and helpless. Being raped was just the next logical step, but it didn’t happen. It was just a torturous wait to see if it would. My own internal torture.
And who was it? I know it wasn’t Logan. It wasn’t his voice that sent me reeling. “Was it you?” I ask the question already knowing the answer. And what good can come from finding out which one of his thugs he sent in to beat me up? Everything is confused. What I thought was the truth, isn’t, and my mind is having a hard time playing catch up. The priority is to lock my feelings away and deal with them when I’m out of here. Alive, hopefully.
“Was what me?”
“Damn it, Logan.” I rip my hand from his grasp and go to stand, but he blocks me, overpowering me and setting me off balance.
He grabs for my arm, keeping me pressed against his chest. “Careful, Red. Don’t push me. I warned you, the easy way or the hard way. And I’m in just the right fucking mood to show you the hard way.”
“Like you did yesterday?” I hold his gaze and try to read the lies through his eyes, but all I see is pain and anger. Still, we hold eye contact, engaged in our own thoughts or wants or needs, until he abruptly releases me. I stagger backwards to the corner of the room.
"Get some rest, " he mutters.
“What are you playing at, Logan? One minute you’re helping me, the next knocking me unconscious and kidnapping me? Do you get off on rape fantasies as well?” I know I’m taunting him, pressing his buttons, but I can’t cope with this nice-guy routine. Especially when I don't know what side he’s really on.
My words stop him; he waits by the door. Shadows play across his skin and cast valleys and hills across his torso, the open shirt showing more than I need to see. I picture what it would be like to score my nails down his chest, fighting with him on an even footing with my freedom at stake. Or perhaps it’s in a different situation where my hands are on his skin?
"Clean the floor," he murmurs.
And with that, he leaves me with just the confusion of my memories and senses, and the torturous noises from the wall beyond.
* * *
Lying on the dusty mattress on the floor, I wait. Several times I've drifted off with the sounds of shouts and groans echoing through the wall, but it’s been quiet for too long. Eerily quiet, like you know something is coming, but you don’t know what. Emilio Mortoni hasn’t made a sound for a long time.
Logan must have been back in here because there’s a glass of water balanced on the chair seat, along with a sandwich. He didn’t leave it earlier, and the thought of him in the same room, while I've been asleep, leaves me hoping for a way out even more. Thankfully, in some respects, he did leave a bucket for me to use if needed. I need it. It's got to be better than peeing on the floor.
After relieving myself, I collect the glass and place it to my lips, smelling the contents before committing to drinking the liquid. My throat cries in relief as the cool water quenches a thirst I’ve been avoiding. As the drink hits my stomach, it wakes up with an angry growl. Since the first night, I have no real idea of the passage of time. All I do know is that I’ve not eaten since being in Logan’s care. My own joke pulls a slight chuckle from me before I grab the bread and begin to feast on the small morsel. Care? Some kind of care. Tormented. Almost violated. And then looked after and cleaned.
My head wars with the split personality Logan’s displayed. The volatility and violence he showed after Nate’s death, then the mercy, or even kindness. And allowing whatever monster it was to force himself on me, to cut the clothes from my body and then play with my mind? Hell, he could be behind all of this himself, and there isn't anyone else. And now, he’s offering me food and drink. Why?
