Page 42 of Web of Lies
I can't cry.
I haven't cried this whole time. I can't do it now.
“Can I take a shower?” I ask in a whisper without meeting Wyatt's eyes. “I can shake these clothes out and put them back on after.”
“Sure,” Wyatt says. “I'll find you something to change into.”
He leads me to the bathroom, stopping at the hall closet to get a towel and washcloth. I stand there while he turns on the water and adjusts the temperature. He turns back to me and raises a brow. “The door stays open.”
I'm shocked he's not demanding to stay in the room with me, but he doesn't. I should probably be a little worried about the sudden stillness I feel. It feels, in a way, like a kind of numbness. Quiet. I've had big haircuts before. Haircuts that involved lots of brushes, two kinds of scissors, and lots of money. I've felt disappointed after a cut but never this quiet stillness, and I don't think it has anything to do with how the cut happened.
This is real.
I obviously knew it was real when I spent a few eternities in the trunk on the ride over here, but until I saw my picture, my name and description on TV, the fact that I've actually been abducted wasn't reallyreal. Even when they've had me tied to chairs and bed frames I knew, intellectually, that it was real, it's just that seeing myself on the news made it concrete. Maybe I've been in denial because Wyatt and Shaun haven't really been treating me badly.
They have treated me badly, though.
Haven't they?
Locking me in a quilt chest and handcuffing me to the bed is poor treatment. There's no way around that. Keeping me attached to a chair in the living room is mistreatment. I understand that. But neither of them have been unkind. Not really.
I'm not addressing the involuntary feelings that shot through me when Shaun pulled my hair. Those feelings will never see the light of day.
I miss Reagan. I miss her so much. If the situation were different, I can imagine the conversation we'd be having right now about that hair pulling incident. Reagan would probably love Wyatt. She'd like Shaun, too.
I know she doesn't like Adrian.
What is wrong with me? They kidnapped me. I’ve been kidnapped. They are kidnappers.
I yank my shirt over my head and pull off my bralette and then my pants, pulling my panties with them. I should probably care whether or not one of them is in the hallway watching me undress, but I don't. It should also bother me that I don't care whether or not they see me naked. It doesn't. I'm completely unbothered by a whole list of very bothersome things, and that's what should worry me most of all.
The shower curtain is a faded pink color and it makes a strange, inverted ripping sound when I pull it back to step into the tub. My foot is almost touching the porcelain when I remember Wyatt peed in here and I pull my foot back like the tub is on fire.
“Did you wash the tub out after you peed in here?” I yell in the direction of the hallway.
“Be careful, Larken. Don't fall.” Shaun's reply startles me, causing me to jump. He's just outside the bathroom door, leaning against the frame and facing out into the hall. “I washed the tub.” He turns his head slightly, not quite looking over his shoulder but almost. “And the sink. There's soap in there, but no shampoo. You'll have to make due.”
I swallow and step into the tub, pulling and tucking the shower curtain as close to the shower wall as I can. “I'll manage.”
I step under the hot water pouring from the aged shower head and let the spray cover me. I don't know how long I stand there with the water pelting my face, the top of my head, my shoulders, but when I reach up to start really wetting my hair a wave of dizziness has me slapping against the wall and gripping the shower curtain. It feels so similar to how I felt when I would get dizzy after Adrian would give me my medication or food that it takes my breath away and the only thing that keeps me from collapsing into the tub is my hold on the slick plastic curtain. I do slip, though, and a couple of the rings pop off the rod as I drop a few inches and cry out.
Shaun is there before the sound stops coming out of my mouth. He reaches in around the curtain to grasp me under my arms with dry, solid hands, and I stop falling. “I've got you, baby. You're okay. Catch your breath.”
“I slipped,” I whimper, immediately hating the sound of it but I can't help it.
“I know,” he says. He somehow pushes the curtain to the side and pulls me back against his chest. “Are you alright?”
The drops of water collecting and running in rivulets down his arms suddenly draw my attention and I can't look away from them. I watch them create paths across the bright colors inked into the skin of his forearms and it is so completely fascinating and even more soothing.
“I figured as much,” he says softly. “I was worried about that.”
His words part the fog of dizziness, but I'm not sure what he means. “What? What are you worried about?”
“You said you were dizzy.”
Oh. I didn’t realize I said it out loud.
“You're soft.”
