Page 24 of Bound to a Killer
Each thud of his boots has my stomach rolling. Bile accumulating.
I can’t look.
Seconds later, I flinch at the feel of a cool, wet cloth, and in a panic, my eyes flutter back open with a startled yelp.
His large hand lays the fabric flat over my forehead as he shushes me. “Keep still; you have a fever.”
Wordlessly, I sink deeper into the pillow behind my head as I watch him through the haze coating my eyes. I observe his head splitting into two, and then joining together again in dismay when he goes to wring out the cloth over the bucket next to him.
After placing it back on my forehead, he reaches for a transparent plastic kit from somewhere between his feet, a red cross drawn at the center of it.
I’m about to ask what he’s doing when he inches to sit on the edge of the bed, but a jolt of smoldering pain sears through my knee when he reaches for it, forcing a few strained whimpers from my scratchy throat.
I instinctively try to retract my leg from his grasp, but I’m too weak.
He holds it firmly in place as his other hand inches the unfamiliar sweatpants that match the hoodie higher until it exposes my lightly bandaged knee. Carefully, he partially unwraps it to reveal a mean-looking scab, and turns to lift a tiny tube out of the first-aid case.
I watch him uncap it with confusion.
Tending to an injured knee is not something a person who’s planning on killing you does. It makes no sense.
Using his ring finger, he gently dabs the ointment over it, but despite being delicate, it still burns like hell.
I screw my eyes shut, sucking in my bottom lip to distract myself until he’s done wrapping the white gauze back over the injury.
He should be scheming up some cruel punishment to beat me down with. Teach me a lesson for foolishly attempting to flee. Anything but his tender caresses that only confuse me more.
His hand drifts higher on my leg, causing my breath to hitch, but they quickly lift away once they skim my hip.
Instead, he brings them to my hairline, brushing back a rogue strand of damp hair before adjusting the cloth on my forehead. There’s no trace of anger in his placid expression, only thoughtful care.
It baffles me. Then enrages me.
I don’t want to lower my guard in front of the person whokidnapped me, who committed one of the vilest offenses humanly imaginable.
He can’t be trusted.
No amount of tenderness will ever erase what he is.
A killer.
I push up on my elbows, doing my best to contain the nausea wreathing in my stomach, but I can hardly push through the pain splintering my head. I wince before going cross-eyed again.
“Effects of the chloroform,” he says, picking the damp cloth up from my lap and tossing it into the tin bucket. “It’ll take a few hours to clear your system. Until then, you’re going to feel a bit...unsteady.”
“A bit?” I parrot with a sarcastic rasp that I didn’t know I had in me.
I think I catch his lips curve slightly, but it’s wiped off his face before I’m even sure I saw it. He busies himself with readjusting the contents of the first aid kit before snapping it shut. “You’ve got a sense of humor, I see.”
He pulls to a stand, then moves across the room to put the supplies back where he found them. My eyes follow his steps, waiting for him to say something else, anything. I need some form of clarity, even though the pressure drilling into my head makes it nearly impossible to process anything around me.
Once he’s stashed both items in their designated spot, he wheels around to what I can only describe as a makeshift kitchen nook, which essentially encompasses a rusted, enamel-chipped fridge that lacks the usual hum of a functioning appliance, and a stained porcelain sink, crusted with years of grime at the spout.
He yanks the fridge open, and as I expect, it doesn’t light up, but still, he fishes something out of it.
A white, plastic bag crinkles in his grasp, followed by awater bottle in his other hand. He swings the door shut with a raised knee.
“Thirsty?” he asks over his shoulder as he places the bag on a modest little table wedged right at the far corner near the front door.
