Page 26 of Bound to a Killer
Just for a moment, I let myself believe it’ll be okay. Pretend. Even though I don’t know how it can ever be after today.
“Shh, it’s okay.”
His thumb grazes under my jaw like I’m made of molten glass; too much pressure and I’ll shatter. I hate the comfort it gives me. Hate that it’s coming from him.
My chest tightens as my eyes fight to stay open. Through the haze clouding my vision, I can still make out the sharp lines of his face. He’s beautiful. Undeniably so.
How can I still think that after knowing what he’s done?
There’s a monster curled behind those captivating gray eyes. I can’t forget that. I won’t. Even if they’re deceptively gentle in this moment. Some of the deadliest things in nature are.
But his touch is warm. His whispers low. Almost kind.
The fever must be getting to my head. That has to be it. Because I swear, I almost catch an unguarded flicker of humanity in his eyes. Or maybe it’s just my desperation convincing me it’s there. Either way, I stop fighting.
Foolishly, my stomach flutters as I hold his gaze, searching for the meaning behind it.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, his voice soft, his eyes contemplative.
Genuine.
They say a person's eyes are a window to their soul. Somehow, in this moment, I believe them.
9
ARIA
My shoulder blades ache as I slump to my side, contorting inward into a fetal position with my arms still bound behind my back. I yearn to reach out and stretch to ease some of the tension, but even the slightest shift makes my muscles cry out against the restraints, so I just lie still and watch the cabin door, resigned.
Sunlight shines through the grime-streaked window to the left, and I squint against its miniature frame, bracing myself for the moment I catch him walking back. I hadn’t realized I slept through an entire day until I stirred this morning from the clatter of a metal bucket swinging in his hand as he took it outside to empty. Without plumbing, I assume we’ll have to resort to filling and emptying buckets whenever either of us needs to relieve ourselves.
Mortification washes over me at the thought of needing to use that thing. The idea of him dumping out my urine is somehow more humiliating than having to go between the forest trees. At least that had some semblance of dignity since I didn’t need to be cleaned after as if I were an infant or anotherperson’s property, which is very much how I’m beginning to feel.
I wince against the light. The splitting pain from yesterday has eased after the lengthy rest, but a dull throb still persists behind my eyes. When I spot his blurry shadow move closer through the streak-clouded glass, I stiffen, my stomach churning as I compose myself.
Seconds later, the door swings open and snowflakes whirl in heaps around him, drifting forward to scatter across the worn floorboards as a gust of cold air sweeps inside. The fire crackles inches behind me. My new clothes, large and weighty, feel like a warm blanket wrapped over me, protecting me from the outside breeze. Yet another thing I’m hesitant to be grateful for.
Nothing good can possibly come from someone like him. Not without a sinister motive behind it.
He steps inside and shuts the door with a firm hand. A soft creak, then a click, sharp and final. The same metal bucket hangs from his hand again. “Great, you’re up.”
A tinge of self-consciousness colors my cheeks when his eyes flick over the length of my body, and I realize he’s probably the one who dressed me while I was unconscious. The feeling of embarrassment is quickly replaced with bitter animosity at the way my pulse jumps in response to him, still unable to separate the man I thought I knew from the one that’s now tied to acts far more vile than simply being an asshole.
Disgust floods me as I remind myself of what he’s done. His expression remains passive. Empty. None of this means anything to him besides an obvious inconvenience, and now I’m at the mercy of a completely deranged psychopath. My heart continues to thump.
If he isn’t planning on killing me, then what is he going to do with me?
He can’t keep me locked away here forever. I’m a person, notan object for his own sick amusement. I shoot him a glare, but there’s nothing I can do to challenge him in my current state. Each time I wrench against the ropes, they bite deeper into my wrists, pulling at my already aching shoulders. By the end of it, I’m drained of fight, left with nothing to do but endure the onslaught of emotions drumming into me as I helplessly lie here.
It’d be easier if he just hurt me. At least then I’d know where we stand, how likely I am to make it out of here still alive. But instead, all I get is a meticulously crafted facade and empty assurances that everything will be fine.
But everything is not fine. It’s far from fine.
I might never get to see anybody from my previous life again. A painful swell rises in my throat, and I struggle to swallow it down. I never thought I’d end up missing anything from my miserable life, but my chest constricts at the loss of everything that’s been taken away from me.
Even my own mother, who spent years subconsciously drilling into me how little I matter to her. Thinking of her now stirs up complicated feelings of homesickness and sorrow. If anything, she might be a little relieved once she finds out I’m gone. That way, she won’t have to face the guilt I always placed on her whenever we clashed.
As he approaches me with a steady stride, my posture shifts, and I use all of my core strength to try and sit upright. My stomach growls in the process.
