Page 31 of Taking

The scent of eggs and toast wafted my way—and I scooted off the bed without another thought than filling the emptiness in my stomach.

No utensils—but I didn’t care. I shoveled that shit into my mouth with my fingers, zero trace of manners in mind, not giving two shits that I hadn’t washed my hands after peeing earlier.

Warm eggs, scrambled and cooked to perfection. Lightly buttered toast, the perfect amount of crunch—exactly how I liked it.

Tea.

Chamomile freaking tea.

My throat swelled, even as a tingle slid down my spine over the slap of truth. He’d been watching me long enough to know it was my drink of choice.

I let the mug sit, still steaming, while I sucked down the water and wiped out the meal he’d left for me.

My stomach ached from scarfing down the food, but I took the tea in my trembling hands and sat once more against the headboard. My knees were drawn up, T-shirt stretched out and over them to my ankles.

He’d fed me—he intended to keep me alive.

Hopefulness once more rose inside my breast, and I clung to the flutter in my belly, telling myself I could face Lloyd again when the time came. I would eat every bit of food my captor brought me in preparation to fight. I would feign being broken in submission to draw Lloyd close—and I would find a way to hurt him. To show him he would never control me and he would never have me again.

Breathing out a heavy exhale, I examined my room.

Log walls like I’d felt with my fingertips, the lone chair with the empty tray, and the bed I sat upon. One light with its blinding bulb hung overhead.

And a small camera up in the far corner faced toward me.

Even when not in the room with me, he watched.

Of course he did.

Hours passed, at least what felt like it, while I sat in silence, sipping my cooling tea. My mind was full of more questions than answers. Without a window, I had no way to tell time, but it wouldn’t have mattered.

I had nothing to do but wait and try to not overthink my situation or put myself into a panic. While powerless over my circumstances, I could manage myself.

My bladder and bowels, however, had a mind of their own, but my captor didn’t return for the tray.

It felt silly to knock on my locked door, but what choice did I have? Leave a puddle and a pile of shit in the corner like a desperate puppy?

I knocked. “Hello?”

No answer, no sound came from whatever lay outside my room.

“Hello?” I hollered and faced the camera, my palm hitting the oak door rather than my knuckles. “I need to use the bathroom again!”

Still nothing.

Did he want me shitting on the floor?

I lifted my hand, ready to scream—and the door jerked open.

He loomed over me, the mask black and scary as fuck—more so than the blade held beneath my nose.

“Bathroom,” I demanded, shivering under the gaze of the mesh-covered eyes I swore devoured me.

Grasping my upper arm to the point of bruising, he once more half-dragged me across a small, open-concept room with log walls like the bedroom where he kept me.

Two windows flanked a front door, both showing a swirl of white, a shed a short ways away, and nothing else.

It still snowed.

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