Page 64 of Hunter's Revenge

“Hello.” My voice is heavy with despair and helplessness.

A guard with a machine gun steps up to the door, showing himself before he closes it as if to extinguish any bright ideas I might have of trying to escape.

The lady pushes the trolly to the desk before she turns to face me with a warmth in her expression I find irritating given the situation. How can she look so calm and comfortable, as if everything is fine?

It reminds me of when my grandfather was dying in the hospital and the doctors sent out a chirpy little nurse who kept trying to cheer us up.

I hated it, and I hate this now—whatever this is. This woman works for Malik, and she knows I’m being held captive here, so she can’t be good.

“I’m Jeanne.” She presses a hand to her heart. “I take care of the house, and I’ll be taking care of you.”

I think carefully before I answer. “If you want to take care of me, let me go. Let me go home.”

Suffice to say, the warmth disappears from her face at my reply. Discomfort replaces any former emotion as she brings her hands together.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why? Did he tell you to keep me locked up in here?” I sound furious. I am. But I’m also terrified and clutching at anything I think will get me out of here, including what I think looks like pity in this stranger’s eyes.

“I’ve brought you some lunch and a few other snacks, as you didn’t have breakfast.” She ignores my question and the pity fades from her eyes.

I stare back at her with a deadpan expression, unable to believe that anyone could sanction this craziness.

“If you require any more food, just knock on the door. There will be a guard down the corridor who will help you.” More meaningless information.

When she moves away from the trolley to leave me, I panic and rush toward her, grabbing her arm.

“Please, don’t leave me in here.” I hate to beg, but I realize it might be all I can do to save myself. “You have to help me. I have a grandmother who’s in a nursing home. She needs me. Please, we’re all each other has.”

More pity returns to her eyes, and she pats my hand. The gesture feels genuine, and for a split second, I almost believe she might help me. But then she shakes her head as if she read my mind.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. All I can do for you right now is bring you food and tell you it would be best for you to comply.”

My hands drop from hers like steel weights are attached to it, and the tightness in my body grows, making my skin feel as if it’s going to snap.

Without another word, she walks away, opens the door, and departs. Although my instinct to flee is telling me to run, one sight of the guard holding the machine gun keeps me rooted to the spot.

I know he’s not there to kill me. Malik needs me alive, so the guard isn’t there to shoot me down like an animal, but there are worse punishments than death.

The door closes. And I hate, hate, hate it when I hear that dreadful click of the key turning in the lock.

Blowing out a ragged breath, I sink back to the floor in utter despair.

What am I going to do?

I’ve had to ask myself that question so many times over this past month that my brain is tired of hearing it.

And I’m tired.

I’m so damn tired. How much can one person take in such a short space of time?

I pull in several deep breaths to clear my head and gather myself. I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not ever. I don’t have such a luxury.

No matter what, I have to escape this house somehow, someway.

The only way I can do that is by taking things one step at a time.

That might start with eating.

---