Page 21 of The Freedom in Captivity

“Yet, you’re talking to me.”

He turns his head, those addictive light brown eyes finding mine. “Because I don’t care about having a shot, so I’m not jealous. If you haven’t noticed,” he gestures to the smoking pit where a dozen other students still mingle, chatting with one another, “I don’t really like people. I get the sense, you don’t either, so I appreciate that about you.”

“Except I’m people.”

His lips purse and he studies a passing moving truck, which turns down the next road, into the nearby neighbourhood. When it’s gone from sight, he finally answers, “Are you? People are assholes and I’ve spent three days watching you, to know you’re not.”

My face heats. My fingers slip from the bench’s edging and seek for something else to grasp onto that isn’t my emotions quickly escaping my tightly wound form. He speaks so…so brashly. It’s refreshing and a welcome difference from Mom and Dad’s carefully structured statements.

“Maybe I haven’t gotten the chance to be an asshole yet.”

“Then let me give you that chance and we’ll see who’s right.”

Did he just…? He grins and shoves to his feet, his hand held out toward me. An offer of friendship, I believe. If I take it, I have a person here. A connection. To deny him would prove I am an asshole, that I am the “people” he speaks of.

I take his hand.

His touch brandishes my skin, ignites a flame around my neck, inches from the base of the chain he’s left on me. The chain digs into my shoulders, and I’m sure there’s a bruise now, but a simple swipe of his fingers feel so fucking good, I’m on the verge of admitting how pleasurable it is with a moan. How it takes away the weight of the chain.

Wait. Chain? What happened to the bench we were sitting on?

My eyes fly open. The basement is dark, but even so, the outline of his figure is so bright, those very eyes I was just dreaming about slicing through the dimness. He studies me like he can read me, and I hope not, or else he’d know that somewhere amongst the pain in my thigh, the sleepiness, my lack of energy, and the bleakness of being here, my mind travelled back to the first time I found peace.

Meeting Flynn.

“Wake up.”

I jerk my head to the side. Or, as far as the chain will allow me to go.

“What?” Speaking makes my throat even more dry. It’s only been a day without water, and I know from my father’s inhumane practice, the body can go for multiple days. Forcing my throat to work only worsens it.

Silently, Flynn reaches behind him and returns with a plastic cup, which he shoves at my lips. He tips it and I eagerly drink, cursing how it’s nowhere near enough. Considering Flynn hasn’t turned on a light, I get the sense, he won’t be remaining. Which means no bathroom breaks, which means being dehydrated is safer.

When the cup moves away, something round and cool lands on my lips. I part them, not even caring what he shoves between them.

“Chew.”

I do, biting through the round object, tasting the familiar flavours of a green grape. Wow, fruit. Healthy food. He must really be trying to keep me alive. He feeds me grape after grape and I try to count them, but hunger wins out, and I’m too focused on chewing than counting.

When I finish, his shadow moves away. His steps are heavy up the stairs and the door slamming shut behind him seems louder than usual.

I’m alone again, but it’s okay. Gives my brain a chance to return to a happier time.

* * *

Flynn returns later that evening—I think it’s evening. He doesn’t make a sound as he unclasps my chain and walks me up the stairs and out into the mansion’s comforting warmth. The light seems brighter, painfully so, after sitting in the dark for so many hours.

He interrupted another trip down memory lane. A few trips, actually. The first one occurred on the same day we met, when I had gone home at the end of the day and Mom asked me her usual question about how school was.

Every day prior, I shrugged her off and disappeared into my bedroom.

That day:“It was good.”

“You’re smiling.” She watches me stride down the hallway and into the kitchen, where I pour myself a glass of orange juice. “After three days, has it gotten better?”

Facing the fridge, I hide my grin. Meeting Flynn has made the idea of returning tomorrow more pleasant. “Yes. I think I have a friend.” A term to appease Mom, but I doubt Flynn would refer to me as such after one day.

After lunch, we went to math class together, and I felt his eyes penetrating my back the entire class. Between periods, he trailed behind me to my locker but didn’t stop to talk. Waggled his brows, grinned, and disappeared toward the gym. At the end of the day, he stopped by my locker, this time to say, “Don’t let them scare you off because I’d miss your smile. See you tomorrow, Rozelyn.”

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