Page 35 of The Freedom in Captivity

Being stripped naked and chained to the ceiling puts one’s life in perspective and raises questions.

The first of which: wondering how many days in total have passed. How much longer is it best to remain silent before admitting what the Corsettis want to know? How much longer will Flynn and I survive each other?

Because that’s what this feels like. A combat for control. Of him and me fighting a battle that the Corsettis and my father aren’t a part of. He gained a captive, but what he actually found was a piece of his past, one he clearly pushed away. Now I’m back, maybe reminding him of a different time, one he isn’t interested in recalling.

Tipping my head, I look at the scar on my palm. Ask me a month ago, if my plan would have been to get in good with the Corsetti enforcer, and my answer would have been a no. But now, it feels like a chance. A chance I have no idea what I want to do with. If I could leave here with my life, a plan to get Yasmine to safety, my father in captivity, and a band-aid on mine and Flynn’s past, then I’ve done more than I originally planned on.

Yasmine.Finally thinking her name after days down here, weeks without seeing her, is a hit to my heart. She’s been firmly tucked into further parts of my mind because I know thinking about my younger sister will make my plan explode. I’ll fuck up my own strategies for the sake of her safety, and right now, if I continue to play it right, she and I will both be freed from our father.

So for now, I shove Yasmine into the back of my mind again and shift on the balls of my feet. A numbing sensation coursing through my arms, already sore from being chained above my head.

I sigh. I should be more disgusted by Flynn’s actions than I am, and maybe it’s wrong to be rationalizing what he’s done. I should be at least angry at him, but I’m not. That’d be a normal response; one expectant of someone in my position, but not one I’m apparently experiencing.

The animalistic look in Flynn’s eyes should have been terrifying, especially backed by his actions. The knife, the cuts, his finger in my pussy. He never stated it, but I think he came down here with plans of more.

Is it wrong to say I wouldn’t have stopped him either? Wouldn’t have fought him. Would have happily re-experienced that part of him. My attraction to Flynn hasn’t dissipated over the years, clearly.

He’s accusing me of lying back then, and now; that my present actions aren’t real, and I’d like to believe that. But they’re not. They’re realer than anything I’ve felt in a long time.

Love—that’s a thing of the past.

But a connection…that still exists. He’s feeling it too or else whatever fucked-up situation we just lived through wouldn’t have happened.

Question is, which one of us will break first?

With another long sigh, I lean in one direction, resting my exhausted head on my arm, knowing it won’t be long before I shift again. When my side goes numb and my arm gets sore from the weight pulling on it, I’ll have to move.

Morning better come quickly.

* * *

Idon’t sleep.MaybeI doze off for minutes at a time, but that’s it. My feet ache from being poised on cement all day. My thigh is burning again, and I wonder if they’d give me any pain meds. Apparently standing upright isn’t preferred by the injury. Even my neck muscles, which I roll every couple minutes, are tender.

Yet, when the light turns on and Flynn’s telltale boots come into sight, my body is vitalized again, enough that I can straighten and attempt to cling to a meager amount of dignity.

I wonder which version of him I’ll be getting today. The wonder is only for a moment because when he comes into sight, it’s with a dead gaze again. A mask. A sneer.

But when I spot a shirt hanging from his hand, I nearly cry.

He stops in front of me, his eyes flicking over my face. “You’re a mess.”

“Yes.” My voice is hoarse from lack of water and usage in the hours passing since he left me. “That’s what happens when my tormentor strips me, slices at my skin, and leaves me hanging by my wrists after days of darkness and limited visitations.” Saying all this feels like I’m admitting my struggles. “I’m fucking weak, Flynn. But that’s your goal.” Then again, maybe he deserves to know exactly how I’m affected.

From his pocket, he digs out a key, and when he lifts it to one of the cuffs, tears become a real possibility. The moment that wrist is freed and falls to my side, my entire body decompresses. Turns out, there are natural positions for the human body and that wasn’t one of them.

Flynn undoes my other one, and this time, instead of just my arm falling to my side, my entire body does too. I land on my knees with a pained thump, exhaustionreallyhitting then. The cold, cement ground, probably disease-riddled too, has never seemed better than this instance. My shoulders slowly meld back into place and my head lowers, my body curling in on itself. Despite death hovering over me, the craving of sleep immediately creeps covers my vision, only banished when large, firm hands reach down and slip beneath my arms.

“No.” It comes out as a pathetic mewl I hate myself for. There’s admitting I’m in pain, and then there’s showing it in such a way. But he’s winning. “No,” I repeat, head lolling as he lifts me up again, my feet dragging on the cement, all my weight on his hands.

“You don’t look so good.” His words don’t have the usual hardness in them. I’d like to think it’s pity, but it could be exhaustion making me delirious.

Yeah,” I agree again. “That’s what happens when you leave someone hanging all night.”

“It was only three hours.”

Only? It felt longer.

His arm goes around my waist, taking my entire weight, and my head falls into his chest, smelling clean soap, not caring that I shouldn’t be seeking comfort from the very person who is causing me pain.

---