Page 26 of Pretty Stolen Dolls

A shudder ripples through me and he slaps the table, startling me.

“There, Jade. Right there. Talk.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

“I, uh…I freaked because…” I trail off and blink away the tears fighting for release. “The dolls. My abductor used to make dolls. He even sold them at the flea market. It’s how he lured us into his van that day.”

Dillon doesn’t speak, but his jaw ticks as he clenches his teeth and those molten chocolate eyes flare with fury, causing amber licks to spark that weren’t apparent earlier.

“I saw the dolls and I was there. I was back in the cell with him. His body was…” I choke on my words, “His breath…oh, Jesus.”

“Sick fuck,” Dillon growls.

Benny orme?

The screech of the door closing behind him startles me awake. My cell is pitch black and he doesn’t turn on any lights to break the darkness hovering in the dead of night, but I can feel his presence. Deep, ragged breaths echo around me. Sitting up on the mattress, I squint, trying to adjust my eyes through the inky veil.

“What do you want from me?” I hiss, careful not to wake my sister.

He sits on the bed beside me, his heat scorching the air between us, and I cower away from him. When his hand snatches my bicep and hauls me to him, I cry out despite wanting to be quiet.

He had just killed another girl. I didn’t watch this time, but their faces are phantoms in my head, their screams echo in my dreamless mind at night.

She wasn’t right, he’d chanted while butchering her. I couldn’t block out her screams and gurgles as she drowned in her own life essence.

Four girls had come and left via the spirit world and my inner voice always asked why he kept us.

But he did.

He kept us locked away.

Apart from each other and lonely for affection.

Starved of comfort and connections.

“She wasn’t right. Not pretty enough close up and she lied. Why do they lie about their age? She wasn’t twenty-one, her license said nineteen. Why lie?” he asks me, but I don’t think he wants an answer. He never has in the past.

His hands vibrate as he rubs them down his jean clad thighs. He’s shirtless, like normal, and blood clings to his skin, making him look like a wicked piece of art.

“Why do you keep us?” I find the words leaving my mouth before I can think. My sleepy state has left me bold.

When his head turns to look down at me, I gulp and try not to wilt under his gaze.

“You,” he says simply.

“Me?”

“I keep you.” His hand cups my cheek and my chest restricts me from inhaling air.

His body surrounds mine, sucking the oxygen from the room, from my lungs.

This is new.

“You’re the prettiest doll I’ve ever seen.” His breath hits my face with a puff of heat.

Pretty?

He usually calls me the dirty doll.

Never pretty.

---