Page 69 of Mad Love

My back throbbed as I slowly got out of the shower, thankful it was one I could walk into without having to step over the edge of a tub. Every movement pulled at my aching muscles. Hell, the first time the water from the shower hit my back, my legs had almost buckled, but I was sick of lying in bed and needed to wash away some of the memories of Gary’s attack. The feel of strange hands pinning me down.

A shudder rolled down my spine, and I gritted my teeth against the pain. I focused on using the towel to gently dry every part of me except my back. Padding to the large mirror hanging over the double sinks, I leaned forward and wiped away some of the condensation to see my reflection. My eye wasn’t swollen shut anymore, and I had actually been able to chew the soft-boiled potatoes in my dinner. The bruising was still nasty, but it was nothing compared to the rest of me.

I took a deep breath before turning around to get a look at the worst of the damage.

The bruises on my back looked even worse than when they’d been inflicted, a mottled mess of black, purple, and blue that looked like Monet’s blind understudy had haphazardly slapped colors across my skin from the top of my shoulders down to my thighs. The welts, which had swelled up and pulled my skin impossibly tight, had finally started to subside. The belt Gary had used had broken my skin in only a few places, and ultimately the only injury that had needed stitches was the stab wound.

The good news was I’d have maybe a few small scars when I was done healing, but right now, when I moved, it still felt like my back had been doused in gasoline and set on fire.

I gently peeled away the waterproof bandage Mrs. Delancey had insisted on when I’d adamantly said I wanted a shower.

She was the only person who checked on me. She brought me meals and pain medication, but never the one thing I really wanted: a phone.

Tonight, as she’d set my dinner and next dose of meds on the table near my bed, she’d hesitated and studied me, and I’d hoped she was considering letting me make a call. Unless she relented, I was trapped. My door was always locked now, keeping me prisoner.

I tossed the used bandage into the trash can near the toilet and took a deep breath, readying myself to get dressed.

It took a pathetically long time, and I was out of breath once I finished pulling on my shirt. The fabric grazed my back, and I grimaced as I looked in the mirror and wondered how I’d brush my hair. Washing it had taken an eternity, and I’d skipped conditioner.

I grabbed the brush from the top drawer of the cabinet built into the sinks and trudged through my room to my bed, prepared to sit on the edge and untangle every knot in my hair. At least it was clean now.

I was a few feet from the foot of the bed when the whole house shook. The windows rattled hard enough to make me yelp. For a second, I wondered if it was an earthquake, but we weren’t in California. Shouts sounded from outside, and I turned to see a massive fireball arcing up over the trees behind the house.

“Oh, my God,” I whispered, changing my course and stumbling to the window. I pressed my hands to the glass and stared, mouth gaping, as the floodlights around the back of the property showed Gary’s men converging in the backyard.

In the darkness, it was hard to make out much beyond the glow of the fire and the men arguing about what to do.

The fire didn’t seem to be growing, the snow likely hindering it from catching hold of the trees and burning everything to the ground.

Pity.

I turned away, my face twisted with annoyance at how much easier this would be if the house caught fire and Gary burned alive.

With my luck, everyone else would get out of the house, and the only one becoming human barbeque would be me.

I sat on the edge of my bed and slowly worked on the tangles in my hair, focusing on breathing through the pain that throbbed in my bones with every movement. Tears burned the backs of my eyes, but I kept going, determined to finish before I lay down and slept.

Sleeping was all I did. There was nothing else to occupy my time, and it was the only reprieve I had from this living nightmare.

I finished and moved to set my brush aside, dropping it to the floor by accident. I glared at it, like the brush had jumped from my fingers onto the floor all by itself, while contemplating picking it up or kicking it under the bed because I was freaking exhausted.

Something scratched frantically at the lock in my door, and a second later, Mrs. Delancey stumbled in. Her usually neat hair was askew, and her eyes seemed wild as she searched the room before her gaze landed on me.

“Thank God,” she whispered, quickly closing the door and fumbling with the key to lock it again. “We have to hurry.”

“Hurry?” I echoed, curiosity and caution warring inside me. “What’s going on?”

She pointed a trembling finger toward the window. “The fire.”

I frowned. “It’s snowing. The fire won’t be able to burn through—”

“No!” she snapped, losing her composure. “There are men coming. Men with guns.”

As if to confirm her suspicions, I heard the eerily familiar pop-pop of gunfire. Living where I had near Detroit, I was no stranger to the sound. It sent icy chills skittering across my nerves, goosebumps erupting on my skin from toes to fingers.

Mrs. Delancey screamed, dropping to her knees like the bullets were going to come zinging into the room.

My eyes went wide. “Ryan.”

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