Chapter Two
We entered a cozy room with multi-colored rugs and an old, comfy looking couch decorated with pillows and throws. A well-worn armchair sat near a lit fireplace, the moving flames decorating the walls with dancing shadows. The comforting smell of home-cooked meals lingered in combination with another musty odor, common to cabins occupied only on occasion.
He handed me a sports-sized water bottle and pointed toward a narrow hallway to the left. “Your room is the second door on the right. Do you think you can make it?"
"Yes," I snapped.
"There’s a bag of clothes on the bed. The bathroom has clean towels on the shelf.” I didn’t move. “Go on, kid. No one will bother you. Just don’t try to run away. There’s really nowhere to go and we need to talk.”
I took a couple of swigs from the water bottle, but stayed where I was. He smiled and tried to sound reassuring. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to make you something to eat and then explain everything. Go ahead.” He gave my shoulder a squeeze and turned away, heading for the small kitchen to the right, opening the fridge and getting out a few bags.
Stumbling through the door he’d indicated, I locked it behind me and forced my shaky body to move into the small bathroom. After locking that door, I stripped and showered, my need to wash away the blood and warm up under the hot water taking precedence over my fear. It was important to see where I was injured and clean any wounds. The hot water felt like heaven, and I scrubbed my body hard, getting every bit of the blood and mud out of my hair and off my skin. The soap and shampoo worked their magic, and as I dried with a large towel I sighed with relief. I smelled human again.
Unwrapping the towel, I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the steamy bathroom and examined myself. Strangely, not one cut or scrape marred my skin, not even a bruise. Even more alarming, the scars that had marked my body after my attack two and a half years ago had disappeared as well.
Car doors slamming.
Two sets of feet rushing toward me.
“Where are you running, sweetheart?”
A rag shoved in my mouth.
A hand stroking my hair.
“So pretty.”
My knees gave out and I sat down hard on the closed toilet seat. I covered my face with my hands and forced air into my lungs. When I finally stopped trembling, I visualized pushing the dark memory back into its box, the way I always coped with that particular horror. I rubbed my arms, tightening them around my body in a feeble attempt to banish the ghosts that still seemed to haunt me.
And there were plenty of them to banish. Raised within the state foster care system, I was passed from family to family, never really fitting in anywhere. I’d heard the labels: Troublemaker, Disruptive, Self Destructive, the list went on. Sometimes I was all those things. Mostly I was lonely and angry.
At my various schools, I'd become pretty good at short-term friendships, but I moved around too often to hold onto even one. To survive, I threw my energy into schoolwork, getting good grades and even skipping ahead. But in most of my foster homes, I’d felt out of place and unwanted, unable to trust the adults who always sent me away without giving me the time I needed to adjust. I’d never lived in one place long enough to have a chance at a normal life.
The familiar feelings of hurt and rage began to build in my gut as tears ran down my cheeks. I jumped up and paced the room, scanning it for a way out, my spirit aching for a run. The window was large enough, but I wasn’t an idiot. The kidnapper had left me alone and unguarded, so the cabin must be in a very remote area. If I ran, he’d follow me and bring me back. Maybe tie me up. And I still wasn’t at my best. I needed food.
Grunting in frustration, I slapped my hand against the window frame hard, not minding the sting. I was never one to wallow in a pity party, but this day really sucked, even more than usual. No matter how crappy my life had been, I wasn't ready to die. I'd be seventeen in a few days, if I lived that long. I could still go to college. Maybe turn my life around.
The guy playing house in the other room said he wasn't going to hurt me, but could I believe him? I wiped away the last few tears and blew my nose with bath tissue.
Enough.
On the bed was a shopping bag containing clothes in all the right sizes. I was surprised to see that this was quality stuff, made of good fabrics, not discount store merchandise. Reluctantly, I dressed. My shirt and jeans were no longer usable and I wasn’t about to stay wrapped up in a stupid towel. In a smaller bag were other items: toothpaste, a toothbrush, hairbrush, deodorant and more. Guess he figured I was sticking around for a while. I returned to the bathroom and brushed my hair and teeth, then scowled at the mirror.
I am such a jerk.
Grunting, I pulled my hair roughly back into its usual ponytail, finding some comfort in the familiar action. I peered closely at my puffy red eyes to see if my pupils were dilated from the drug he’d given me. They looked normal, and other than my raging hunger, I was feeling okay again.
I straightened my body to its full 5'9" and did a few stretches, just in case I caught a break. I ran often—it was how I dealt with the memories and the day to-day-pain, flushing away the rage and the loneliness with every stride. It was just me and the road, and I liked it that way. Sometimes a cruel comment or unfair situation had me lacing up my sneakers and racing out the door without telling anyone where I was going, escaping before my rage could reach the boiling point and turn dangerous. At least that was my fear. That a part of me could lose control and do serious damage.
But on the road, my body moved in a perfect rhythm, strong and powerful—and fast. Freakishly fast. So fast I had to hide the truth from everyone. I'd timed myself running on secluded roads where no one would see me.
I looked toward the door to the hallway, remembering the cold ground and the fear and the nausea. Maybe doing some damage wouldn’t be so bad in this particular instance. Could this guy really catch me? He had long legs—that’s for sure—and he looked fit. The thought of getting caught sent shivers through my bones. He was quick and quiet. And what if he had a gun?
I jumped at the two raps on the door. I hadn't heard him walking down the narrow hallway. My hearing was usually great. How did he do that?
“Kid, I made you something to eat. You need to get your strength back. It’s been over a day since you’ve eaten.” I listened for his retreating steps but heard nothing but the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing in the kitchen.
Wait, did he say over a day? Was it Monday night? Maggie and Justin must be so worried. Knowing them, they probably already had the town turned upside down with search teams out in force and my face already on milk cartons. If only there was some way to let them know where I was and that I wasn’t hurt.
The odor of food reminded me that I needed to eat to get my strength back. I stood, reached for the doorknob and froze. Decision time: run or stay. Something in my gut told me if the man had wanted to kill me he would have done it already.
I sniffed, my mouth beginning to water. It smelled like steak.
My empty stomach took over command, forcing my brain to send out orders to turn the knob. I peeked down the hallway toward the kitchen, brushing a few loose strands of hair out of my face and grimacing with resolve. Maybe I could somehow convince him to let me go. I’d talked myself out of tough situations before. I was actually pretty good at it. Tonight I'd need all my skills.
I smiled on the inside, my confidence building. I could always run away later, while he was asleep.
Rebirth - Book 1 Rogues Shifter Series Page 2
