I expect to hear the door close, but it stays open.
And the man I thought was coming in? It’s not him. It’s not Carter.
Thump, thump. My heart slams hard in my chest as Jase takes a step inside. Still the door stays open and my eyes have to glance at what’s beyond it.
A hallway and nothing discernable, but I know it’s freedom. That barely ajar door leads to freedom.
“Now don’t make me regret this.” The deep voice seems to echo in the small room and I swallow thickly. It’s only when my throat stings and I feel as if I could choke that I realize how dry my throat is.
“Jase?” I chance a word and it makes the man smile. I remember him from the night I was taken. That’s what Carter called him. He put the rag to my mouth. He’s one of them.
He gives me a sexy lopsided grin that should frighten me. But instead, his charming looks put me at ease. He must be younger than Carter. His eyes are softer. But I remember them all too well, for the wrong reasons.
“You remember me?” he asks me and takes a step forward, grabbing the chair that Carter uses. He’s just as tall as Carter, but leaner and in only a white t-shirt and faded jeans, he looks less threatening.
But looks are deceiving.
My lips part to speak, but I can’t get out a word. A million questions are running through my head.
Why are you here? Where’s Carter?
Are you going to let me go?
I can only nod.
“You’re looking a little on the rough side,” he says and then his voice drifts off as he looks behind him. I follow his gaze to the open door, but quickly my sights are back on his and the chair in his hand that scratches along the concrete. Turning it backward, he sits on it. As if he’s deliberately acting casual.
He is. This is a setup for something. In my head, my words are strong and demanding, but when forced out they sound weak and desperate.
“What do you want?” I swallow, and this time the scratchy sensation in my throat is almost soothed. But the pain in my chest grows with every thump in my heart.
Jase breathes in deep and turns to look back over his shoulder, toward my freedom, and then points to it with his thumb. “He doesn’t seem to be taking care of you, is he?”
Thump. Another thump.
“Is this a trick?” My question is meager at best.
Jase’s chuckle comes from deep in his chest and his smile widens, showing his perfect teeth.
He shakes his head. “No tricks. I just know he can be stubborn and sometimes he gets in his own way.” He’s being far too kind. There isn’t an ounce of me that trusts him.
My gaze falls to my feet. My dirty feet and scraped knees. And then to my nails, the dirt beneath my fingers that doesn’t seem to leave.
My teeth dig into my lower lip to keep me from spilling all the desperate pleas begging me to come up, but it hurts. “What does he want?”
“You.” Jase’s voice is soft and at ease. As if the answer was simple.
“What about me?” For the first time, my voice is as strong as I imagine it would be.
Resting an elbow on the back of the chair, Jase places his chin in his hand and considers me. He parts his lips but then closes his mouth.
“Just tell me,” I beg him.
“I don’t know. This…” Jase trails off, then clears his throat and looks away from me for a moment before looking me back in the eyes to continue, “isn’t something he does.”
“This?” I ask sarcastically, and like a madwoman, a grin forms on my face and I swear I could laugh. “Which part of this?” I dare to spit back at him. And for the first time since Jase has walked in here, pure fear pricks down my spine at the sight of his expression.
That cold, heartless look in his eyes is there and gone just as quickly as it came.
He stares ahead of him, at the cinder block wall and ignores me for a moment. I almost speak but I don’t know what to say. And even if I asked the questions that keep me up at night, Jase wouldn’t know the answers.
Mindlessly, I pick under my nails. Maybe if I begged him, he’d let me go. The huff of a genuine, but sarcastic laugh gets Jase’s attention. I can feel his eyes on me, but I don’t look up until he speaks.
“Carter said to buy you a drawing pad. But I thought maybe you’d want something else as well?”
“Sleeping pills,” I answer him without thinking twice. I’m hungry, but more than that, I need to sleep. “It’s hard to sleep in here.”
When I peek up at him, Jase is looking at me like I’m trying to fool him and that thumping in my chest beats harder and faster. “I need to sleep,” I beg him. “I take them at home. That or wine some nights. Please, I’m not trying to drug anyone or OD or anything. I just need to sleep, please.” My voice cracks and that pathetic feeling that plagued me only moments before he walked through the door comes rushing back to me, hard. It nearly makes me bury my head between my knees with shame.
“I just want to sleep,” I plead.
“Sleeping pills… any particular brand?” Jase’s question eases the anxiety slightly.
Composing myself as best as I can, I brush my hair behind my ear and answer him, “I’ve tried a lot of them. There’s a pink box at the drugstore. I forget the name,” I say then close my eyes tight, trying to remember it. Trying to picture the box that sits on my nightstand.
They open quickly at the sound of the chair scratching on the floor.
But Jase is just leaning back, grabbing his cell phone and typing into it.
“Do you want anything else?”
“Tarot cards,” I blurt out without really thinking and the expression on Jase’s face tells me that I’m being stupid or naïve or weird. I don’t know. I mean, even if I am losing my mind I do realize it’s an odd thing to ask for. “I’ve been bored out of my mind and I like to think with them. It’s just something I like.” With each sentence, my words come out softer.
Every day I read my cards. The damn things didn’t tell me this was coming though.
“Maybe clothes?” Jase asks me, giving me a pointed look and my cheeks flame with embarrassment.
“Clothes would be nice.” I haven’t thought much about my actual clothes; I know I’m dirty and covered in filth. The only place I’ve sat or slept is on this tiny mattress and I know I smell.
“I could use a lot of things–”
Jase cuts me off. “I’ll get you some toiletries and you know… those things.”
I nod my head, swallowing down every bit of humiliation that threatens to consume me.
“You’re very nice for a prison guard,” I tell him although I stare straight ahead at the empty corner of the room.
He huffs a short, humorless laugh and asks, “Food?”
“Carter said he has to be the one to feed me,” I answer Jase immediately and then close my eyes as my empty stomach tightens with pain. I should have eaten before. I have to be smart. But how many times have I told myself that, only to end up in the same place with no change?
“That sounds like something he would say.”
Everything hurts at this moment. My body from exhaustion, my heart from hopelessness. Starvation is only third on my list.
“What else would Carter say?” I ask him, just to continue talking. To get to know him. To make him feel like I want him to stay. My heart flickers with the hope that he may hold the key to me leaving.
“Carter would say he’s sorry it had to be this way.” I’d laugh at Jase’s words if they didn’t hurt me the way they do.
“I don’t think I believe that,” I nearly whisper.
“He never wanted any of this,” Jase tells me. “He was only a kid when everything escalated, and it was kill or be killed.” The silence stretches as I imagine a younger version of Carter, one who hadn’t been hardened by hate and death.
“You always have a choice,” I manage to speak, although I find it ironic as I sit in this cell, without a single choice of my own.
“It’s a
nice thought, isn’t it?” Jase offers. There’s no sarcasm, no sense of anger or sadness. Only matter-of-fact words.
“I’d like to leave this room,” I tell him although it comes out a question. As Jase nods, hope rises inside of me.
“It will happen,” Jase says. “I know it will.”
“Would you let me go outside at least? Or by a window for some fresh air?” Jase tilts his head and narrows his eyes as if to ask me if I think he’s stupid.
“I promise I wouldn’t run or anything like that. I swear.” My throat tightens as he considers me.
“I’ll see what I can do,” is all he says to my racing heart. But it’s something. It’s a tiny piece of hope.
“Why are you being nice to me?” I stare into his dark eyes, willing him to answer me but inside, I hope for a lie. I want him to tell me everything is going to be okay. That he’s going to get me out of here. But it’s all wishful thinking.
“I’m not a nice guy, Aria, so get that out of your head.” He stands abruptly and then looks back at me as he opens the door wider, so he can leave.
My blood pounds in my ears at the sight of the wide open door, with Jase’s figure blocking it. His shadow fades into the darkness of the room.
Smart. I repeat it over again. Be smart.
Now is not the time. Be his friend. The thought hisses and I listen. He could help me. He could have mercy on me where Carter doesn’t.
“I’m just following Carter’s orders.”
I only nod once and force myself to look elsewhere. Anywhere but toward the false sense of freedom beyond the door. He’ll be back. Next time I’ll be more prepared.
And with that, I’m left alone again.
Chapter Fifteen
Carter
Three hours have passed, and each hour she’s more and more comfortable.
She hasn’t stopped drawing since Jase left the cell. And I haven’t taken my eyes off of her. There’s only one camera in the room and without being able to zoom in, it’s hard to see her features.
A pile of clothes and her blanket are neatly stacked and folded on the bed. But she stays on the floor, scribbling away. One page after another as if she’s obsessed and unable to stop.
I need to know what she’s writing down. Especially if it’s some sort of account of what’s happened in the last few days. A message, maybe? Maybe it has something to do with why she screams in her sleep nearly every night.
Unease creeps up my spine at the memories. I’m not surprised the first thing she asked for were sleeping pills. I can’t fucking sleep anymore either. Every other night, she cries out in terror and it’s only getting worse.
I thought things would change after the other day.
Another paper flies across the floor, but before its fluttering has even stopped, she’s already sketching on the page that was beneath it.
Change is necessary. Even if I have to force it.
The walk from my office to the cell takes too fucking long. My fists clench tighter and my heart beats faster as I get closer.
I keep the door open and leave the chair where it is this time.
As she scoots back onto her ass and away from the piles of paper to get away from me as I approach, I lower myself to them, crouching down and picking up the closest one.
There are still a few feet between us, but the expression on Aria’s face is of complete fear. Not the defiance I’ve grown to expect.
“Caught you off guard?” I ask her, cocking a brow. Maybe she thinks I’ve come to steal her gifts, or maybe the lack of food reminds her of what happened the other night. I know she ate every bit of that tray Jase gave her with her new possessions earlier today.
I wonder if she thinks it’s a secret he kept from me.
“You look scared,” I add when she doesn’t answer my initial question. Her doe eyes are wide, and the colors stir with so much thought and curiosity.
She doesn’t answer me. She looks like she isn’t even breathing as her eyes glance from the paper in my hand to the open door.
“Don’t think about running, Aria. I don’t want to have to take these away the second you got them.”
Slowly, her chest rises and falls. Her stiff body loosens although she stays back. With her head lowered, she only peeks up at me. It’s an interesting difference, the way she looks at me compared to my brother. I fucking hate it. But fear and control are everything. One day Jase will see that.
With my jaw hardened at the thought, I look down at the paper before turning it over in my hand to see what she’s drawn. It’s upside down at first and it takes me a moment to realize that.
It’s drawn with pen, but it’s beautiful. Fine little lines and sketches that depict a bleeding heart with three knives stabbed through it. The background is a storm and the ink smears only add to the emotion clearly evident on the paper. Although the knives seem to pierce through the heart easily, the rain behind it is so violent, it detracts from the knives a little.
“What is this?” I ask her without looking at her. I know she’s looking at me; I can feel her careful gaze. She doesn’t like to look at me when I’m looking at her. Although it’s a habit I need to break, I’m more concerned with getting answers than obedience.
“The three of swords,” she answers in a small voice and it beckons me to look back at her. For a moment we share a gaze, but then she drops it, focusing on the paper in my hands.
“One of your tarot cards?” I ask her and then straighten the paper in my hand, noticing how it resembles a card.
“Yes. Jase said he bought me a deck online but until they arrive I thought I would draw them myself.”
I consider her for a moment. Of everything she could ask for, of everything she could be doing at this moment, this is what she chose. “Why?”
“I like to think about things and it helps me.” She nervously picks at the edge of her dirty shirt where a thread has come undone. “It’s been lonely, and I haven’t been able to think of anything new. It was just something…” her voice trails off and she takes in a shuddering breath. Weeks of doing absolutely nothing but living with your demons would haunt and break the strongest of minds. But she’s survived.
“Do your clothes not fit?”
“They do, I just get dirty doing this. So, I thought…” she pauses to take in a short breath and then another. “I just wanted to take care of this, and then I’d planned to change and try to clean myself up.”
Nodding, I hand the paper back to her asking, “What does it mean?”
She’s hesitant to reach out and take it, but when she does, her fingers trace the edges of the knives. “The three of swords represents rejection, loneliness, heartbreak…” Her words aren’t saddened by the information, merely matter-of-fact.
I wonder if she’s lying. If the one card that she’s drawn I happened to pick up, would really mean those things or if she’s toying with me. She could be trying to weaken my resolve by gaining sympathy. It will never happen.
“But yours was reversed,” she says, and it cuts through my thoughts of her intention.
“And what does that mean?” I ask her, expecting her to spit back that I’m the one causing it all. For her to blame all of this on me. And in so many ways it is my fault, but she’s to blame as well and she doesn’t even know it.
“Forgiveness,” she whispers the word and then slowly inches closer to pick up each of the fallen papers, dozens of them, gathering them together and avoiding me at all costs.
The word resonates for a moment, lingering in the space between us and striking something deep inside of me.
My blood pressure rises as my eyes search her face for an indication as to what she’s getting at. But she doesn’t look at me and her body seems to cower more with each passing second.
The moment passes, and she neatly arranges the stack in front of her and still doesn’t look up at me.
Stubborn girl. The familiar tic in my jaw begins to contract as I wait another moment. And then another before
she looks up at me through her thick lashes. Instead of seeing disinterest, resentment, or whatever I was expecting, all I see is the unspoken plea for me to let her have this small bit of happiness.
But nothing in this life is free. And she should know better than that.
“When I come in here, I want you to kneel for me.”
She flinches as she realizes what I’ve said and as her head lowers, the dip in her collarbone seems to deepen to a level that sickens me.
She’s resistant to obeying, but she needs to understand. There is an expectation both of us need to meet. And what’s been done can’t be taken back. That’s not an option. “I admire your strength. I do.” I talk with her eyes on my back as I stalk to the metal chair at the far wall. I debate on leaving it there and giving her space. But that intention is quickly forgotten.
Picking up the chair, I take it back to where she’s still seated, shaking her head as her shoulders hunch in.
“You keep saying I’m strong and I have to admit I don’t get your humor.” I’m taken aback by the severity of her tone and the venom that veils each syllable as she speaks. She offers me a smile that wavers and then adds, “Did you let him give it all to me so you could simply take it away?” Maybe the small taste of what used to be and what she could so easily have is what she needed to remember her defiance and ignite the spark between us again.
I’d love for her to fight me, but I’ll only allow it after she submits.
“I’ll do as I see fit,” I answer simply, and she refuses to look back at me, her fingers tracing each of the papers. “All you have to do is obey me and I’ll give you everything you need.”
“I’d rather die.” Her hazel eyes simmer with indignation as she waits for my answer. “You can have it back.”
I take my time, sitting on the chair in front of her. Towering over her small frame, I lean forward and speak calmly. “My songbird, it’s one thing to have the balls to say that. I respect it. But it’s another to go through with it. You’ve already obeyed twice. And I didn’t ask much, did I?”
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