My throat burns. “Mmhm,” I force out.
A female voice cuts through the phone. “Pete, where are you taking me tonight? I want to know if I should look fancy or if we’re ordering in.”
My lungs cramp, realizing that he isn’t working, he’s just choosing to take Tina out on my birthday instead of making sure he’s home to spend it with me. And that’s fine. It’s absolutely fine.
I hang up the phone without saying goodbye, not sure I’ll be able to stop the cutting words from flying off my tongue, and I don’t want to say something I can’t take back.
There’s a throbbing ache in the middle of my stomach, a sickly, green feeling that weighs me down and makes me want to crack.
But I don’t.
Heading up the stairs and to my room, I decide to pack a bag and leave. I have a few thousand dollars in my bank account, and while I’m sure my father won’t be happy, there’s really nothing he can do. He can’t make me stay, after all.
My bedroom is pitch black, the sun having set while I was staring at my cupcake, and I flick on the lamp by my bedside, my eyes snagging on the picture of my mother and me from when I was young.
I wonder if she’s somewhere looking down on us, feeling sad over the fact that she couldn’t stick around. Maybe if she were still here, my dad would be too.
Shaking my head, I ignore the burn radiating from the middle of my chest as I walk to my full-length mirror. My hands run over my pale green dress, smoothing out the wrinkles as I gaze into the glass.
I pick up my hairbrush from the vanity next to me and point to my reflection. “You aren’t a child, Wendy. You are a bad bitch.” Giggling at the phrase, I run the bristles over my hair, repeating the affirmation in my mind.
“I agree, you are most definitely not a child.”
My stomach jumps into my throat, hairbrush dropping to the floor as I meet an icy blue gaze in the mirror. My mouth opens on a sharp inhale, shock at seeing him in my room freezing me in place. He moves quickly, his body pushing against mine until I’m flat against the glass, a knife glinting as he presses it to my face, his gloved palm smacking over my lips and muffling my scream before it can even think of escaping.
“Now, now, Wendy, darling,” he tsks. “None of that.”
My heart slams against my chest, confusion spinning around me like a spider’s web. I’d like to think this is some big, elaborate joke, but the pressure of his hold has dread sneaking up my spine. I watch him in the mirror, strands of his dark hair falling on his forehead, his black trench coat and leather gloves making him look like the angel of death. His blade gleams in the mirror’s reflection, the metal cold as its hooked edge presses into my skin.
Hooked.
My stomach flips and twists, realizing where his nickname comes from.
His free hand wraps around my hair, wrenching my head to the side, his nose skimming along the pale expanse of my neck. “Did you know fear has a scent?”
My nostrils flare as I attempt to breathe, terror pulsing in time to the rapid pace of my heart. There’s a sting from where he pulled my roots, and I focus on the pain to ground me.
“No, I don’t suppose you would.” His mouth turns down. “It’s all to do with pheromones, really. The scent of fear triggers a reaction in the amygdala and hypothalamus. A type of warning, as it were, that humans have long since become numb to recognizing.” He leans back in, inhaling deeply, the tips of his hair tickling my skin.
I try to keep my gaze steady, my body trembling from the adrenaline that’s pumping through my veins, my mind racing as I try to think of a way out of this situation.
Is he going to kill me?
My insides pull tight, eyes burning at the realization that everything I thought I knew about him was a lie. Panic seizes my lungs, my hands shaking as they press against the mirror.
“Your fear smells sweet,” he whispers.
His palm trails down the front of my body, slipping under my dress and cupping between my legs. The fabric of his glove is rough against my sensitive skin, and horror trickles through my veins like a poison, freezing my blood and stalling my heart.
“Tell me, darling…” his voice rumbles in his chest, vibrating through my back and making my hair stand on end. “Was deceiving me always your plan?”
My stomach tenses, tears slipping down my cheeks and trailing over the back of his hand, melting into the leather before it can drip to the floor. I shake my head, my hair matting against his coat. I struggle for breath, wishing he’d release my mouth so I could ask him what the hell he’s talking about.
“I don’t think I believe you.” His palm pushes against my center, and my traitorous clit swells against him. “After all, you’ve always been such a good girl. So incredibly adept at following direction.”
He places a light kiss on my throat before resting his chin at the juncture between my neck and shoulder, smiling at our reflection. “So beautiful,” he says, sliding the flat edge of his knife across my cheek until the tip rests against the bow of my lips. It’s oddly sensual and my breath stutters as I try to maintain a facade of calm against the dichotomy of his actions and his tender touch.
Who is this man?
“Such a shame.” He sighs, dropping the knife from my face, his eyes locking on mine in the mirror. “This will only hurt for a second.”
My brows furrow, my chest seizing when I see a syringe being pulled from his pocket. My body surges into fight-or-flight mode, my heart crashing against my sternum as my hands reach up to grapple against his arms, and then…
Nothing.
26
Wendy
It’s the pounding in my head that wakes me. My lashes flutter, a sharp ache stabbing between my eyes. I try to press my palm against the pain, but my movement is stilted, something clanking when I move.
I pull again, and my body jerks forward before falling back against something hard. My brain is sluggish, like driving out of a storm only to end up in thick fog, but as I start to wake, I realize that I am definitely not lying down. And my arms are stuck.
The thought of opening my eyes fully makes my stomach churn, but still I pry my lids apart one at a time, my face scrunched in preparation for the light.
When my gaze focuses, I realize it’s dark.
Really dark.
Awareness trickles back in, and my heart picks up speed, kicking against my ribs.
I squint my eyes, trying to get my bearings, but it’s hard to focus. Hard to think.
Swallowing, I wince against the scratch of my throat and peel my dry tongue from the roof of my mouth. I try to move my hands again, but they don’t go far, that same clinking noise from earlier reverberating in my ears and off the walls. Glancing down, I can barely make out thick metal shackles clamped around my wrists. My stomach twists, a dose of panic flooding through my veins. I splay my fingers, feeling something cold and hard underneath me.
Okay, Wendy. Everything is okay.
My heart pounds a staccato rhythm as I blink quickly, trying to adjust my vision to see in the dark. But it’s no use. The icy tendrils of fear snake up my spine, coiling like vines around my body and squeezing tighter with every breath. I yank my arms against the chains again, harder this time, causing a sharp ache to shoot down my arm, and a sting to slice through my wrists. Closing my eyes, my head smacks against the cold wall as I try to steady my breathing.