He clicked off that screen. He wasn’t interested in watching an old man grunt and rut as he tore into a young virgin. Many were, though. He could practically feel the excitement of all those faceless strangers emanating through the monitor.
Yes, perhaps he’d assist them in getting free after all. If he could. In the meantime, however, if they were going to stay alive, they’d need to eat more than bread and water.
He assumed the man who’d rented Noelle had sent the treats of peaches and butter earlier. A preemptive thank-you for whatever entertainment they were about to offer.
How generous.
Perhaps he was also hoping the peach juice would still be on Noelle’s skin, making her that much sweeter.
The Collector clicked on a series of keys, spending what would equate to someone else’s mortgage payment to order them each something special.
And this time, the gift came without strings. For now anyway.
CHAPTER SIX
The door slid open with a soft thud. Evan startled, moving toward the side of his cage closest to Noelle’s. The same man, dressed all in black and wearing red shoes, who had taken Noelle out of this room now accompanied her back in. Evan’s eyes were glued to her as she was walked to her cage and roughly pushed inside. The man locked the door and left without a word.
His breath emerged in a gusty tremor. He’d sat there alone for what felt like a hundred years, wondering if they’d bring her back at all. She’d been rented, and though he was pretty sure he could figure out what that meant, he couldn’t be positive.
I’m a virgin, she’d said, telling him her assumption about what was about to happen to her was the same as his.
He’d sat there, stretching his fingers wide and then curling them into a fist, wondering what she’d paid for the fact that he currently possessed each one of them. He wouldn’t disrespect her with a thank-you. God, she’d hate him even more if he did.
Noelle slumped down on the opposite side of her container, facing him. Her expression had been blank when she reentered the room, but now it crumpled into a grimace.
He didn’t know what to say. Are you okay? hung on his lips, but he could see she was not. “What did they do to you, Noelle?” he asked softly. He had to know. They were in this together now, whether they liked it or not.
Her eyes opened, jarring him. The pain he saw there was raw. Palpable. “He . . . some man, whoever he was . . . raped me. He wore a mask. I couldn’t see his face.”
Fuck. While I just sat here, she was . . . He pressed his forehead on the bars, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. She was clearly distressed, but he was grateful that she’d been straightforward. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry. I should have—”
“No,” she said. “Don’t.” Her voice was raspy, and it made him wonder if she’d screamed, which made him want to do the same. He felt it rising in his chest like a tidal wave, and he swallowed it back with effort. He would not make this about him. He watched her. That fire he’d seen in her eyes the day before hadn’t returned, but he saw a spark. Tiny but there. Flickering. For just a moment. “I survived it. I’m here. And now, I need you to turn around and make some noise so I can clean myself up.”
Noise. She wanted noise for privacy. Maybe to disguise the sound of whatever she was doing to clean herself, maybe so she could cry. He turned, looking for something to create noise with, but his cage contained nothing. Okay, his voice, then. What did he know by heart that he could recite? His heart beat swiftly. She had asked for something simple, and he was quickly failing. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of the lyrics to one song, which was interesting considering he liked music and always had something playing in his car. But in that moment of stress, the only songs that crowded his mind were the children’s songs his mother had once sung to him, still imprinted on his brain all these long years later. What a strange thing, considering his mom had lost interest in him years ago.
“If all the little raindrops were lemon drops and lollipops,” he sang. Behind him he heard her doing something, but he couldn’t tell what over the sound of his own voice. But she’d started moving, he knew that. “Oh, if all the little raindrops were lemon drops and lollipops. Oh, what a rain that would be.” He tapped his foot to the tune to provide her more cover. “Standing outside with my mouth open wide, singing la la la la, la la la, la la la, la la la, la la la la, la la la, la la la, la.”
Finally, after several stanzas, he sensed her lack of movement, and his voice quieted. “Decent?” he asked, and when he got no answer, he turned slowly. She was curled up on the floor of her cage, eyes closed. He released a sigh, lying down in his own crate and staring at her as a tear rolled slowly down her face. His chest tightened, and he turned his hand, sliding it through the bars and reaching for her. At the sound, her eyes came open, and she stared at his open palm. For a moment he was sure she wouldn’t reach back. Why should she? She hated him. But then she brought her hand from beneath her head and fit it between the bars. They weren’t close enough to hold hands comfortably but close enough that he could wrap his index and middle fingers around hers, forming a link. She tightened her grip, joining him in the silent statement he’d made by offering his hand: We need each other now. Nothing else matters.