Rough fingers wrap around my chin, and I’m forced to look up into his eyes, hatred staring back at me. “It’s time for you to shower.”
“Why?”
“You have an appointment.”
I frown. “With a doctor?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You ask too many questions.” He shoves me toward the door.
I trip on the sheet that’s wrapped around me, barely managing to catch myself before I face-plant on the floor.
That would really be the icing on this cake.
If I were lucky, I’d give myself a concussion.
Those can be deadly if they’re not treated, right?
I’m marched down the hallway, hungry eyes taking in my state of undress as I clutch the sheet to me tighter.
There was a part of me that felt secure in the knowledge that Orion would stop at nothing to find me, but no matter how badly he wanted to keep me safe, death is the one thing that will stop him from saving me.
Cain leads me past the bathroom I’ve used the last couple of days, and a part of me is relieved by that. The shower looked disgusting, and I would have caught something for sure.
Instead, he shoves me into a bedroom and points to a door on the other side. “You have five minutes before I come in and do it for you, and I promise you won’t like that,” he grunts, the intention in his words making dread skitter across my skin. He nods to a pile of clothes on the bedside table. “Put those on.”
He disappears before I can ask any follow-up question, which is probably a good thing considering how irritated he was by my last set.
I nibble at my bottom lip as I look around.
The double bed in the center of the room has been slept in recently, the sheet rumpled and the blankets askew. There’s a bedside table with nothing but a lamp and the pile of clothes Cain pointed out, but not much of anything else.
Nothing I can use as a weapon, which I guess isn’t a surprise.
Lucas knows better than most how resourceful I am, and he would have been careful not to leave anything I could use against them.
I sigh and cross to the bathroom, relieved when it’s relatively clean and smells faintly of bleach. At least I won’t live the rest of my life with a fungal infection.
That’s something, I guess.
I drop the sheet and have the quickest shower of my life.
My body longs to stay beneath the warm spray, especially given how consistently cold I’ve been, but I don’t want Cain making good on his promise.
I shut the water off, dry myself, and quickly dress in the yoga pants and oversized T-shirt, trying to ignore the lack of bra or panties in the pile.
Once I’m finished, and Cain hasn’t returned, I move back into the bathroom and look through the cupboard for something, anything, I might be able to use in an emergency, careful not to knock over the bottles and make a noise.
If they catch me snooping, I’m fucked.
I’m about to give up when my fingers brush over a piece of tape beneath the shelf, my stomach rolling with something that feels oddly like hope.
The cool metal nicks my finger, and I gasp, tugging it back to see a drop of red pooling on the pad.
A razor blade.
