“C-Coming.”
His kind response floats through the door. “I’ll tell them to wait. Don’t rush.”
Tom took me back to his apartment when I landed a couple of days ago. True to his word, Warner has held back the questioning until now. But I can’t hide from it any longer.
When I try to find the strength to stand, my numb limbs fail to respond. I quickly give up on moving. My body needs time to recover from the total paralysis that each terrifying episode always brings.
Finish the job, 768.
“Leave me alone,” I whimper in a tiny, broken voice. “Please… I’m free. I’m safe. Leave me alone!”
I’m not sure how long I continue laying in the shower, curled up into a tight, protective ball while the memory refuses to budge. It’s long enough for my muscles to grow stiff and cold.
With great effort, I manage to turn off the shower then stumble out to locate a towel. My jittery limbs feel weak and useless. These episodes drain me physically and mentally. I’m weaker than a baby right now.
They don’t usually happen in such quick succession. I woke up in a similarly disorientated state in the motel. The frequency of the attacks is undoubtedly a testament to the stress of the past few days.
I have no doubt that seeing a doctor would give me answers to the constant worry of when my brain will attack me next. It’s the warped, terror-fuelled memories of the doctor who assessed us when we were kidnapped that are holding me back.
After arriving at the warehouse, we were individually dragged from our cages and shoved into a makeshift clinicalroom to have our measurements taken. That’s how they confirmed that Gracie was a virgin.
I can’t contemplate even seeing a doctor without sweat breaking out on my skin. My body tightens and prickles with panic just skirting the edges of those dark memories.
While they didn’t have to do that horrific test on me, being stripped bare and weighed like a prime steak was harrowing. I never want to experience that again. Free or not.
By the time I’ve shakily dried off, pulled on jeans and braided my wet hair, my extremities feel more stable. My head still feels like it’s stuffed full of cotton wool, but I can play that off.
Another knock on the door rings out, interrupting my spiralling thoughts. I clear my throat to call back.
“I’m coming now.”
And another knock.
Huffing, I throw the door open. “I said I’m com…”
Shoulders wider than a sprawling mountain range steal my words. Rather than Tom’s worried face and signature pressed shirt, I’m staring between the carved pectorals of a glaring giant.
“Oh.”
“I’ve been waiting downstairs for an hour.” Hyland’s barrel chest vibrates with his low rumble. “What is taking so long?”
Neck craning so I can look into his olive-green orbs, my snarky retort dies in my throat. He’s sporting a brilliant shiner, his face and left eye socket blackened by a huge bruise.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“I could say the same about you.” He folds his arms over his barrel-like chest. “Who takes that long to shower and dress?”
Mentally burying the truth, I shrug it off. “I asked first.”
“Axel,” he replies shortly.
“He… punched you?”
Hand braced on the doorframe, Hyland scales his gaze over me from head to toe. “You look pale.”
“No, I don’t.”
“What’s wrong?”
