Page 68 of Devious Obsession
The tears stop.
The shaking stops.
I stare at the ceiling—or where I imagine the ceiling to be, since I can’t see a thing—and wait. My body is cold, but I’m caught up in a floating sensation. Like I’m not reallyhere, after all. I’m just watching this happen from far, far away.
When Steele finally reemerges, and the light flickers on, I don’t really notice it. My eyes ache as my pupils retract, but I don’t look away from the spot on the ceiling. It has a crack running through the paint, forking off in different directions. I can see it now, although I had already built the image in my head. I fixate on the cracks. Maybe the ceiling will split and come crashing down on us.
He leans over me, and I flinch when he touches me.
That’s what he wanted, right? To break me?
I think he succeeded.
19
STEELE
Aspen doesn’t respond to me. It’s like she can’t even hear me.
The snake is under the bed, but I ignore it. Its owner will be back to collect it later, and she can find it then.
I unfasten the cuffs around her ankles, tossing away the spreader bar and closing her legs. A shudder moves through her. I undo the gag next. Her teeth have dug into the rubber, indenting it, and she doesn’t open her mouth to release it right away. I touch her cheek and rub my finger along her jaw, coaxing her mouth open. I pull it out, and she wets her lips.
“Fire,” she whispers.
I go cold.
Fuck.
Fuck.
FUCK.
How long has she been trying to say that? How long has she been trying to bail out of this? I untie her wrists and let her cross her arms over her chest.
She’s still not here.
We’re in the extra bedroom. The empty one in the basement that Erik used to sleep in, where there are only high windows—easy enough to block with blackout curtains. It’s noon, but it feels like midnight.
I snatch the blanket from the floor and wrap it around her. I help her into a sitting position, but she’s like a rag doll. She leans against me, her cheek on my arm.
Her eyes are fucking vacant, and a chill settles into my bones.
“Come back,” I say in her ear, like that’s going to make any difference.
It doesn’t.
She blinks slowly, and she draws her legs up. Wraps her arms around her knees. She makes herself as small as possible, a little naked ball.
I pick her up like that, with her trying to curl into a fetal position, and carry her out of the basement. The blanket that covers her—barely—flutters behind me, still half caught on her body. There’s no one home today, I made sure of that. I pass by the couch in the living room, my tablet open to the night-vision-equipped video feed of the basement room.
I waited for her to snap, to struggle. I thought she would fight and scream—but instead, I think I watched her go into a panic attack. And I did nothing about it.
I grit my teeth and carry her upstairs. Her eyes are closed, her breathing shallow and quick. I set her down on the edge of my bed and grab a clean shirt and boxers. I do the shirt first, guiding it over her head and sliding her arms through the sleeves. She doesn’t fight me, or help me, or anything.
Boxers are next. Her skin is cool under my hands as I take each ankle and put them through, then drag the fabric up her legs. I help her stand and pull them the rest of the way up, and she sinks right back down onto the bed.
I guide her back and drag the covers up over her, tucking them in around her body.
