Taken by Lies (Truth or Lies 1)

He was real. He is very, very real. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be trapped in this fucking, gorgeous beach house. I shouldn’t complain. I’m being treated better than I have ever been treated in my entire life. And that includes before I was kidnapped.

My father had nothing. And my mother died when I was little, leaving behind a legacy of hospital bills for us to spend our entire life paying off.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t know what my future holds. When I was living with my father in his trailer, I knew what my life would entail. I would live in the trailer with him, and clean yachts for a living. Until one day the debt collectors would come and demand more from me. And then I would sell my body to pay the bills. I knew my destiny, and it didn’t look bright. It wouldn’t include school or a career or a husband and kids. My life outlook was bleak, so I never dreamed.

And then I was kidnapped, and my future changed. I no longer worked to put food on the table. I was lucky to get a scrap of bread on that yacht. I knew what my future was. Death.

But now that I’m trapped in a house on the beach, I have no idea what my future holds. I can guess…rape, beatings, death. Maybe a little bit of everything I thought my future held before. But if my future here does include those things, it will be behind the glow of the modern walls of this beach house. It’s too pretty for anyone to think anything heinous happens here.

And Enzo… I have no clue what to think about that man. He’s dark, dangerous, and powerful. I should be scared of him. He’s worse than any master who could ever own me. Killed more men than an army. But he hasn’t hurt me. He specifically said he would never touch me. Never.

But then why am I trapped here?

Why keep me?

Isn’t that the question? One I’m afraid I will never get an answer to.

A light tapping rattles on the door. It’s Dr. Miranda. She’s been overseeing my progress these last few weeks. And when I say overseeing, I mean overseeing. She’s never touched me, not even to place an IV. She did convince me to use one for the first week to increase my strength and nutrition without overwhelming my stomach. But instead of inserting it herself, she taught me how.

“Come in,” I say, knowing she will stand outside my door all day and never enter until I give her permission.

The door creaks open as Dr. Miranda pokes her head inside.

She smiles at me sweetly when she sees me sitting in my usual corner of the room on the floor. She doesn’t berate me or tell me my bones would heal easier in the bed. She also never asks how I’m doing—realizing that even if I’m doing better, I’m still in a dangerous place and that isn’t an encouraging question to ask.

Instead, she sits cross-legged on the floor in front of me.

“How many hours did you sleep last night?”

“Three or four.”

She nods, showing no reaction to my answer. She never does.

“Still getting nightmares?”

“Yes, I woke up three times from them and after the last one, I just decided to stay awake.” I went from sleeping twenty-four hours a day from exhaustion to only sleeping three. My body doesn’t know how to react. So I go from one polar extreme to the next.

“Have you been able to keep food down?”

“Yes.”

She never asks how much I’ve been eating. I eat enough, but not as much as she’d like, I’m sure.

“How is walking?”

“Still difficult, but the swelling in my foot has gone down.”

“Would you like to show me?”

I bring my foot out from beneath me and show her. She nods at the progress.

“How is your pain overall?”

“Manageable.”

Miranda looks to my bottle of painkillers that have been sitting on the nightstand. I haven’t taken a single one. Not because I enjoy the pain, but because I’m afraid they will knock my frail body out. It’s one of the reasons I don’t sleep well either.

“Would you like me to prescribe you something to help you sleep?”