And there was no escape with water as her new prison and me as her new jailer.
I’m sorry for what I’m about to do to you, Pim.
But you’re mine now.
MY FIRST THOUGHT was of water and drinking and thirst.
My second thought was pain.
Pain.
Pain.
My hands flew up to hug my mouth. I wanted to cradle my butchered tongue. But someone grabbed my wrist, keeping me restrained.
“Ah, no touching. You need to keep all foreign items—including unwashed fingers—away from the wound.”
My eyes widened as I blinked into focus a man with shaggy ginger-red hair. His eyes were the first I’d seen in so long that didn’t harbour sin or evil sickness. His handsome face was normal. He was normal. Not an ogre or troll.
He isn’t Mr. Prest.
Where am I?
My gaze drifted down his doctor’s gown, searching for a nametag.
Nothing.
Not even a stethoscope around his neck or a thermometer peeking from his breast pocket. The only thing marring his clinical uniform was a horrendous splash of blood right over his chest.
He followed my glance. “Yes, you, eh, threw up on the operating table before I could administer anaesthetic.” He frowned. “Do you remember the events leading up to now?”
Wait, did Mr. Prest drop me off at a hospital?
Am I free?
My heart bounced in a cheerleading outfit to celebrate.
Taking my wrist, he counted my pulse, not looking at the bruises or rope-bracelets I’d long since grown used to. “You’ll feel a bit sluggish over the next few hours, but I’ll keep your pain managed with morphine. If you feel any discomfort, let me know, and I’ll do my best to help.”
Discomfort?
He thought whatever drugs he pumped into the IV piercing the back of my hand muted the agony?
He’s obviously never had a partially severed tongue before.
The sensation was worse than any boot or fist. Stranger than any abuse I’d suffered. The muscle was swollen and thick and so different to what a tongue should feel like.
Inhaling through my nose, I instructed the damaged thing to move. I winced in agony as pulls of pressure from the sharp knots of stitches hit me hard.
Will it ever be more than a useless lump in my mouth?
Am I a bona fide mute, after all?
He stood watching, shifting uncomfortably as the silence lingered. Once again, my power over quietness prevailed. I found sanctuary in the pause; I could live in its peace forever.
The only man who turned silence against me was Mr. Prest.
And he’s not here.
I didn’t know why my pulse quickened with anticipation then slowed with a thread of disappointment.
Why is he not here?
The doctor cleared his throat. “My name is Andrew Michaels. I’m the onboard surgeon. I oversee the small medical team here on the Phantom.”
Onboard? So I’m not at a hospital? Not…free?
Instead of worrying about my captivity, I focused on the name that’d sprung up before.
What is Phantom?
I stared harder into his eyes, ignoring the padding wedged beneath my chin to catch any drool and the awful steady throb in my mouth.
Not noticing my mute request for more information, Michaels stepped around my recovery bed and pulled open a drawer to my right by the IV.
His hand disappeared inside, yanking free a pad of paper with the crest of some smoky ghostly design. His fingers vanished again; rustling sounded, followed by the appearance of a pen. Holding both, he turned to me then awkwardly tried to place them in my possession.
I didn’t move.
Not because my body ached and cried for all the abuse it’d suffered, but because I honestly didn’t remember how to accept a gift that wasn’t going to hurt me the moment I reached for it.
“This is so you can talk. I’m sure you have questions.” He tried again to pass me the notepad and pen.
I gritted my teeth, amplifying my swollen tongue. The sensation was foreign and so, so wrong. The tickle of stitches itched my palate as I swallowed a rank metallic taste of old blood.
I shuddered.
A panic attack billowed just out of calming distance…a tempest growing with forked lightning and gales.
My soul grew claustrophobic, as if it could shed this old carcass and find a newer, less broken one. I felt dirty and used and useless and not just because I hadn’t showered in forever. The past few years clung to me even though Master A was dead.
The memory jolted me.
He’s dead.
I killed him.
The quickly forming panic attack paused, swirling with knowledge that I’d finally won. I hadn’t had to die to be free of him.
He died.
Goosebumps careened down my spine as I remembered the heavy squeeze of the trigger and the splash of red. If I was strong enough to kill the man who’d done this to me, then I was strong enough to remain brave and figure out what this new future meant.
Wait…
A new memory superseded the murder—something about an ocean and a boat and him. Mr. Prest.