Then she stayed awake most of the night, trying to rationalize, trying to figure things out in her head. She thought about her childhood, her teens, about her life now, about what she wanted from her life tomorrow. She thought about all the things she’d pushed aside and ignored for years. Everything was pain, everything except Tristan. She had an aching need for him and it hurt so bad. Why? Why was she craving her captor? That man was a monster who could be a monster but who could also be the man of her dreams.
The romantic looks, the touch and sensations, the idea of someplace safe and warm. It was a safety and warmth she’d never ever felt before. Feeling like a stray chained up in the pound she wondered if he could be her forever home.
Not likely; what if I finally got my prince but I fucked it up by running?
She laughed aloud. Some prince. A prince who’d take sex, take blood, lock her in a room, chain her to the bed, who’d push his own rage into her veins to be sure she felt it, and who’d leave her for days to punish her. But the looks, the touches, the emotion… Gah! Where would they be right then if she hadn’t run?
And would she be feeling this if she’d gotten away or was it just because she was chained to his bed in his room, surrounded by his scent? Consuming her blood had let him inside her in a way that was more intimate than she could fathom and she knew that the addiction he talked about was mutual.
For the four nights in a row she cried herself to sleep without him and during the day she stared mindlessly at the TV. She took two or three showers a day to break up the boredom but she felt like she was deep in a pit of despair. On the third night she could’ve sworn he was there as she bolted awake, smelling warm caramel but not seeing him. She went back to sleep feeling like she’d been gutted.
A junkie for her blood? Hah.
Clearly she was more of a junkie than he was, though, because he was staying away and she felt like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin rather than be a prisoner inside this body and never feel him touch her again.
Were those blood tests back yet? What would happen next, especially now that he so obviously hated her? He’d said it was done, she was his. Would she just waste away in this room, being cared for by his minions?
Sam seemed like the caring one. Joe, the broody angry one. They came into her room 3-4 times a day, always together, to check on her and bring her food and drinks. Joe occasionally made comments and his expression was always cold. Sam seemed more brotherly, looking at her with concern. Neither came within 2 feet of her, though, other than to drop something on the bed or beside the bed. It was as if she was in an invisible protective bubble.
Sam had tried, several times, to coax her to eat. She drank water and juice and had a few sips of crummy-tasting coffee but kept refusing food. She had a few sips of smoothies or protein shakes or whatever they were when he insisted but never finished them. The headache was agonizing and it was almost constant.
As it got dark on night four Sam put another stack of clean clothes on the bookshelf beside the bed and tried to talk her into eating some soup. She just kept her eyes closed.
He got impatient for the first time and his voice got angry, “I’d force feed you if he’d allow it!” Then he stormed out.
That night she woke up screaming. She was drenched with sweat and had no idea what she was afraid of but she could smell him. Where was he? Was she hallucinating? Was this the equivalent of some junkie detoxing? DT’s?
“Tristan? She asked. Was he in the room? There was no answer.
“Tristan!” she screamed as loud as she could, frantically looking around the dark room to see if he was there. He wasn’t. Her veins were pinching hard and her skin felt wrong, off, like stuff was crawling on it, in it. She started scratching up and down her arms and legs roughly, trying to make the sensation go away. She crawled over to the other side of the bed where the sheets weren’t soaked with sweat and collapsed into the pillow, sobbing, shivering. She felt hollow. She lay there for hours just staring into the darkness, teeth occasionally chattering, feeling like she was empty inside.
Kyla woke up on the fifth morning, startled as she heard noise in the room. She figured it was another useless breakfast tray coming in but then she caught a sweet aroma in her nostrils, stronger than last night. She sat up. Tristan was coming out of the bathroom. He was dressed in a burgundy dress shirt and jeans. He looked freshly showered, with damp hair. He was gorgeous, heart-stoppingly gorgeous and her heart did seem to stop for a beat. She wanted to reach out and grab him and hang on tight. But she said nothing. She watched him walk closer. He wasn’t looking at her. Her heart started to pump harder and faster. Her bottom lip started to tremble but she did everything she could to stop her emotions from rushing out.