Chapter 7
Ema's
For one very long second, we simply stared at each other. Neither of us moved, and neither of us spoke. The bathroom was small and felt even smaller with him standing so close. His eyes were dark and completely unreadable, like looking into a deep well where the bottom was hidden in shadow. My own eyes were wide with shock. My heart hammered against my ribs so hard it was actually painful. I felt a strange mix of fear and something else—a feeling I didn't have a name for yet, and it confused me.
His arm was still wrapped tightly around my waist from the moment he had caught me. It felt solid and incredibly warm against my skin. He was holding me in place, preventing me from falling, but it felt like more than that. It felt like he was holding onto something that belonged to him. I was frozen in his grip, my breath coming in short, uneven hitches.
Then, without saying a single word, he moved. He didn't let go of me. Instead, he adjusted his grip and lifted me straight up into the air.
My feet left the cold tile floor instantly. I let out a sharp gasp of surprise. Without thinking, my hands flew up to his shoulders to steady myself. My fingers dug into his bare skin. He felt like he was made of stone—hard and unyielding.
He carried me out of the bathroom as if I weighed nothing at all. We went through the small doorway and down the short, dimly lit hall. He wasn't being rough with me, but he wasn't being particularly gentle either. He moved with a sense of absolute certainty. It was the way a person moves when they have already decided exactly what is going to happen next. It was as if my presence in his arms was a settled fact that didn't need any explanation.
He walked into the middle of the bedroom and set me down. My bare feet touched the cool wood of the floorboards, and I felt a shiver run up my legs. The moment my feet were steady, he stepped back. He didn't look at me. He didn't say goodbye. He simply turned around and walked out of the room. I heard the door click shut behind him, followed by the sound of the lock sliding into place.
I stood there all alone in the center of the room. My clothes were still damp from the water I had started in the shower. I felt a cold chill settle over me, but my heart was still beating fast. I couldn't wrap my head around what had just happened. One minute he was growling at me like a wild animal, and the next, he was holding me as if I actually mattered to him.
None of it made any sense. My legs started to shake again, and I felt like I might collapse if I didn't sit down. I wrapped my arms around my chest, trying to keep myself from trembling. I forced myself to move. I walked back into the bathroom to finish what I had started. I needed to get clean. I needed to feel like myself again, even if it was only for a few minutes.
The shower knob made a loud, rusty squeak when I turned it. I waited for the water to get hot, and then I stepped under the spray. At first, I didn't even take my clothes off. I just stood there with my head down. The hot water poured over me, soaking through my fabric. My shirt clung to my skin like a second layer, and my skirt felt heavy and sodden against my legs. I just wanted to feel the heat.
After a few minutes, I slowly began to peel the wet clothes off my body. It was hard to do because the fabric stuck to my skin. I dropped the dirty, ruined school clothes onto the floor in a heap. I picked up the soap and started to scrub.
I scrubbed my arms, my legs, and my chest. I tried to wash away the fear that seemed to be stuck in my pores. I tried to wash away the memory of the bruises on my arms and the feeling of his large hand wrapped around my throat. I wanted to be clean of everything that had happened since I left school.
But it didn't work. The fear stayed right where it was, deep inside my chest. As the water hit my face, I noticed it running pink at my feet. It was the blood from my split lip and the cut on the back of my head finally washing away. I watched it swirl down the drain until the water ran clear again.
When I finally stepped out of the shower, I felt exhausted. I saw a thick, white towel hanging on a hook near the sink. Right beside it, someone had left a pile of clean clothes. I picked them up to inspect them. There was a pair of black leggings and a large, gray sweatshirt made of soft material. There was nothing else in the pile. No bra. No underwear. It was just the bare minimum.
I dressed as quickly as I could. The sweatshirt was much too big for me, and the sleeves hung over my hands, but it was warm. My wet hair dripped down my back, leaving dark spots on the gray fabric. I took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door.
Marcus, the man with the scarred face, was standing right outside in the hallway. I remembered hearing Derek call him by that name earlier. Marcus didn't say a word to me. He didn't even look me in the eye. He just pointed his finger toward another door further down the hall.
I followed him because I didn't have any other choice. He opened the door and gave me a small push to get me inside. He wasn't being rough, but he wasn't being kind either. He was just doing his job. As soon as I was inside, he closed the door and I heard the lock turn. He was gone.
This room was much larger than the cell I had been in before. It felt like a proper bedroom, but that didn't make me feel any better. A single lamp sat on a desk, casting a soft glow over the space. There was a king-size bed in the center of the room with dark, heavy sheets. Thick curtains covered the walls where I assumed the windows were. I walked over and tried to pull them back, but the windows were locked tight and they were too high for me to reach anyway.
My heart started to race again. I realized this wasn't a room for a guest. This was just a larger, nicer cage.
I stepped back away from the curtains. Then I stepped back again. The silence in the room was starting to freak me out. I turned and ran to the door. I grabbed the knob and twisted it with all my might. It didn't budge. I was trapped.
"Let me out!" I cried out, my voice sounding desperate. I banged my fist against the wood. "Please! Someone help me!"
I heard footsteps coming fast from the other side of the door. I backed away, expecting the door to fly open. It did. I turned to run toward the bed, but I hit something solid. It felt like running into a brick wall.
I hit a hard chest and a warm body. The impact made me stumble backward. I looked up and saw Derek. He filled the entire doorway, looking even bigger than he had before. His arms were at his sides, and his eyes were fixed on me with an intense stare.
I stepped back again, trying to create some distance. I lowered my head and looked at my feet. I couldn't look him in the eye after what had happened in the bathroom. The memory of him holding me made my face feel hot.
He moved closer to me. His steps were slow and careful. I froze in place, my hands clenching the fabric of my sweatshirt.
"I—I didn't mean to scream," I whispered to the floor. "I just wanted to know if I could leave."
Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed my hands. He took both of my hands into one of his. His grip was incredibly strong and his skin was very warm. I shut my eyes tight. I felt a wave of terror wash over me. I waited for the pain. I waited for him to hit me or throw me back into the cell for trying to open the door. I waited for something terrible to happen.
But nothing happened. He didn't hit me. He didn't even yell.
I opened one eye cautiously. He was just standing there, watching me. He didn't look angry, and he didn't look cold. There was something much deeper in his expression now—something that looked almost like a struggle.
Then, he let go of my hands. He walked past me as if I weren't even there. He went over to the large bed and sat down on the edge. Without saying anything, he reached up and pulled his shirt off over his head. I watched the muscles in his back shift and move. I saw the dark tattoos on his skin. They looked like dark shapes—claws, fangs, and wild patterns that seemed to pulse.
I looked away quickly, feeling like I was seeing something I shouldn't. But after a second, I couldn't help it. I looked back. I couldn't stop myself from watching him.
He stood up again and walked toward me. He stopped so close that I could feel the heat radiating off his bare chest. He was way too close.
"From now on," he said. His voice was quiet, but it filled the whole room. "You belong to me. This house is your home now. This room is where you stay. I am your's. This is your whole world."
"I don't want this to be my world," I started to say, but he cut me off.
"Rules," he said firmly.
I went silent immediately. I didn't want to make him angry again.
"You follow the rules, or you get punished," he continued. "It is very simple."
My stomach twisted into a knot. I felt sick. "What are the rules?" I whispered.
He gave a short, dry laugh. It sounded like he found the situation funny, even though I was terrified.
"First rule: you never try to run," he said. "If you try to leave, I will find you. I will always find you. If you try it, you will regret it for a long time."
My hands started to tremble. I tucked them into the sleeves of my sweatshirt.
"Second rule: you keep this room clean. This is my space as much as yours."
"Third rule: there is no talking back to me. You speak only when I ask you a question."
"Fourth rule: you are going back to school tomorrow."
I looked up at him in total shock. School? He was letting me leave the house? I felt a tiny spark of hope. Maybe I could tell someone. Maybe I could get help.
"But," he said, leaning in closer so his face was inches from mine, "you will talk to no one. Not the students. Not the teachers. Not anyone at all. If you say a single word about me or this house, you will never see the outside of this room again. Do you understand?"
The spark of hope died instantly. He had people watching everywhere. I knew it.
"Fifth rule," he said, stepping so close our bodies almost touched. "When I tell you to do something, you do it immediately. No questions. No hesitation."
I felt a sudden surge of anger rise up inside me. It was hot and sharp. I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him that he couldn't own a human being. But then I remembered my mother. I remembered the bottle hitting my head. I remembered the chains. I had spent my whole life swallowing my anger just to survive.
I swallowed it again.
He reached out and lifted my chin with two fingers. He was being gentle, but his grip was still firm. He forced me to look into his dark eyes.
"Do you understand the rules, Ema?" he asked softly.
A single tear slipped down my face and landed on his finger. I didn't try to wipe it away. I just gave a small, broken nod.
"Yes," I whispered. "I understand."