Page 7 of Riot’s Thorn (Sons of Erebus: Reno, NV #4)

CHAPTER THREE

PARKER

A thorn in his side? Is he delusional? I’ve done nothing to him. He’s the one who chose to keep me alive and bring me here. Plus, he’s the one who killed my father.

Sharp, searing pain shoots through my chest, filling me with a deep ache that radiates throughout my body.

I glance down and see the dried blood covering me, stark against my pale skin.

The grisly images of the day flash before my eyes like scenes from a horror movie, my hands shaking uncontrollably as my teeth to chatter with fear.

He notices and stands, holding out a hand. “What you’re experiencing is the adrenaline draining from your body. The best way to fight it is with a shower.”

I pull my legs into my chest, making myself as small as possible as I shake my head. “No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“And that right there proves you’re a thorn.”

“Please, just leave me alone.”

“No. The brain matter and blood crusted on your skin is making me uncomfortable, and I don’t want to look at it anymore.”

His careless and indifferent attitude grates on my already-frayed nerves. I’m lost, confused, and scared, and the man apparently protecting me from some unknown threat is the same man who caused all this chaos.

I ignore his outstretched hand, not wanting to touch the man who murdered Dad, but he doesn’t go away. His eyes are cold and flat as his lip curls in disgust, making me feel two inches tall.

“The sight of you is making me sick, so whether you want to or not, you’re showering.”

“You can’t make me.”

His piercing gaze narrows in a silent challenge before my world flips upside down again, and I’m unceremoniously carted through his cabin like a sack of potatoes.

My limbs flail wildly as I beat on his back and scream for him to release me, but he doesn’t even flinch.

With each useless strike, I am acutely aware of the rippling muscles hidden underneath his shirt, the taut lines of his biceps straining against the fabric. I’m no match for him.

Tile flooring comes into view, and I hear the distinct sound of a shower curtain opening right before he bends over and dumps me inside, clothes and all. A sharp pain radiates from my tailbone, but I welcome the distraction from the emotional pain I can’t seem to process.

“I can make you do whatever I want, Little Thorn.” He turns the temperature dial to the right before pulling on it and sliding the curtain closed. I don’t have time to recover before freezing cold water hits me over the head, taking my breath away and blinding me.

I struggle to stand, but the stupid flip-flops I thought were so cute slip and slide on the wet surface of the shower, my knees and ass crashing into the ceramic tub.

Eventually, I pull off my shoes and stand, gasping and shoving my hair off my face.

Standing just on the other side of the clear shower curtain is him , and he’s smirking like he’s won a battle.

“Clothes and a towel.” He holds up a stack and sets them on the counter before leaving, thankfully letting me suffer alone in my humiliation.

I quickly turn the dial to warm. Once my skin has acclimated to that, I turn the dial further, repeating this process until my skin is red and steam billows through the room, fogging the mirror.

My shoulders slump as I remove my glasses and struggle to strip myself of my now-soaked and disgusting clothes, all while crying.

What else can I do?

As I dump his shampoo into my palm, I get a whiff of citrus and juniper.

I don’t want to like it, but it smells nice.

I wash my hair four times, thoroughly scrubbing my scalp until I convince myself it’s clean.

There’s no conditioner, which means my hair will be a matted mess, but I couldn’t care less.

There’s no face wash either, so I use the same bar of soap on my whole body.

After rinsing, I still feel dirty, so I soap up again.

This goes on and on until I’m finally certain I’m clean; I know if I get out of this shower and find any kind of foreign matter on me, I will lose my shit.

This whole situation is surreal. I saw my dad get shot, and then I was abducted.

This happens in movies, not to boring girls like me.

The water temperature begins to cool, telling me my time is up. My skin is bright red, both from the hot water and my harsh scrubbing, but at least I don’t feel disgusting anymore. I twist my hair into one towel and wrap myself in the other.

As I stand alone, I’m finally able to fully absorb my surroundings.

This bathroom is dull and unremarkable. The shower shows years of grime, the vanity is chipped and worn, and the toilet is stained with mold.

It’s as if this room has been frozen in time since its installation in the 1980s.

The cabinet, adorned with tacky brass hardware, is white but yellowed with age and has baby blue accents.

And the walls—oh god, the walls—suffocate me with their peeling, floral wallpaper that seems to be closing in as I stand here, trapped and alone.

The steam begins to clear as I dry my body, actively avoiding the mirror.

How I look is a non-issue, and I won’t be making myself presentable for him.

I want him to be disgusted by me so he’ll want to keep his distance.

He could very obviously overpower me if he wanted, and there’d be nothing I could do to stop him.

The clothes he gave me are basic and plain—a black, long-sleeve T-shirt and gray sweatpants—entirely too big on me, but the extra fabric is welcome. It feels like a barrier between me and him .

So what now? What’s his plan? I’m just supposed to live in this run-down cabin with him for the rest of my life?

If he’s telling the truth about people coming after me, and that’s a big if, I’m having a hard time understanding why that’s his problem.

He doesn’t seem to have a hard time killing people, but if he’s keeping me because he can’t bring himself to kill a young girl, he could just release me.

Those people he told me about would end me for him.

When I’ve run out of things to do, I stand with my hand on the knob but can’t seem to turn it.

I don’t want to face him again. In his eyes, I’m nothing but a weak nuisance.

And maybe until now, I have been. But that’s not who I am in my real life.

I graduated high school with my associate’s degree, and I’m graduating college this year. I’m confident and capable.

I guess none of that matters when you’re kidnapped with no idea where you are or who took you.

At this moment, I’m nothing but a victim, and I need to decide if I’m brave enough to change that.

There has to be a way out of here. Even if it takes some time, I know I can find it.

I just have to keep a clear head and earn his trust. Isn’t that what the true crime podcasts say?

Finally turning the doorknob, I take a deep breath and step into the hall. The carpet under my bare feet is teal and plush where it meets the wall, but the heavy traffic area in the center is flat and worn, the plastic backing coming up in some places. My gaze catches on the baseboards.

What the hell?

That’s weird.

Instead of the usual wood baseboards, these are about six-inch-tall metal. What’s the purpose of that? Do I even want to know?

The hallway is dim, not only because of the dark wooden paneling on the walls but also because the brass sconces on the wall aren’t lit, making it difficult to decide which way to go. This place is creepy, something I’ve only seen in horror movies.

I think I came in from the left, so that’s the direction I go. Straight ahead is a door—a linen closet, maybe? Instead of opening to find out, I go left. The hall opens into the living room, a space I didn’t pay attention to when I was out here before, but I do now.

The only newish things in this place are the leather sofa, chair, and big-screen TV. Otherwise, it hasn’t been touched in longer than I’ve been alive.

The wood paneling continues throughout, as does the teal carpet.

Just beyond the sofa is a half-wall separating the kitchen from the living room, which stops me from seeing it fully.

From what I can tell, the appliances are just as outdated as everything else, and blue-tiled countertops finish off the blast from the past.

Catching movement in my periphery, I find him standing in front of the window, a mug of something hot in his hands.

I stand there awkwardly, just inside the room, not knowing what to do now.

Grief has taken a backseat to survival, and while I know the full weight of this situation will hit me eventually, I need to keep my head on straight if I want to live through this.

“Coffee?” he asks without looking my way. I was silent and unmoving, so that he knew I was here tells me his senses have been honed.

“Um, sure.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and move to the sofa, noting it’s been wiped down and the air smells like bleach.

After a quick trip to the kitchen, he strides over and thrusts a black mug at me. “Here.”

“Th—thank you,” I struggle to say, because this man doesn’t deserve even an ounce of gratitude from me.

He doesn’t acknowledge me, but what did I expect from a man who doesn’t seem to enjoy talking? I stare at the black liquid, wondering if it’s safe. I wouldn’t put it past him to drug me.

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, taking the mug from me and lifting it to his lips.

His large Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, proving it’s not poisoned.

Handing it back to me, he looks me dead in the eyes.

What I see in them will haunt me for the rest of my life.

I didn’t think pure evil was a real thing, but it turns out it is because his nearly black globes are something completely unholy.

He notices the goosebumps that pop up on my arms and mistakes them for me being cold. “Drink.”

I lift the mug with shaky arms and take a sip of the hot beverage. Normally, I’d add an ungodly amount of cream and sugar, but since that wasn’t offered, I drink it black. It doesn’t matter because I don’t taste a thing. My senses are numb.

He strides to the wall opposite me and slides down to the floor.

While I was showering, he must’ve changed because now he’s wearing worn blue jeans and a white T-shirt that pulls tight across the wide span of his chest and biceps.

Black tattoos cover every inch of his arms, but I can’t make out the images.

He has large silver rings on three of his fingers—two on the right and one on the left—none of them being his ring fingers.

I guess that doesn’t mean he isn’t married or with someone, but there were no feminine products in the bathroom.

I know because I looked in every drawer and cupboard.

Then again, he could have a husband or boyfriend.

I squeeze my eyes shut. These are not the questions I should be focusing on—the biggest ones being why am I here and what is he going to do with me? Knowing my future will help me time my escape.

When I open my eyes, I gasp and nearly dump the hot coffee on me in an attempt to draw my legs up off the ground. “Holy shit.”

Two large rodents, one gray and one white, scurry over the carpet and head right for him .

Good; maybe they’ll bite him and give him rabies.

But they don’t do that. They crawl up his legs and scale his shirt until they reach his chest. He cups his hands under them, and, oh god, his expression softens.

It doesn’t look natural. It’s like he really has to force the muscles to relax, but it’s the first time I haven’t seen him look murderous.

I scan the floor, looking for more of the pests.

When I don’t see any, I lower my feet but keep my eyes peeled.

He whispers words I can’t hear as he strokes each of them.

One rolls onto its back, and he scratches its belly as if it’s a dog.

Clearly they’re his pets, but why are they not locked in a cage?

Does he let them roam around like this all the time?

Reaching into his pocket, he produces something I can’t make out, but I realize it must be food when they take the small nuggets into their little hands and gnaw. It’s sort of cute, I guess, but that doesn’t mean I want them anywhere near me.

Not sure what to do with myself, I slowly sip my coffee and try to ignore what’s going on in front of me. He doesn’t seem to share the awkwardness I’m feeling, completely content with sitting in silence with a stranger in the room.

After what feels like an hour, he sets the two rodents on the floor and stands. They follow him past me, and yes, I pull my legs up again, just in case. Thankfully, they mostly ignore me. The gray one pauses and lifts up on his back legs, sniffing the air, but then he scurries away.

I watch as he opens a slider that might’ve been intended to be a pantry, but this man uses it to house some kind of habitat.

It’s made of moss and wood, some of it hollow to make a tunnel while the rest stands on end for climbing, all arranged inside a cage the two rats climb into.

After one final pet, he closes them inside.

Suddenly, the metal floorboards make sense.

Rats can supposedly chew through almost anything, and if he allows them to roam, he must worry they’ll get inside the walls.

There are still places they could climb, like the kitchen counters, if they wanted to get inside the walls that way, but it’s still a deterrent. These rats must mean a lot to him.

Anyone who can so carefully tend to such small creatures must have some good in him, which brings me a small amount of hope. That, and he might’ve been rough with me at times, but he hasn’t hurt me. Surely he would’ve by now if that was his intention, right?

That almost confuses me more, though. If he’s not going to rape and torture me, then what the hell am I here for? Maybe he’s ignoring the question because he doesn’t know either. After what he did today, it’s clear he’s not in the business of sparing lives, so maybe he’s as confused as I am.

“It’s time for bed.”

My mind and body want to jump at the chance to slip into sweet unconsciousness so I can forget today ever happened, but can I relax knowing I’m in the same house as this man? I doubt it.

“You have a spare room?” I ask, hoping the place I can sleep isn’t a permanent one, like a hole in the backyard.

“No. You’ll sleep in my bed.” He folds his arms. “With me.”

My jaw drops. I have no words.

No. Not happening. Not a chance.