Page 10 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

Scarlett

A fter Monster leaves, I’m alone with two things; my thoughts and my pain.

There’s also a heavy dose of fear and dread swirling in my chest, but I don’t give too much credence to the emotions.

I can’t , because I have to survive. I have to survive for as long as I can and hope to hell that my brother comes for me, because I’m not escaping on my own. Not in my current state.

Fortunately, my lack of hunger isn’t much of a problem here—it’s actually beneficial because I barely notice the hunger pains. The downside is that if I don’t eat, I can’t heal, and if I don’t heal, I’m well and truly fucked.

Fuck orders .

Maybe I should just tell them about Eric.

My brother’s powerful; he can protect himself, and if he knew where I was, he’d rescue me.

But there’s a slim chance that outing my brother could put him in harm’s way, and that’s one thing I’ll never do.

No amount of pain or torture would force me to give up the only person who’s ever protected me, even if it could save my life. Never.

Once I’ve managed to eat, I limp my way back to my chosen corner.

The place where I first woke up, the place where I just might die.

Every step is a war against my failing strength, every panted breath a fragile thread barely holding me up.

I sink down, body folding into the cold ground.

My limbs are too heavy, and I’m too spent to do anything but surrender.

My eyelids flutter with exhaustion and agony.

Then, time twists. The edges of the present blur, thinning like faint tendrils of smoke, giving way to something in the far distance.

Memories stir; familiar voices and half-formed images.

This moment converges with the past, pulling a kaleidoscope of bygone times to the forefront of my thoughts and lulling me into a deep, restless sleep.

Scarlett, 8 years ol d

Dad’s angry, as he always is. When he’s angry, I stick to two places in the house; my room and Eric’s room. They’re the only kinda-safe spots. Eric’s the only one who can make me feel safe.

I open the heavy wooden door of my small room and glance out into the hallway.

I can’t see anyone, but I stop for a moment to listen for footsteps.

If Dad catches me outside my room, he’ll hurt me.

I hate it when he hurts me; it forces me to stay in my room, away from my only friend, for days.

Sometimes, I can’t even move after Dad hits me, but I know If I get to Eric, he’ll protect me.

When I’m sure nobody’s going to appear like a ghost and attack, I quietly tiptoe out of my room, carefully shutting the door behind me.

Eric’s bedroom is just one hallway over, and every few steps I take toward him, I pause to listen for noises.

Nothing . I release a breath of relief and trot the rest of the way to my brother’s room.

I don’t knock; I can’t risk Dad hearing me.

He mostly ignores me and Eric unless he’s had a bad day and wants to take his anger out on us, and today he’s holed up in his office, so I think I’m safe.

For now . I carefully open Eric’s door, wincing at the small creak.

Eric’s sitting at the wooden desk in the corner of his room, scribbling something in a notebook.

The same notebook we pass back and forward to give each other notes.

When he hears the door creak, his head snaps up and he looks at me with wide, angry eyes.

They soften once he sees it’s me and not Dad, and he waves his hand, inviting me in. I quietly shut the door behind me.

“Hey, Scar,” he whispers, closing the distance between us and wrapping me in a tight hug. His arms are slim but warm and strong. I feel safe when he hugs me; safer than when Mom comes to see me. I love her, but she’s weak. Eric isn’t.

“Hi,” I whisper back. “I missed you. ”

He laughs quietly, stepping back. “You saw me a few days ago, dumb-dumb.”

The nickname is mean, but he doesn’t say it with cruelty—not like when Dad calls me a stupid little girl. Eric says it warmly.

“I wanted to come sooner, but I heard Dad stomping around. I was scared.”

Eric’s smile fades, replaced with a frown. “Yeah. He’s been in a shitty mood. Have you been let out of your room at all?” I shake my head. “Has he sent you food?”

“The cook brought me something for lunch yesterday,” I say quietly. “I don’t think she was supposed to, though. She looked scared.”

“Yeah, we’re all fucking scared,” Eric says.

His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head.

For a second, he almost looks like Dad. I take a step back, frightened, and Eric notices.

His anger crumples into pain. “No, Scar, I’m not mad at you.

I swear. I’m mad at him for hurting you, and I’m mad at Mom for not helping us, but not you. ”

I’m still cautious. Whenever Dad gets angry, his jaw clenches, and then he starts hurting people. Sometimes it’s me; sometimes it’s Eric or Mom, but it’s always someone .

I fidget with my hands nervously. “Promise?”

“I promise, Scar.” He takes a step back, giving me space, and motions to the bed.

“You want to draw?” he sorts through the notebooks cluttered on his desk and finds a drawing book underneath a pile of papers.

He grabs some colored pencils out of the drawer, stacks them on the drawing book, and holds them out to me. “C’mon. Draw me something.”

I step forward, accepting the items, and head over to the bed. I take a seat on the coverlet, wrinkling my nose at the stray dirty sock next to me. When Mom sees Eric’s messiness, she always shakes her head and says boys will be boys .

I flip open the book. There are a few pages with mandalas that are fun to color, and a few blank pages.

I start scribbling a bad outline of a house on a blank page.

Eric knows I’m terrible at drawing, but he always praises whatever I make him—as does Mom.

It’s the only praise I ever hear; my tutors always call me stupid. I think Dad tells them to do that.

Eric watches me shift around and try to find a comfy position for a while, then returns to his desk.

We both scribble away in calm silence for a while.

When I’m done putting the finishing touches on my drawing, I grin down at it.

Carefully, I tear the page from the book and bring it over to Eric.

I set it down in front of him proudly, smiling at my creation.

Eric sets aside his pencil and takes in my drawing. There’s a house in front of a garden, filled with flowers. I tried to copy some of the flower mandalas, but they came out a bit wonky. Eric doesn’t seem to care, though.

“I love it,” he says, squeezing my arm. “Thank you.” He mock-frowns at the page. “But it’s missing something.”

I furrow my eyebrows, staring hard at the page. Maybe I missed something with the house?

“The artist’s signature,” Eric says. “I’m going to hang these up one day, and I want them to have your mark.” He smiles at me. “Maybe you’ll grow up to be a painter, huh?”

I feel my cheeks heat at the compliment. “Maybe,” I agree softly. I don’t think I’ll ever be very good at art. I like flowers, though. Drawing them, arranging them, growing them in the spring and summer—on days when Dad lets me leave the house to go to the garden.

“You’ll be whatever you want to be,” Eric says firmly. “We’ll get out of here. I’ll get us out of here. I promise.”

I swallow and meet his eyes. They’re bright with sincerity .

“You believe me, right?” Eric’s voice cracks. I think he needs me to believe him.

“Yes,” I respond. “I do.”

He exhales a breath of relief. “Good. Go back to your room, Scar. I’ll try to come visit you tomorrow.” He leans up to give me a kiss on the cheek and playfully shoos me away.