Page 16 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

Scarlett

I t’s comfortable in the dark. There’s no pain, no fear. No desperation. No skin-crawling need to escape my life, no desolation or hopelessness, just… numbness.

I feel echoes of something being done to my body, but I’m disconnected from it. I’m wrapped in a pleasant cocoon of darkness, and somewhere beneath the numbness, I perceive a faint thread of hope that this is the end for me. That this is the escape.

Monster told me I’d beg for death, and he was right. I didn’t realize at the time just how much I’d beg for death; how desperately I’d crave it. Hearing my father’s voice was the final straw. It’s the nail in my coffin.

Eric staged my death when he helped me escape our father, but we both knew there was a chance Dad wouldn’t believe it.

I’ve lived with the fear that one day, Dad will confirm I’m alive and come for me.

Monster called him and told him I’m alive, let him hear my screams—which Dad grew familiar with in my youth.

Now he knows I’m alive, which means I’m effectively dead anyways.

He expects Monster to kill me, and if Monster doesn’t, Dad will.

I much prefer to slip away into oblivion now.

I think I am, though I can’t be sure. I wait for a white light to penetrate the darkness—as soon as I see it, I’m sprinting for it.

I’m running at it full-force. My life serves no purpose anymore; I’ve grown used to always looking over my shoulder, but if I somehow end up surviving this ordeal, my life will only be a ceremonial preparation for my slaughter.

The time I have on this earth has been cut short, so I might as well get it over with already.

Colors and shapes start to swirl around me—faint pulses of something beckoning me. Maybe that’s the light I should be running for. I focus on them, trying to get closer to them, trying to bring them to life… and then I see a face. A familiar face. A face that was taken from me too soon.

Red hair, same as mine. Green eyes a slightly different shade from my own. Freckles. Slim nose. Full lips.

Mom .

She comes to me as a specter. Somewhere, somehow, I can feel her leaning over me.

I can feel her eyes drilling into me, through me.

Even though all my senses are numbed, I feel something from her.

Peace, strength, and determination. All qualities that were absent in every single memory I have of her.

“Not yet, Scar,” she murmurs. Her words are a ghostly whisper that flutter over my skin and settle deep, reaching into muscle, sinew, and bone.

I start to feel heat in my body, unbearable heat.

“Not for a while. Go on, girl—you’re not meant to be with me yet.

” I think I feel her lips on my skin, maybe my forehead. “Take care of your brother for me.”

And then, she’s gone. The loss is so poignant, so devastating, that it somehow abruptly catapults me back into reality. Light flashes in my vision, but it’s not the light I expected. It’s chaotic and confusing, accompanied by voices, and… pain . More pain.

God, I was so close to being free… but apparently, even the afterlife didn’t want me.

Everything— everything hurts. My bones. My skull.

My thigh especially—Jesus, it feels like there’s a hot iron being stabbed into my skin.

The pain’s been bad ever since Monster stabbed me, but it hasn’t been anything like this.

Not this visceral. My cracked lips part and a cry escapes me.

I try to touch my thigh with my hands, to stop the pain, but something holds me back.

Some one holds me back; hands descend over my own, fingers cuffing my wrists, and press them to my chest. I can’t get my eyes to open, but I know there’s a person there. Someone’s torturing me again.

“Please,” I whisper. I don’t know if my words come out legible—my throat is dry and my vocal chords aren’t cooperating. “It wasn’t me.” I didn’t do anything to deserve this. I’ve only ever harmed one person in my life, and it was in protection of my own life. He deserved it.

Pressure squeezes my wrists. No, not pressure, hands .

I don’t know if the gesture is meant to be a warning or a comfort.

Either way, it unnerves me. Then, more pain explodes over my thigh, and my back cracks as it bows.

My ribs scream their protest as I start struggling in earnest, struggling the way I haven’t bothered to since I was captured.

Fuck the path of least resistance; I would rather die than endure another moment of this agony. I can’t anymore.

My chest aches as a noise escapes my lips.

It’s meant to be a scream, but it comes out as a raw, broken whimper.

There are voices around me, talking over each other and to each other.

It’s very possible that I’m hallucinating right now.

That I’m already dead and I’m in hell, but I don’t think I’m that lucky .

I’ve never had the best luck in life; why would I have any luck at all when it comes to death?

The jumbled words around me focus in, until I can distinguish one person speaking in particular. It’s Monster’s voice, and he’s talking straight into my ear.

“Your wound was infected. It has to be cleaned out and re-sutured. It’s almost over—try to sleep. ”

Now I’m certain I’m hallucinating, because Monster’s tone is soft, almost regretful. He’s never spoken to me like that, and I know he never will. I’m either dead or well on my way to being dead, and there’s comfort to be found there.

I’ve never had an active wish to die. I’ve never been suicidal, even in the lowest points of my life.

I always had some sort of hope to look forward to.

When I was trapped by my father, it was hope of escape.

Later, it became hope of earning my degree and becoming a botanical genetic engineer.

Of creating, nurturing, and growing plants, of expanding the beauty and functionality of nature.

Of honoring the gifts Mother Nature put on this earth.

Then, I was captured by Monster, and my hope once again devolved to hope of escape.

That was slowly depleted, as it was in my youth by my father.

Now, I’m not sure what I have to look forward to—if anything.

I don’t know what purpose I’d serve on this earth.

It’s not like I’m going to live in any case, so looking to the future seems pointless.

There is no future on earth that doesn’t include pain, and there is no hope for anything beyond the pain.

I cease struggling against the force holding my wrists, but I don’t try to stop the whimpers of pain and low cries bubbling from my scratchy throat.

I don’t bother trying to open my eyes, either; they feel like they weigh a million tons.

I simply submit, succumb, and give into one final hope; that the pain will be over soon.

Unfortunately for me, it isn’t over. I’m not that lucky.

After a steep fall back into complete oblivion, I slowly start to come back to myself, one sense at a time.

There’s pain, of course, a constant companion I’ve become accustomed to, but it’s dulled.

Far less visceral than anything I’ve felt since coming here.

The throb in my thigh sucks, but it’s almost manageable.

Then comes scent. Something in the air is different; it isn’t permeated by the rancid smell of bile, vomit, and urine.

It’s still stale, but much cleaner. Almost sterile.

Sound returns, and the abrupt rushing in my ear is quickly replaced with steady quiet and the sound of a drip-drip-drip of something leaking.

I take a deep breath, wincing as my chest burns with the gesture.

It doesn’t just burn, it feels like there’s a fist around my lungs, pushing back when I try to inhale a full breath.

I spend a moment mourning the loss of my escape.

Another moment trying to stifle any stubborn dredges of hope that tell me if I’m alive, I might stay alive. There’s no sense in stupid optimism.

Finally, I force my eyes to open. My heart feels as weak as the rest of me, but it starts to race when I realize I’m once again in a cell—just a different one than the last one I was trapped in.

This one is a bit bigger, and there’s no metal table meant for torture sitting in the center of it.

Instead, there’s a small cot with a shitty mattress beneath me, even a blanket covering me.

A metal stand sits right beside the bed, holding a large bottle of water next to two pills.

I eye the pills warily and decide to ignore them, but the water looks heavenly.

Sitting up is a strenuous process. I’ve never felt this level of weakness in my body, and I think my depleted hope might contribute to that.

There’s no way for me to really live now that Dad knows I’m alive.

He’ll search for proof of my death, and if he doesn’t find it, he’ll hunt me down.

After several minutes of shuffling and wincing, I manage to prop my back against the wall behind me.

My cot is in the corner of the room, and as I shift to try to alleviate the discomfort in my thigh, I notice something else new.

There’s a camera propped on the far wall, near the metal doorway.

It’s oval, black, and has a blinking red light next to the lens.

Jesus, is my torture now going to be recorded? Or maybe my death?

I reach for the bottle of water. It’s a big one, 50ml, and the seal isn’t yet broken.

I struggle to twist off the cap but finally manage, and inhale half the contents greedily.

I drink so much that I think I feel the water sloshing around my stomach.

I guess it can join the water that’s constricting my lungs.