Page 56 of Savage Captor (Deadly Devotion #1)

Scarlett

“ T his might be a bit cold.” That’s the only warning I get from the doctor before he squirts a dollop of sticky liquid on my stomach and pushes the ultrasound probe over my lower belly.

Strange black and white images appear on the monitor beside him as he pushes the probe around, digging into my stomach with enough force that it makes me wince.

After a few minutes, he says, “looks good to me.” He grabs a few paper towels from the counter, then washes his hands in the sink.

My eyes zero in on the cupboards hanging above the counter.

They have glass doors and are brimming with various pharmaceutical drugs, both in pill and liquid form.

I can’t get to the cupboards while the doctor’s here, and I have to get to them.

If the Nighthawks keep the antidote to oleander in this compound, it’ll be in those cupboards, and I need it as leverage—and as a way to assuage my guilty conscience.

I don’t know that I’ll be able to live with myself if I kill Monster, even after everything he’s done to me.

It could be some strange form of Stockholm Syndrome, but I have empathy for him. After his apology, that empathy has deepened. He’s flawed, he’s morally bankrupt, and he’s grieving, but he’s still a human. If I can get out of here without killing him, everyone wins .

“Next up, for the blood tests,” the doctor says.

He opens a drawer and rummages around in it, then frowns.

“Damn. I forgot to bring the supplies—silly me.” He heads to the door—not the exit, but the one he came through earlier.

“I’ll just be a few moments. Then, we’ll draw some blood, and you’ll be free to go. ”

I stay perfectly still as he opens the door, presumably to go to a storage closet somewhere.

I glimpse him stepping into a hallway leading deeper into the medical wing, which means I might have time.

I wait until I hear his footsteps fading, counting the seconds.

As soon as he’s far enough away—I hope— I leap off the examination table and hurry over to the cupboards, opening them as quietly as possible.

They’re completely unorganized. A vial of arsenic sits next to a common antibiotic.

I know I have to hurry, so I sift through the bottles, trying to remain as quiet as possible.

If the Nighthawks have the antidote, it’ll be here, and it’ll be in liquid form for swift administration.

The bottom shelf only has three vials, and none of them are what I’m looking for, so I rise on my tiptoes to peruse the second shelf.

Less than a minute passes before I hear the doctor’s footsteps approaching. Shit .

I only have a few more seconds alone, and I have no clue where the antidote is. I desperately run my gaze along the row of drugs, searching for the vial I need. My chest buzzes with anxiety, and sweat beads the back of my neck—the doctor’s footsteps are growing close. I have less than ten seconds.

At the very back of the second shelf, sandwiched between sedatives and a vial of poison, is Digibind—the one known cure for oleander poisoning.

Thank god . I swipe it, stuff it in my pocket, and close the cabinet door, then rush back to the table.

The door handle turns just as I hop back onto the exam table, and the doctor reenters.

He’s balancing several plastic tubes with a butterfly needle set.

I look him over, searching for any signs of suspicion; there are none.

He sets the tubes and needle beside me, rolls up his office chair, and gets to work swabbing my arm with alcohol and searching for a vein.

The other door opens, revealing Monster—this time unaccompanied by the psycho, thank god.

He steps inside just as the doctor pierces my skin with the needle, making me wince.

Grey runs his gaze around the room, eyes landing on the cupboard for a brief moment.

I feel my heart rate skyrocket as he gazes at the cabinet for a few beats too long.

He knows. Somehow, he knows. I didn’t leave the cupboard open, and I didn’t see any cameras in this room, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. There could be hidden ones, like in Monster’s apartment. He could’ve watched me grab the vial right from the cabinet…

The doctor flicks the needle, trying to reposition it, and I hiss.

That redirects Monster’s attention immediately. “Be gentle,” he snaps. “If there’s a single bruise on her, I’ll put three times as many bruises on you.” He walks to the examination table, glaring at the doctor, and takes a seat beside me, planting a possessive palm on my thigh.

“O-of course,” the doctor fumbles to reply, cheeks reddening.

He swiftly fills several tubes with my blood, marks them with a sharpie, and then removes the needle from my arm with aching gentleness.

I stare at Monster’s hand on my thigh, trying to keep my breaths even.

His fingers are just below the pocket where the vial is.

I can see the faint outline of it through the material of my sweatpants.

If his hand slides up by a centimeter , he’ll feel it.

And that’ll be game over for me.

When Monster squeezes my thigh, I’m so wound up with anxiety, I jump. He arches a questioning eyebrow. “Problem?”

Fuck , I need to get it together. “I… don’t like needles,” I ma nage to blurt.

The doctor stands, gathering the tubes. “I’ll process these immediately. You should have the results by tomorrow morning.” With a nod, he scurries out of the room.

Monster releases my thigh and stands. I barely suppress a breath of relief as he offers me his hand. I ignore the silent offer, choosing to stand on my own. Instead of getting irritated, a faint smile tugs up on Monster’s lips.

If he knows that I just stole from the medicine cabinet, he’s doing a stellar job of hiding it. I think… I think I just might be in the clear.

Which only leaves one problem. Tomorrow night, I’m going to poison Monster. And if he doesn’t agree to let me go… I’ll keep the antidote to myself and let the poison lead him to a slow, agonizing death.

Monster takes me back to the apartment without interruption.

He gets me situated in the living room, kisses my nose, and goes into his office.

I wait two minutes to ensure he’s actually gone before heading into the master bathroom and opening the cupboard underneath the sink, searching for a particular black pouch I found while rummaging for Advil a few weeks ago.

When I locate it, I carefully open the zipper.

Inside sit several unused syringes and needles, all still in their packaging.

I pause, straining my ears to make sure I don’t hear Monster leave his office, then swiftly and carefully store the Digibind next to the syringes.

After it’s secure, I stow away the pouch beneath a stack of hand towels.

If Monster somehow discovers the syringes and the antidote, he’ll piece together what I’m planning.

It’s only his own ineptness when it comes to plants that has even given me the faintest possibility of escape.

I have to hope, pray that I make it out of here…

and that I’m not forced to do something that would change me, taint me forever.

This place has already taken so much from me; my hope for a better life, any faith I had left in the male race, and my sexual innocence—which I’d intentionally shielded and preserved.

I don’t want it to take away the rest of my innocence and stain my hands with blood, but I’d rather live with crushing guilt than spend the rest of my life here.

I know what I have to do. If only the ache in my chest would disappear, I’d have a much easier time doing it.

I fuss over the plants and watch some TV while Monster works in the office. The beautiful bouquets he got me are starting to wilt, probably because there isn’t much sunshine in this place. The only natural light comes from a window behind the dining table, and most times, it’s curtained off.

My eyes hone in on the oleanders. They’re ripe for harvesting, with dried flower petals and leaves already littering the table around the vase.

Tomorrow, when Monster leaves to execute whatever plans he’s made, I’ll pick enough flower petals and leaves to kill a man of his size and weight, and pray that everything goes according to plan.

I’m just finishing up with testing the soil of one of the potted plants when Monster comes back out of his office.

It’s late; I spent most of the day wasting time, as I usually do.

I can’t escape the itchiness that plagues me at living a life without purpose—I miss school, classes, and feeling like I have something to do. Something to offer the world.

I miss a lot of things about my life—most of all, my brother.

“Come here, baby,” Monster says, shutting his office door behind him .

Baby . The endearment sends a strange mixture of warmth and dread coursing through me. Dread, because I fear Monster is growing genuinely attached to me; warmth, because nobody’s called me any term of endearment since my mother died.

I slowly walk over to him, and he wraps his arms around my waist, holding me close to his chest.

“Are you okay?” I ask, then fight the urge to clap a hand over my mouth.

I shouldn’t care if he’s okay. I should want him to be miserable, I should want him dead, and while part of me does…

another part of me doesn’t. The part of me that feels warped empathy, maybe even the beginnings of a connection to him.

If only he’d brought oleander flowers the night he stole my virginity. I’d have gladly killed him then.

“Yes,” Monster says. “Just thinking about logistics regarding tomorrow. It’s going to be a long, bloody day.”

“You’ll come out on top,” I hear myself say. I don’t know why I’m trying to comfort him. I don’t know why I care to even try to give him nice words.

A low chuckle rumbles out of his chest, vibrating against my cheek. He pulls away and smiles down at me for a moment before glancing around the room. “The plants look greener.”

“I fed them, tested their soil, and watered them,” I say. “They should keep growing strong.” A faint ache pangs in my chest at the realization that I’ll leave them behind… but at least I’ll get back to the plants I spent years genetically modifying and engineering.

“Flower,” he murmurs, gazing down at me. “I think that’s what I’ll call you. My little flower.”

Warmth bathes my chest. We’ve gone from general endearment to a personalized nickname, one that fits perfectly. God, he needs to stop being nice to me. He needs to have a moodswing and turn into the psychotic asshole that I’d have no problem fucking over and killing.

He kisses my head twice and squeezes my waist. “I’ll get dinner. Go ahead and set the table, Flower.”

Set the table. Such a casual household act, but he’s never let me do anything before.

I know it’s a symbol of his blooming trust in me, and I’m about to betray that trust in the cruelest, harshest way—but I’m doing it for my own good.

If he complies, we’ll both live and move on with our lives.

If he doesn’t… I don’t even want to think about what I’ll have to do.

Monster leaves the apartment. I watch him punch in the code to the door, just as he did this morning when he thought I wasn’t looking. It’s stayed the same, so I just have to hope he doesn’t have it set to change regularly.

I turn on the tea kettle and pull boxes of chamomile from the cupboard, preparing to drink a cup with Monster just as I did last night so he won’t be suspicious when I make him tea tomorrow night.

While the kettle’s boiling, I pull dishes and glasses from the cabinets.

Monster had them hidden from me for a while, back when I was still openly threatening to kill him, but he’s set them in accessible areas recently.

He thinks I’m done with wanting him dead. Unfortunately for both of us, he’s right and wrong. I no longer ache to kill him, but…

I knew the day he brought me to his apartment that only one of us would walk away from this alive. That was a certainty from the moment he told me he was claiming me.

Guilt bears down on me again, cautioning restraint, but it doesn’t outweigh my hunger for freedom. Nothing does. Even though I know—God, I know— that hurting Monster, maybe even killing him, will burn through the last pieces of myself I still recognize .

It’s a sin that will carve an irrevocable mark on my soul, create a stain that I’ll never wash clean.

But none of that matters—because I see my chance. And I’m willing to risk every bit of me that remains if it means freedom.