Page 14 of Stockholm (Angel of Mercy #1)

The Kept

M y head pounds so hard, my eyeballs have a pulse.

At least it feels like it. And now that my eyes are cracking open, I can see why. I’ve been left on the hard wooden floor like a dog .

It’s more irritating when I realize there’s a very normal, soft looking bed right next to me.

The taste in my mouth is awful, throat aching from dryness. Looking around, I see a bottle of water by the door, next to a sandwich.

Surely the door is locked—and the last water I had been provided here drugged me, but I still crawl over to investigate.

Closer inspection shows the lid is still sealed, so I pop it open and chug most of it before I realize I should probably ration.

What if starvation or forced dehydration are in their plans for us?

Twisting the lid back on, I notice the ropes have been removed from my hands and I stretch them, turning them over and studying the bruises they left behind. He’d removed them after I’d passed out from…whatever it was they had given me.

The sandwich I can’t even imagine eating; the aftermath of the day has my stomach in knots.

Scooting back into the corner, I study the room.

It’s not very large, but I’m on the second floor. There’s one window higher up on the wall, recessed behind thick, iron bars. Almost as if this place was designed to keep people from being able to reach the glass or throw things at it .

A basic, wooden dresser sits directly under the window, a bag on top.

Struggling to stand, I walk to it and see it’s full of my things from home.

Out of all the clothes in my rather large closet, whoever packed for me chose only a few of my sundresses to throw inside.

I dig through it further, thinking surely there must be underwear, or pajamas, but no.

Huffing, I turn. A chair sits in the corner of the room, facing the bed.

The image of Noah sitting there while I’m passed out on the floor makes my skin crawl.

The room is otherwise empty, but a door at the far end is ajar, and I can see the glass wall of a shower on the other side.

Great, at least I won’t have to scream for attention every time I need the bathroom.

After searching the dresser drawers and the cabinets, I come up empty-handed. There’s nothing in this room that gives any context to where I might be, or who Noah is.

Cold air makes the room feel heavy, and the shock of the situation has started to fade.

The panic of yesterday has receded into an emotionally rawness.

Feeling intensely vulnerable, I climb into the bed and look around.

My eyes eventually lock on the window, and the patch of midnight blue sky like it’s an anchor.

The claustrophobia lessens when I focus on it, so I try not to look away.

An anxiety attack would only make things worse.

There’s a scratchy, fleece blanket folded at the foot of the bed, and I pull it up to my chin as tears start to burn trails down my face.

The thought of home is soul crushing. I just want to feel safe in its walls again. Safe with my husband. Loved.

I took it for granted, and now I’m being punished.

My eyes blur and the tears start to fall heavy and fast. The feeling of eyes on me—just like they had back at home—intensifies.