Page 16 of Stockholm (Angel of Mercy #1)

The Kept

W hen I wake, my face is tight from all the tears I cried before falling into a troubled sleep. An unsettling confusion has set in.

My nightmares changed again. Instead of the dollhouse, I’d spent the night lost in dreams of cameras and forests. It was a different kind of fear. Not terror, like usual. Something far less potent. Almost like a nervous curiosity.

They hadn’t killed us. In fact, someone had packed me a bag with several dresses inside as if I would need to be here for at least a week. I’d been given a bed, a bathroom.

It isn’t screaming vicious murderers. Which is great, obviously, though Noah does seem particularly malicious. The only bright spot I can find is that Jesse seems inclined to treat Bo better than how Noah is with me. I hope it’s making this easier on him.

My heart aches from missing Bo.

In the bathroom, I scour the corners of the ceiling for cameras but don’t find anything. I hate the thought of anyone watching me in here, but after a little while, it’s something I just accept as likely.

As much as I hate the thought of an audience, I desperately want to feel the warm water of the shower on my body. To feel something semi-normal before I spiral right off the ledge. It’s my routine when I wake up, and I cling to that like it will keep me sane.

After searching, I locate a smaller bag in one of the cupboards that has my toothbrush, and all my other personal things from home.

My shampoo and soap, lotion, perfume. Which one of them would have gone through my things, packing this bag?

I picture Noah combing through my drawers, touching my belongings.

Deciding what I may and may not have before he stole me away from my home. From my life.

After standing under the water as long as I can stand it, I meticulously dry and lotion my skin, then dig through the bag again, just in case I missed seeing underwear yesterday.

There’s none, and I scowl as I select the least revealing dress in the bag.

Climbing back into bed, I sit cross-legged on the blanket and brush my hair, stretching out the process until my arms burn.

There’s nothing to do now but watch out the window.

The problem with having nothing to focus on is that I can’t stop thinking. My mind is in overdrive as I lie back on the bed.

Eric’s at the forefront, and my heart throbs at the thought of him at home, panicking. His wife and cousin are missing, a bank robbery gone very, very wrong . He must be sick with worry. If the situation was flipped, I would be in shambles, unable to stop imagining the worst circumstances possible.

Just as things had started looking so promising for us, our lives were bulldozed by this crazy criminal with a deranged fixation on my husband.

Was his motive financial? Maybe he had lost money in some kind of deal with Eric or one of his friends? He mentioned a girl’s name, but I don’t know who he’s talking about.

I try to figure out the time based on the light in the sky, and I’ve guessed it’s about noon when I hear a noise outside my door and I scramble backward, heart pounding.

What could they possibly have in store for us today?

The door opens just a few inches, and a plate slides into the room, then shuts again. I hear a chain and a lock, then footsteps retreating until silence hums heavily once more.

My heartbeat slowly returns to normal when it becomes clear nobody is coming back, and I crawl to the end of the bed to look at the plate. The sandwich from yesterday still sits next to the door. Now a second identical plate sits next to it.

So they don’t plan on starving us, it would seem. Food is the last thing on my mind, but the nausea from yesterday seems to have faded with sleep, so I pick up the plate and crawl back into bed to try and force it down, along with the water that had been placed next to it.

Focusing on each bite to draw out my lunch, it still only takes up another ten minutes or so. There’s nothing to do. Nothing to fixate on.

Straining my ears, I try again fruitlessly to listen for Bo, or any kind of yelling or noise that would alert me to another person’s presence. But there’s nothing, almost like I’m in a soundproof box. Cut off from the world as if I don’t even exist.

Part of me wishes Noah had brought me the food. I have one million questions. One million defenses to rain on his uncaring ears. I need some kind of information to go off of, as the uncertainty of what will happen next makes me sick with anxiety.

My body is braced for anything, but nothing comes, and the tension just keeps building .

“Hello?” I call out.

No response, not surprising.

“Bo, can you hear me?”

Silence.

I hate that I want to call for him. “Noah?”

I just know he’s watching. I can feel it. And yet nothing happens.

Frustration bubbles up in me, the tension hacking at my already frayed nerves. I should be yelling, screaming. Anyone else would be doing whatever they could to resist.

Don’t be weak. They’ll hurt Eric if you don’t figure out a way to stop them.

“Come talk to me! You shut me in this room like a coward. For no reason. What kind of person does that?” I shout. Maybe goading him will break that stone cold shell he seems to keep around himself.

I don’t talk to people like this, and speaking my mind has me shivering with nervous energy. But I mean every single word.

I wait a few minutes, but nobody comes. My eyes sting, somehow the total disregard for me digging under my skin. Like I’m an animal that doesn’t deserve their attention, that they keep locked up and shove food into my cage every few hours.

I can’t believe I was dreaming about this man. He’s a monster, the kind who must not have the ability to empathize with others, who doesn’t feel a thing when he’s the one causing their pain.

“Please,” I say, my voice small again. “Please, let me see Bo. I need to see Bo.”

Nobody comes and I drown in silence.