Page 32 of Captive

I will most certainly not search her out in this house for that. I’m completely fine with how things are. Maybe Royal isn’t, but Ezra? I believe he’s more on my side when it comes to the physical connection Abby’s talking about.

Doing what we do is enough stress relief for me.

Unfortunately for myself, my mind can’t shake the things Abby said or how sincere she was when she said she’s never felt more at home here, with us, than anywhere else. My mind wanders too often, especially at night, when I know she’s in my room, fast asleep in my bed.

Sleeping in my office chair is something I’m used to, but I’d be lying if I say I don’t miss having the occasional night on a mattress.

These are the times when I wish our house was a little bigger. The Benefactor most definitely has enough wealth to fund everything they do, and by extension everything we do, so it’s not out of the question for me to assume they could afford to pay for a larger house for us—but a mediocre house with a mediocre square-footage and bedroom count helps us blend in.

That said, I’m not proud to be half-asleep when Abby makes her first appearance after two days. She enters my office without knocking, and I try to act like I wasn’t just dozing off while searching the internet for any signs of someone reporting Abby as missing. As for social media profiles… she doesn’t have much of anything.

Her last name, however, is of some interest.

“Hey,” she says, “I thought I could drag you out of your office and cut your hair.”

She certainly doesn’t like taking no for an answer, does she? With a shake of my head, I tell her, “That won’t be necessary. I can go to a barber.”

“Oh, yeah? Is that why I found these in the bathroom across the hall from your room?” The bathroom that’s now hers, although I do sneak in there at night, when she’s fast-asleep. Nevertheless, she calls to my attention the silver hair scissors in her hand, calling my bluff in the process.

Okay, so I don’t go to a barber. There’s nothing wrong with trimming my own hair. Yes, lately the self-care has taken a bit of a backseat, but sometimes that happens. It’s no big deal.

Abby leans on the open door, acting every bit as at home as Royal and Ezra, as if she’s been here the entire time. “Come on. Get up, go wet your hair, and grab a towel so we don’t get hair all over those fancy clothes of yours. I’ll be quick, I promise.” She snips the scissors at her side.

I hate to say it, but today she looks good—which isn’t to say she doesn’t normally look good—but the way the leggings she wears hugs every curve on her draws my attention to places my attention should not be. Just because she’s wearing fitted clothing doesn’t give me the right to ogle her, even if I don’t think she’d be opposed to being stared at.

Actually, the more I think about it, the more I wonder if she wore those particular leggings on purpose, knowing she’d tease and tempt without trying. I wouldn’t put it past her.

“You know I won’t give this up,” she says, “even if I have to drag you kicking and screaming out of here. It wouldn’t be the easiest thing, but hey, I’m up for the challenge if you are. I’m stronger than I look.” She flexes one of her biceps. “I’ve been working out with Royal.”

She’s toned, somewhat, I’ll give her that. Still, I don’t believe she could drag me anywhere, regardless of whether or not I’m kicking or screaming, as she said.

Abby leans her head on the door, staring at me. “Come on, Hawthorne. Just get up and come with me. I won’t bite, I promise. Think of it like this: the sooner you get up, the sooner we can get it done, and the sooner I’ll leave you alone.”

Hmm. She’s not wrong there. I suppose, if she’s not going to quit this endeavor, it would be easier to get up and let her do it without putting up more of a fight.

I stand. “Fine. Give me a few minutes to shower.” Might as well knock out two birds with one stone. “I’ll find you when I’m done.”

I should’ve known based on the look she gives me after that that she’s not going to give me a few.

Before I head to the bathroom, I grab a fresh set of clothes. I change whenever I can, since I basically share a closet with her. I hop in the shower across the hall. Though I suppose I could just wet my hair, as she said, might as well do the whole shebang.

I wash myself from head to toe, and I make the mistake of glancing at the drain before the suds finish circling it. Watching the foamy suds go around the drain pulls me back in time, and for just the quickest of moments, I have a flashback.

Just like that, it’s not suds circling the drain, but blood. So much blood. Light in color thanks to the way it mixed with the water, but still somehow darker than you’d imagine. So much blood, though none of it belonged to me.

Jerking back to reality, to the present, I avert my gaze away from the suds and stare at the opposite shower wall. I don’t often lose myself to memories like that, but even though it happened so long ago, I find they refuse to release me completely. Some memories are burned into your brain, and the only way you’ll truly forget them is if you die.

Somehow, I’m still here.

Somehow, that day wasn’t the end of me.

It should’ve been. I should be in prison for murder. I wasn’t careful, but somehow the Benefactor found me, paid one of the best lawyers in the country to defend me, and by some miracle the jury didn’t find me guilty. It truly is amazing what a well-versed, intelligent, charming individual could make people believe.

I don’t let those memories take over again as I shut the showerhead off and step out, grabbing my towel. After drying myself, I get dressed, toss my towel over my shoulder, and step out into the hall…

And in doing so, I practically bump into Abby herself.

See? She couldn’t give me a few minutes. She had to be right there.