Page 7 of Wildling

This must be a nightmare because the last thing I remember is running down the street and seeing a white ribbon.

I inhale deeply, smelling the sheets…fresh sheets. Which in any other circumstance is a pleasant scent. Except. I’m under no illusion I am anywhere pleasant. Lying perfectly still, I find a moment of peace. I’m still alive even though I’ve clearly been abducted. Silent sobs begin to slip out of me…hopeless, helpless, muffled sobs into my pillow that grow louder. The dripping sound grows louder.

After a few seconds, another sound infiltrates my senses, snapping me into silence—something alien to my own thoughts. Someone is close by watching me. Whoever it is shifts subtly, the sound of fabric rubs together.

I lie frozen and hold my breath, straining my ears so I can hear past the extreme beating of my heart. Terror flickers through my bones, pulsating every nerve as goose bumps pebble my flesh.

“I know you’re there.” My voice trembles.

An icy pause and a heavy breath.

The light flickers on and off—so quickly I’m certain I hallucinated it. Until the image of him comes into focus, standing by the wall. His outline is imprinted in my mind, like the lingering shadows in your vision after staring at a bright light. His face is distorted.

“I can give you money—if that’s what you’re looking for.” As soon as those words slip out of my lips, I feel stupid. This is too personal, the hatred too real for it to be about money. “Please…please let me go,” I whimper, pulling on my wrists, trying to free myself.

A few seconds later, the light flickers on again, like a taunting response to my empty threats, and the room comes into view. The outline of the man, however, is gone.

Without moving a muscle, I stare at a spot on the ground and get my bearings, and my eyes begin to adjust. Thick rust runs down the walls from ceiling to floor. The concrete floor has a thin layer of dirt, as if the earth itself is reclaiming whatever dark pit of hell I’m in.

A small ladder leads up to a trap door, and there is a small enclave on the other side of the room with what looks like a small toilet and sink basin. The source of the constant dripping. The other side of the room has food. Racks and racks of food. Like someone built this place for survival. Some of the food is half-eaten, wrappers and empty cans litter the floor, as if someone tore into it—ripped it apart with their teeth.

It looks like a prison.

A disturbing realization dawns on me. Based on the enormous quantity of food, it seems whoever has me plans to keep me here for a long time. There’s running water, food, and shelter–everything I need to survive.

Even though I can’t see him, I sense his gaze on me, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. “I know you’re there,” I stammer.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

“Are you going to be a coward or are you going to show yourself, you fucking freak?”

The lights flicker off in response, and the enormity of the situation hits me like a sharp knife slicing me deep. He’s watching my every move.

I suck in air and let out a scream. I scream as if my life depends on it with every ounce of energy I have. Eventually, my screams grow weaker, turning into whimpers as my energy fades, until I finally lose consciousness again.

A sudden shift in the air presses me into consciousness. I shift, and a shooting pain in my shoulder causes me to cry out, subtly aware of the shift in the light as a dark figure hovers over me in the otherwise dim room.

He stands there, staring at me for a couple of seconds, unmoving. Just shadows and darkness. A terrifying silhouette of terror.

My throat is raw, my body is broken. Tears start to stream through my eyes, and I whimper as he walks closer to me, standing over top of me. So close, his heat radiates onto my skin. “What the fuck do you want from me?” I ask him, humiliated at how exposed I am. My hands are bound behind my back, my face pressed into the mattress, and my ass is elevated. He could do anything he wants to me.

He lets out a low chuckle, and his voice is so familiar. I recognize that laugh from somewhere…

He walks over to the sink and turns on the faucet. A few seconds later, he faces me. I study the way he moves—trying to find anything that might give away his identity, but I can’t make out much more than his tall and broad silhouette.

I glance at his two black boots, then my gaze travels up his legs, taking in his dark pants, black belt, and tight black shirt. Finally, our eyes meet. He’s wearing something that covers his face, but his eyes are golden, anything but dark.

“Fucking coward,” I snap at him.

He crouches down, holding a cup of water. “I’m a lot of things, Layla, but I’m not a fucking coward.”

Jesus.

My name slipping from his lips does something to me. A shiver rolls through my spine. This was planned. Meticulously planned.

A tense silence falls between us. He keeps his eyes on me, and even in this dim light, they are so recognizable.

He leans down to check my wrists and pulls my shirt up to examine my shoulder. I twist and turn, causing the pain to ignite my body again. Pulling so hard on my binds, my shoulder pops again, and I scream out in agony. Somehow, I push through it, the anger welling up inside me at this sensation of helplessness.