What if I’m wrong? What if he doesn’t come? What if he leaves me here to rot until I’m expected to appear before The Tribunal again? What if he’s alive but not himself? Hurt. And what if he’s alive but doesn’t want me back?
At that, I let out a strange, snort-laugh. It’s ugly.
Yes. He’ll want me back. He’ll want to be the one to punish me.
I close my eyes, confused by all this, my own thoughts, my feelings, this isolation, this darkness. I tug the blanket closer, rubbing warmth into my freezing feet. It’s so cold here. My captor must realize it too because he gave me a second blanket. Same as the first one. Rough and terrible but at least it’s something.
Does he think I’m guilty of what they’re accusing me of?
I drift off, snatching sleep when it comes before the cold, and my dreams wake me. Tonight, though, when I startle awake, it’s not either of those things that rouse me. It’s the key in the lock.
I blink my eyes open, my brain in a fog from the lack of sleep, lack of sunlight, and no exercise. Lack of nutrition. A half bowl of cold soup, a wedge of stale bread, and an apple a day are not enough to sustain me.
Whoever it is is carrying a lantern and there it is. That spark of hope inside me. I sit up, but the moment I recognize the cloak, the hood, the spark is extinguished.
He walks in without a word to me. That’s not unusual, though.
I fumble for my blindfold. I forgot to pull it down, but I do now. I wonder if I should ask for a new strip of cloth. This one is disgusting.
“Stand up,” he says.
“What?”
“Up. On your feet.”
This is different. I release the blanket, shuddering as I stand. I’m not sure I’ll ever get warm again.
“Arms.”
“Why? I haven’t done anything.”
“Arms.”
I extend my arms out to him and feel the familiar rope wrap around the healing, scabbed skin. I feel the warmth of tears slide down my face again.
“Are you taking me back? To The Tribunal?”
He doesn’t reply. Weaving the rope around and between my wrists, he pulls me to the center of the room, where I know the ring he has hooked me to on the ceiling is. He turns me to face away from him, my back to the door.
“No, please. It’s too high. It hurts…”
But my arms are stretched above me, and I’m bound in place before I even finish, and then he’s leaving. Gone. I hear him go. Hear the door close. Hear the lock turn. And then the crunching of dead leaves and branches as he passes by my small window.
What does he mean to do? He can’t leave me hanging like this all night, surely. All day.
I rub the side of my face against my arm and manage to push the blindfold up enough to open my eyes. I turn to look behind me, all around me. Can I at least reach the bucket? Turn it upside down and stand on it to alleviate the pain in my shoulders? I try to extend my leg, but it’s too far. I’m stuck with only the tips of my toes on the floor. I shiver as a cool wind blows outside, and the rain starts to fall, the sound pretty, musical almost on the lush floor beyond my cell. It would be pretty if I were anywhere else. Even in my room which felt like a cell at The Manor. What I’d give to be back there now.
I drift in and out of sleep, jolted awake when my head lolls to my arm then drops. My shoulders ache. My stomach is rumbling. I’m hungry and thirsty. I’m exhausted. So exhausted I can’t think straight.
Rain now pours outside, sliding along the wall beneath the window over the trail of moss and growth on the path it must normally take. I sneeze. I’m freezing. How long has it been? How long has he left me hanging here? And how much longer does he plan to keep me like this?
Something crunches outside. A branch breaks. I hear it even through the rain. Then a moment later comes the familiar sound of the key in the lock.
I turn to look over my shoulder to watch for him, wondering what the point was to stringing me up. The door opens, creaking heavily on its rusted hinges. He’s back, and I’m relieved.
“Thank God,” I mutter. My shoulders ache, and my toes have gone numb.
No lantern this time. Only blackness around him.
I rub my face on my arm but fail to get the blindfold down, so I keep my face averted, my back to the door. To him. I don’t want to anger him. But I listen for him. His steps are always so quiet that only the crunching bones give him away.
I swallow as he nears me, my heartbeat accelerating even more than usual. He lifts my hair and sets it over one shoulder. He’s closer than expected, and I stiffen, feeling the leather of his gloved fingers running down my arm. The warmth of his breath at my neck makes me shudder.
“I…What are…?” I start, but something tickles the back of my neck, scratches the mark there. It makes my breath catch.
I swallow, my throat dry, a croaking sound coming when I try to speak and tell him to stop.
His hand slides down my side and over my thigh.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice small as I look down at his big hand, the black glove working, fisting the fabric of the dress. “What are you doing?” I ask again, this time more forcefully. He hasn’t touched me more than he’s needed to since I’ve been here. What’s changed?
But it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?
I just keep watching as my legs are exposed, my thighs, and I tug against the rope needing my arms to fight him when the fingers of that gloved hand brush against my clit.
“Oh god. Please don’t. Please.”
“No?”
I freeze. Even my tears seem to come to a halt.
He draws his arm around my middle and tugs me backward into his body with a jerk. He’s hard and warm and familiar, and my heart beats wildly as a thousand butterflies take wing inside my stomach.
I turn my head just a little, but he clucks his tongue, and I stop. I lick my lips.
“Santiago?”
Something cold and heavy drops over my head then, and I gasp, looking down at the rosary, the cross dangling between my breasts and over his arm, my feet off the floor as he takes my weight.
“Who else?”
I laugh. Almost. I mean, it’s the closest thing to a laugh. It sounds insane, and I feel fresh tears of relief. He’s come for me. He’s alive, and he’s come for me!
“Santiago! I was so scared.” I’m sobbing, trying to turn to him, but his arm is too tight, hurting me. I hear the tearing of fabric and feel the tugging of the dress at my neck before his other hand closes over my buttock and squeezes so hard that I cry out.
He rubs his chin against my face, his rough with scruff, mine unwashed and dirty and tearstained.
“Were you?” he asks.
I nod, my eyes wide in the darkness because this is not going as I expect. He’s not taking me down. He’s not wrapping me in his arms like he has before.
Of course he’s not.
He thinks I poisoned him. He thinks I tried to kill him.
“I didn’t—”
He lifts me a little higher, arm crushing my ribs which still feel bruised from when the other man took me. With his other hand on my butt, he pulls me open. And then I feel him, his hardness, and some part of me, some sick part of me wants this. Wants him.
He brushes his cheek against my cheek, and I can just see the shadow of his face, his dark eyes black in this night. He drags his lips along my cheekbone, then closer to my ear, not quite kissing me. This is something else.