When I'm With You (Little Hollow Series, #2)(41)

This is my third day of being locked up like a creaturel in a dirty, cold cage. I’m beaten from head to toe and the pain radiating through me never gives me a reprieve in its onslaught, which only adds to my misery. This is fucked up. I should be at home reading gushy texts from Sam, pretending they don’t make me feel like I want to puke.

I’d rather put up with being an outcast a million times over than be here anymore. I’m severely dehydrated and my stomach grumbles at the thought of its next meal. I’ve been given one bottle of water a day and one meal, if you can even call it that. But anything is better than nothing in this situation. I change position slightly, wincing as the scratchy blanket he left me with yesterday brushes against my neck.

I don’t feel like a human being anymore, I’ve started to feel like the animal that he’s clearly trying to show me I am. He wants to break me, mold me to do anything he wants me to do, I can see it in his eyes every time he looks at me.

I scratch a jagged line into the wall beside me with one of my broken, acrylic fingernails. It’s taken me nearly two hours to actually get a decent mark going but the third one is finally done. I sit back and look at the marks I’ve made. Three marks, three days.

I rest my head back against the cold, cement wall and take in a deep breath. Sometimes memories are the worst form of torture, I’d do anything for some coffee right now. A strangled laugh rolls out of my throat and I can’t stop as the high pitched, scratchy sound fills the room. There’s a trillion things I could - and should - be thinking about, but the only thing that doesn’t pain me too much to think about is coffee.

My laugh reverberates around the small room so loud that I don’t hear the nearing of footsteps. I don’t even know he’s coming until the crash of the door alerts me that he’s here, and I shrink into myself.

What are you doing, Keeley? You weren’t given the nickname ‘Steely’ for nothing!

I sit up straighter, waiting for his approach, only he doesn’t move from the doorway and I take in his ragged appearance. He’s wearing his leather cut over a black t-shirt tucked into black jeans. The jeans are held up by a metal studded belt and he’s wearing thick lace up combat boots. Everything is creased and he looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Not that he’s ever been handsome, but his scowl on his face makes him hideous, and I screw my face up.

“Like what you see?” He snarls, finally taking the steps toward me.

I try not to flinch as he squats down in front of me.

“The only thing better than seeing you would be if you would poke my eyes out beforehand!” I spit out, and his face contorts with rage.

He moves within an inch of me and runs a finger down the side of my temple next to my eye socket.

“That can be arranged,” he whispers.

His voice is laced with so many sinister promises that I visibly cower away from him, which only makes him laugh. I curse myself, I’ve given him the reaction he wanted.

My face is turned away from him and I flinch as he strokes my hair.

“I don’t like your hair long, you don’t look like you.” I stay silent and he continues, “But black is my favorite color, your brown hair was bland compared to this. This suits your feistiness,” he whispers in my ear.

“Is that all? Or do you have something I’d actually give a crap about to tell me?” I say sarcastically.

He grips my hair and yanks my head back until my face is practically staring at his crotch. “It’s your feistiness that gets you in trouble though! Reign it in, or I’ll reign it in for you!” He warns, the threat in his voice loud and clear.

He lets go of my hair and I fall into his lap, hurting my knee as I scramble up not wanting to touch him. He stays watching me for a few more minutes before he gets up and walks out.

I don’t get him, if he wants me dead then why not just kill me and get it over and done with? He’s already beaten me and made me feel like I’m worth nothing.

The door opens back up and I try to take back my statement in my head as he drags me back into the same room he made me strip off my clothes in. There’s a chair sat to the side and beside it, on a small counter, are a pair of hair clippers and a comb. My stomach bottoms out.

No!

I thrash as much as I can in his arms and he laughs. “What? I thought you’d miss hairdressing and I need a cut.” He smiles through his comment and I stop moving to watch him as he sits in the chair and beckons me over. “Well come on then, I haven’t got all day.”

I stay rooted to the spot, wondering what the catch is. When he doesn’t move, I step closer to the hair clippers and pick them up.

“I need scissors, I can’t cut your hair with these,” I state matter-of-factly.

His hair is too long to cut with just these. Of course, I’m not going to cut his hair, I just want those scissors.

“Yeah, I know your game. Use them or you can go back to your room,” he says on a laugh. “And don’t even bother trying anything, or I’ll shoot you in your pretty little head.”

His threat makes my insides turn cold, I may act like I’m strong but self preservation comes before anything. I like to think when the times comes, I’ll embrace death with open arms, but I’m only twenty-four and if I want to live out to see my twenty-fifth birthday in three months, I need to play along with his sick games.