Twenty-two
Present
Skye
“What the fuck have you done, Skye?”
My eyes flicker open, and I blearily look around. I’m wet and warm. Savage is holding me to his rock-hard chest, whispering down at me.
The shock is still there, and it isn’t ebbing away. I don’t respond or let him know I’m half-awake. He takes a cupful of water in his hand and runs it over my shoulders. I stare down at the water around us, seeing it mist with the blood of our bodies as it leaves our skin.
Ah, yes.
I’m in hell.
How could I have forgotten?
My attention is then drawn to his hand, to the fresh cuts and light scars running along his fingers. Without thinking, I brush my finger along his wrist as he scoops another handful of water. He pauses at my touch, his body tightening behind me. He doesn’t pull away, and we don’t speak for some time. I don’t even think I breathe.
Finally, I say with a crack in my voice, “I missed you.”
He lets me go like I’ve burnt him.
I twist around to look at him as he pushes away from my body, turning his back to me. His movements are brisk as he dunks his head beneath the water and emerges, scrubbing viciously at his face.
His ravaged face.
What has this place done to him?
His back muscles flex with every movement. He runs a hand down his arms, scrubbing at them too in that ferocious way. He’s fuming, refusing to look at me, and I’m pulled to him regardless of how frightened he makes me.
“Look at me,” I whisper, reaching my hand out to touch his back.
At my touch, he moves away, growling, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
“I thought you were dead—”
“I am dead.” His shoulders drop as he turns his head to the side. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“What happened?” I ask. “Where did you go when—”
“No,” he snaps. “We can’t talk about that in here!”
“Why?”
“Because they’re listening.”
I look around again, staring at the bare walls, at every corner and dark pocket of the room. I don’t see anything there. The room is totally barren.
“It’s just us,” I tell him.
“You don’t know, you haven’t seen what we’ve seen,” he returns. “You’re wrong.”
He resumes cleaning himself, but he looks at me from the corner of his eye, like he’s wary of me. I feel like an outsider, like someone he never fucked, loved, trusted. At the same time, I’m skittish, too. Every time he shifts around the tub, I’m moving in the opposite direction. He notices this, and his nostrils flare. He looks at me, and his eyes are ice, and his voice is empty.
He asks, “Do I know him?”
I go to ask him what he’s talking about? Do I knowwho?