Page 40 of Sin of Love

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CAPTIVITY - DAY 70

Soft breeze.

Whispering leaves.

Chirping birds.

Warm sunlight.

Eyes closed, I breathe it all in, enjoying the peaceful reprieve. Right now, for these small moments, I’m unburdened by reality.

A guard’s murmured greeting signals the end of my stolen peace. Darkness enters the solarium. Right on time. If I had a watch, I could set it by his rigid schedule. Six, wake up. Five-mile run. Shower. Seven thirty, breakfast, which he eats in his office with his devoted lieutenants.

Darkness walks toward me in a tailored suit, a smile on his handsome face that tells me today will hurt. Like the glutton for suffering I am, I still search the creases around his eyes, the tilt of his lips, for vestiges of my friend. But my sporadic glimpses of Marco have dwindled to nothing in the last weeks. I don’t know why I keep looking.

Or I do, but I can’t face what it means.

“Mi muñequita,” Darkness says warmly. “¿Cómo estás?”

“Fine, thank you. And you?”

“I’m happy. Very happy. Are you excited to see the surprise I have for you?”

“Very.” No.

“Wonderful.”

He nears, noticing my empty plate and the untouched platters of food.

“Are you finished with breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like more orange juice?”

“No, thank you.”

“Very well.”

Before I can rise, his shadow falls over my chair and a broad, tan hand cups my shoulder. Darkness bleeds beneath my skin. Settles in my veins.

He is poison.

“What’s this? You haven’t finished your tea.” Gentle, admonishing tone.

I bow my head. “I was thinking I might be ready to taper off a little—”

Blunt fingers dig into the muscle and sinew of my shoulder. Pain zigzags, lightning bright and sharp.

“Drink it.”

I lift the delicate porcelain cup and swallow the cold tea, loathing it even as a part of me wilts with relief. Outside of horrendous withdrawal, I’m so strung out the tea doesn’t do much anymore besides smudge the boundaries of time. The sun rises and sets on an endless day. Past is present is future.

I wish it still made me numb—numb enough not to know or care that it’s the second week of July, that I’ve been gone nearly three months. Even if someone were to look for me, they’d never find me here. Nate… he probably thinks I’m dead.

I might as well be.

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