Page 17 of Pastel Kisses

I bite my lip, tamping down the frustration burning inside me. I need to be patient. I need to wait for the right moment.

My stomach growls loudly, reminding me how long it’s been since I’ve physically eaten. Sarah has an obsession with keeping me drugged, putting me under for days at a time and feeding me through a fucking tube. I’ve lost so much weight that my body feels foreign to me. Weaker. Less capable.

She’s keeping me alive for a reason, though. That worries me more than if she’d just planned to kill me outright. If I knew my fate was sealed, I could brace for it. But this? This slow, calculated game? I don’t know what her end goal is, and that terrifies me more than anything.

I glance at the food she left while I was unconscious. It’s basic—chips, a sandwich, a bottle of water. There’s no clear theme for breakfast, lunch, or dinner, making it even harder to track time. But pride is a luxury I can’t afford. I need food. I need energy.

The cellophane crackles as I tear into the bag of chips, popping a few into my mouth as I ration the rest for later. The salty barbeque flavor bursts over my tongue, momentarily distracting me from the hopelessness of my situation.

I refuse to fall apart. If I let myself wallow, I’ll never make it out of here. I have to stay sharp. I have to survive.

Hours pass. The room grows colder, my skin chilled to the bone. I’m not sure if it’s from her presence alone or if she’s deliberately turning down the temperature, waiting for me to beg for those blankets again. She’s taken them more times than I can count, using them as some twisted reward system.

When the lock finally clicks, signaling her return, I barely react. I curl tighter against the mattress, tucking my knees against my chest as the door creaks open.

Sarah stands there, arms full of blankets, her smile plastic and smug. “Here you go,” she sing-songs, placing them on the edge of the bed like she’s being generous. “You were very good today, so as per our agreement, here are your blankets.”

I stare at her for a moment before forcing myself to play along.

“Thank you,” I whisper through chattering teeth.

The look on her face is triumphant, her head tilting as she drinks in my supposed submission. Let her think she’s winning. Let her believe she has control.

“You’re welcome,” she practically purrs before dragging the metal chair just out of my reach and sitting down. She watches me for a long moment, eyes sharp, calculating.

My stomach betrays me with a loud growl.

“Where are my manners?” she coos. “Let me get you something to eat.”

She leaves, locking the door behind her. I listen, tracking the sounds above. Dishes clanking. Footsteps. A distant television hum. The details start forming a map in my mind, giving me a rough idea of the house’s layout.

When she returns, she carries a tray loaded with food.

Potatoes and gravy, meatloaf, green beans, spaghetti, garlic bread. Four bottled waters. My stomach clenches at the sight of it, hunger battling my pride.

“Here you go,” she says, setting the tray on the desk before returning to her chair.

I eye the feast warily. “What’s this for?”

Her smirk widens. “Can’t have my little pet wasting away, can I?”

The words make my blood boil, but I force myself to stay calm. I need to play this right.

Because one way or another, I’m getting out of here.

Sarah shrugs, a smirk plastered across her freaky-ass face. “Had a good day today, so I thought I’d pay it forward.” She reaches into her back pocket, pulling out a cell phone, waving it enticingly like a damn prize on a game show.

Curiosity tugs at me despite every instinct screaming to ignore her. “What’s that for?”

“I recorded something today that I wanted to share with you.” She presses a button on the phone, and soon voices echo in the air. My stomach knots. Sarah’s voice is the first one I recognize, but then a deep, familiar baritone sends a shockwave through me. Jaxton.

My lower lip trembles as I fight back the sob clawing at my throat, but the tears come anyway, hot and stinging. Sarah, the psychotic bitch, beams with delight at my reaction, feeding off my suffering like it’s her morning coffee. “Listen,” she instructs, shushing me as if I’d dare interrupt.

The recording plays.

“How are you doing?” Sarah’s voice is syrupy sweet, drenched in false sincerity.

“Not good,” Jaxton replies, his voice hoarse, heavy with anguish. “I miss her. They still have no leads. No matter how much money and attention we sink into social media or the news, it’s not enough. No one’s seen her.” His voice cracks on the last sentence, and my breath shudders out, hands balling into fists in my lap. He’s suffering. They all are.

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