Page 18 of Ruin

“This,” he rasps, something low and rough, it razes up my spine and it feels…good. “Who did this?” he taps a finger over theJinitial carved in the divot of my kneecap.

I don’t need to look down at it to know that’s what he’s gesturing to. I keep my teeth clamped, jaw closed, the muscles knotting below my buzzing ears. It’s not necessarily safe to speak words, even at a direct questioning.

He hums lightly beneath his breath, his grip tightening, and then he continues washing me, soaping over the various names and slurs etched into my skin like a chiselling in a headstone. He doesn’t ask again.

I keep my eyes on his face. Unchanging, expressionless. But there is a lightness in his eyes that speaks of rage. I have seen it and felt it too often. I do not know if this man would prefer my submissiveness or my fight. I will do nothing until it is clear. I let him pull my limbs, twist my torso, until I am facing away from him. The wet cloth slaps against my back, then he scrubs lightly between my shoulder blades, over the jutting of my exposed spine. I jolt forward as the heat passes over the open lashes, his free hand lifting my hair over my shoulder. The matting scratches against the front of my shoulder, and I ache to cut it off. Perhaps this man will. Perhaps he will do nothing and scalp me instead, shine my skull for a shelf full of macabre trinkets.

I feel warm at the thought, being in here forever with this unusual man.

He runs the cloth down my back, his other hand coming over my good shoulder, he curls me forwards, and then he takes the cloth over the base of my spine, down lower still. My cheeks heat, embarrassment thick. I want to pull away as he cleans me between my cheeks. Instead, I stay still, limp, like a doll. I keep arched forward until he’s done. The water bucket sloshing as he dunks the cloth back into it.

He guides me back up, turning me around, my gaze on the dirty floor of my cage. I can’t look at him now, my cheeks red, my breathing harsh. He says nothing, pulling my legs apart and bringing each foot back through the bars. My body gets hotter, and I wish the ground would swallow me up. I have had humiliating things done to me for as long as I can remember but nothing has ever made me as uncomfortable as this.

My legs are wide, shaking with the strain, his warm hands glide a wet trail up the inside of my calves, insides of my knees, the rough pad of his thumb snagging over the scarred lettering until they stop at the top of my inner thighs. I can feel his gaze on me, my eyes squeezed tight, matted hair draping over my face, shielding me. His thumbs press into the ridging tendons, massaging hard at the crease of my thighs.

My legs continue to shake, the tremor running through my abdomen, up my chest and then his hands release me, the water sloshes again, and I still don’t look up.

He sweeps a different cloth over my inner thighs, the texture something softer to the other one he just used. His free hand clamps onto my hip bone, his forearms wedged between the thick bars. He sweeps the rag between my legs. My cheeks heat hotter, warmth up my neck, down my chest, blooming across my breasts as he works the cloth over me thoroughly.

His hand disappears and I take my first breath, a huge gasp of air funnels into my lungs making me splutter. He does nothing but wait for my coughing to end, my eyes still closed. And then he finishes washing me, scrubbing lightly over my belly, up between my shrunken breasts, over my chest, down my sides. I try not to focus on the burn of his hand secured on my hip. And then he’s finished. Both hands leaving me, a final slap of the cloth against water in the bucket.

I listen to him shift, stand, his almost silent footsteps as he walks over to the large sink, empties the bucket. And then he returns, a different bucket that smells like bleach and my eyes itch instantly as he places it beside me. But he doesn’t sit this time and I let my eyes open, keeping my gaze on the bottom of my cage.

And then my neck cracks as my head shoots up, eyes wide on the loud whirring. An electric saw in his hands. My hands slap over my ears, my instincts screaming to back into the far corner of my cage.

He’s going to cut me into pieces.

No one’s ever used a saw on me before. A hammer, knives, matches, yes. Not a saw. Never a power tool.

Fear pounds through me, my chest heaving, eyes sparking with white spots, I heave for breath, the scent of bleach infecting my insides like poison. I tuck my head into my knees, my shoulder screaming, one hand covering my ear as I curl myself into an upright ball.

And then the saw screams.

Chapter11

Charlie

Three days and she still won’t leave the fucking cage. I cut open the gate for her to get out. Broke her chain free from the floor, though the links still hang from the shackle cuffing her delicate little throat, but still, she huddles in the prison I brought her here in.

I lean myself back against the wooden workbench, fingers stroking down Dillon’s feathered head, thinking about the happy sounds he used to make. I still hear them in my head some days, the short, sharp quacks, the way he would waggle his tail when he got placed in a bathtub, fluff up his feathers when I came home.

“Good boy, Dillon,” I say lowly, raspy, I hate the sound of my own voice, cracked and weak.

I blink, staring at the girl where she huddles in the far corner of her cage. Opposite end open for her exit. She watches me, those unusual blue-brown orbs fully focused on me, the mug of soup in her hand, clutched closely to her chest. Her eyes stay on mine, even as she tips the cup to her mouth, plump, dry lips parting, her attention solely on me over the lip of the mug.

I stare at her other arm, elbow pulled in tight to her core, curled fist beneath her collar. It’s limp, half-hanging, dislocated from its socket. It needs to be put back before she ends up with permanent damage to it, who knows how long it’s been like that. I could cut it off, but I’d probably kill her. I’m not really sure why I don’t want to do that. I let her finish the soup, bone broth, no lumps, spoonful of thickening powder and too many dissolvable vitamins to count.

Blue-brown eyes reverently on me, I tread closer, crouch before the length of the side bars, ignoring the open door on one end in the same way she does. Slowly, my hand threads through the cage, her eyes tracking my unfurling fingers, my gaze on her face. She stares at my extended hand, and I wait, I am nothing if not terrifyingly patient. After what is much too long, she flicks those bloodshot eyes up onto mine and without breaking our stare; she places the cup into my hand. I blink, she blinks, and I take the mug, carrying it back over and placing it down on my workbench.

I feel tense, knowing I need to get her out in order to fix her arm, but when I think of popping it back into place, pinning her against the bars of the cage, my dick fucking twitches. Fists tight, pressing down onto the wood, shoulders hitched up tight around my ears, I drop my head forward, squeeze my eyes shut.

I hear her breathing, halfway across the room. Too fast, raspy, tight. My insides feel like they’re curdling, knotting, guts twisting, lungs constricting. I think of binding that chain around my fist, yanking her head back, the shackle carving into her throat, breaking her jaw.

I hear it clink, my eyes snap open, my breath is stilled in my lungs. I listen, hearing her shift on the now clean base of her cage. I bleached it, swept it out, all with her huddled in one corner to the next. But it smells better, bleach filling my nostrils, her skin is clean too, soap and water, her own scent starting to carve through. The chain clinks again, and I can feel her tense, at the sound, the room so silent, she doesn’t ever want me to know she’s moving around, always so quiet, trying not to draw attention. Little does she know, everything she does draws my attention.

It is driving me insane. The way she watches me. Something reverent, something almost worshipping. It makes my skin crawl. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

I have made this all very complicated for myself.

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