Page 14 of Drawn to Death
He doesn’t even flinch when I press the needle to his arm. Just keeps his eyes on me, wide and kind of expectant. The sedative works faster than I expect. I barely catch him before he falls out of the chair, then I move him into the bedroom I’ve got prepped ready.
Once he is settled, I sit next to him. In sleep, he looks different. Younger. Even peaceful, if that is possible. I reach out and push some hair off his forehead. His skin feels warm, softer than I expect.
The folded drawing in my pocket presses against my chest, solid and insistent, a reminder of whatever this is, whatever strange thing has started between us. This isn’t just about Vincenzo anymore. It isn’t even about protecting myself, or the organization, or following the plan.
It is something else. Something I’ve never felt before. A connection I don’t want, but can’t shake.
I stand and walk to the window, tugging the curtain back just enough to catch the last streaks of daylight. My phone buzzes in my pocket. Vincenzo again, waiting for an update. I let it ring. Don’t even check the screen.
Behind me, Quell sleeps on, oblivious to the choice I’ve just made. To keep him. To figure him out. To see what else he can show me.
My fingertips still tingle where I touch his skin. I study him, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.
Mine. Not like ownership, not even desire, but something quieter. Recognition. Fate.
I’ve never believed in that before. Never think my life is anything but my own doing. But standing there, watching this strange, breakable boy who can see through me, I feel something click. Like the right answer, or a lock turning.
I am already hooked. And I like it.
Chapter eight
Quell
Iwake up to a silence so complete it feels deliberate, like a blanket tucked tight around me. No cars, no neighbor’s TV leaking through the drywall. Just the soft, steady sound of my own breath, loud in my ears. The mattress is solid under me, not hard, but definitely not the limp, collapsing thing I sleep on at home. I run my hand along the edge of the blanket. It is clean, soft, and smells faintly like laundry detergent. Not my detergent. Nothing here is mine. The last of the sedative drags at my thoughts, making them slow and sticky, but one thing is clear: I am a prisoner. The cell just happens to be the most comfortable one I’ve ever seen.
I sit up, bracing myself for the wave of dizziness. It comes, and then it goes. The room swims into focus: white walls, thick curtains block the single window, a single overhead light behind a frosted panel, glowing evenly. The door looks heavy, and probably locked. Next to the bed, there is a little table with a tray on it. Folded clothes. Another door is cracked open just enough to show tiles and the edge of a sink.. a bathroom.
It doesn’t add up. I pictured zip ties, maybe a chair, maybe a damp basement. Not this. Not a room that looks like a hotel, if hotels have all their personality stripped away.
My mouth tastes metallic and stale. I swing my legs off the bed. I am still in my clothes, and the clean ones on the side are mine. I’m dressed as I was when he stepped out of the shadows and grabbed me, except no socks or shoes. I think I was wearing them while making the tea, but I’m doubting my own memory too much these days. My bare feet press against the floor. It’s concrete, but smooth, almost polished.
There is a tray beside me. Glass of water, covered plate, two white pills in a little paper cup. Painkillers, maybe. Or poison. I leave the pills and take the water. My throat is so dry I nearly choke on the first gulp. It tastes clean, cold. I drink it all.
I try the door. Locked, obviously. The knob doesn’t budge. No keyhole either. I press my ear to the wood, but it is dead silent. Wherever I am, he sealed me in good.
The bathroom door opens fine. Small but decent: toilet, sink, shower. One towel, white and stiff, like it just came from the wash. On the sink, a toothbrush still in the wrapper. Toothpaste. Soap. Even a comb.
I look in the mirror. The person staring back could be anyone. Pale, eyes hollow, hair in wild tufts. No bruises. No cuts. No sign I’ve been hurt. Just taken.
The shower is tempting. I want to scrub off whatever he dosed me with. The water turns hot right away, steam fogging the mirror. I step in and let it hit me, pounding away the sweat and the leftover fear. For a second, with my eyes closed, I can almost believe I am home.
But I’m not. I am somewhere else. Somewhere he made for me.
The soap is unscented, plain. I scrub until my skin is pink and tingling, like I can wash off the weight of his stare. The water stays hot, steady. Whoever built this place thought of everything.
I stand under the spray until my fingers prune, using the time to think. To plan. But what plan? I don’t know where I am. Don’t know what he wants. All I know is I am alive, unhurt, and clean. That is more than most people get when they are taken by men like him.
That should be a comfort. It isn’t.
I turn off the water and grab the towel. It is soft, not scratchy, soaking up the water without hurting. Another small kindness. Why bother if you are just going to kill someone? Unless that isn’t the plan.
The food tray is still there, waiting. I lift the cover. A sandwich, honey, with the crusts removed. An apple and a slice of cake. Nothing fancy. Real food, though. Not instant noodles. Not the kind of thing you give someone you plan to get rid of.
My stomach growls. I try to remember the last time I ate. Yesterday? Before he came. Before everything went sideways.
I sit on the edge of the bed, tray balanced on my knees. The first bite of eggs is careful, like maybe they’ll taste wrong. But they don’t. They taste fine. Better than fine. I take another bite, bigger this time. After that, I just eat. Not thinking about it. Not tasting, really. Just filling up the emptiness.
When it is gone, I put the tray back on the table. The pills are still there. Probably not poison. If he wants me dead, he’s had chances. So what are they? I pick them up. Just white tablets. Aspirin? My head is pounding, though I don’t want to admit it.
