Page 148 of House of Payne
I refuse to stop fighting and let them think they’ve broken me.
I have much more at stake than they realize, and keeping me in a spacious room with only my thoughts for company won’t be what wears me down.
Finally, I bury my face in my hands and slide down against the door. Then, I draw my knees to my chest and link my trembling fingers. My mind races as I piece together the past few hours, searching for anything to make sense of how I wound up here.
This can’t be about Mason.
Wake up, London. What else could this be about? You’re nothing special, and you know it.
They’re going to be pissed when they find out this was all for nothing.
But, I do know I mean enough to Mason. He’s come to my rescue before, and it seems whoever’s taken me are willing to go through this trouble and risk his wrath. They know he cares, even if just a little.
It can’t all have been in my head.
I have no idea how long I sit there, wishing I could go back in time and keep myself from signing the contract.
I hear the lock click and the door creak open. I jump to my feet and ignore the skittering in my chest.
Nothing happens.
I spread my legs shoulder-width apart and hold my arms in front of my face. “Let me go.”
I hope my voice doesn’t sound as uncertain as I feel because I have a feeling these people prey on weakness.
Suddenly, a petite redhead steps into the room, carrying a tray with antiseptic spray, cotton, and gauze. Wordlessly, she kicks the door shutbehind her and sets the tray on the table behind the door. I’m able to make out dark brown eyes set against a round face, a pair of jeans, and a shirt. She doesn’t meet my gaze as she rearranges the items on the tray with a loud, clattering sound.
I drop my hands and clear my throat. “Who are you?”
She picks up the cotton and sprays it. When she turns to face me, I realize her dark eyes are emotionless.
She’s as much a prisoner as I am.
I let her take my hand and clean the raw knuckles. “Please. I’m not supposed to be here. I don’t know what’s happening.”
She lowers her head, finishing one hand and reaching for the other.
I don’t realize I’m crying until she reaches into her pocket and pulls out a pack of tissues.
“I don’t know what you did to end up here, but I’d suggest you do what they tell you,” she whispers. “Don’t try to force your way out, or it’ll make things worse.”
I take her hands in mine, and she squirms. “Please help me. My dad and my… Noah, were they taken, too? They were bound and gagged.”
Please let them be okay. God, please. I’ll never forgive myself if anything happens to them.
She gulps and pries her fingers away. “I don’t know anything about other prisoners.”
“Can you find out?”
They’re not dead, they can’t be.
I refuse to entertain even the idea of it.
I cling to that fragile hope with everything in me, praying I live long enough to find out the truth. “Please. I can tell you don’t want to be here, either. I don’t know what they have over you, but I can help you. We can help each other.”
“No one can help me.”
“Please. You can’t just leave me here.”
