Page 9 of Blood that Burns

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE

It’s been weeks since I’ve seen Marcellus.

Ever since the night he broke down, he’s stayed away, allowing me to tend to myself after my nightly nightmares.

Food is delivered by the one and only person in this place that he trusts, a beautiful dark-skinned woman who never speaks to me. She simply knocks on the door to announce her presence, hands me the tray, and locks me back in. I don’t even know her name.

She once offered a small smile, but before I had the chance to beg her for answers, she slammed the door in my face, leaving me alone once more.

Everything has changed.

Since the day I arrived, I’ve seldom been locked in. Only in instances where Marc had assured me that I was in danger.

This is different.

I haven’t left this room in weeks.

I haven’t showered, and the room is starting to catch the smell. The woman occasionally brings warm washcloths for me to sponge bathe, but it’s not good enough. This isn’t right.

I’m miserable, but Marcellus won’t see me. He won’t explain why I’m suddenly a prisoner.

The anger is building, and I have no outlet for it. Other than simple exercises to keep up my strength, I have nothing else to do to burn off this pent-up fury.

Every day my fists pound on the door as I call out to him. Beg him to see me. To let me out of this cell.

Today is no different.

“Let me out. Marcellus, let. Me. Out!” I bellow, striking the door over and over again, until my hands hurt. “Let me out,” I whisper, turning to slide down the door.

Tears spill from my eyes in a mixture of desperation and despair.

I can’t do this anymore.

At some point, I pull myself from the dusty wood floor and throw myself onto the bed, crying myself to sleep.

“I’m sorry, Maggie. Please forgive me.”

The words are soft and full of remorse. A haunting melody in a room of nightmares.

I peek an eye open and find the room dark, save for the light of the crescent moon floating through the window. Not that I need the light to know who sits atop my bed, whispering words of regret to me.

“Marcellus,” I say, sitting up and leaping toward him.

The anger from earlier is gone, and in its place is relief.

He’s fine. He’s here. I’m no longer alone.

I wrap my arms around him, squeezing him tightly. “Where have you been?”

His audible sigh is met with silence for far too many tense minutes, while I continue to hold him awkwardly, scared to let go for fear he’ll leave me alone again.

“Marcellus,” I prompt.

“I couldn’t bear to see you, Maggie. Not after what I did.”

Pulling back to look at him through tapered eyes, I say, “You did what you thought was best.”

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