Watching me naked in the shower, washing my body.
There was a camera staring down over the top of my bed and another that had to have been somehow affixed to the headboard. So that creep could watch me sleep from an aerial view as well as an up close and personal view. Hell, he could probably watch me drool in my sleep, could hear every snore, every shudder, every time I cried under the sheets wishing someone would come and rescue me.
There’s a camera implanted somewhere inside the door, too. The view faces out from the doorway, pointed slightly downward. That means that every time I scratched and slammed and screamed at the door, he was watching me. Closely. Close enough to see the terror in my eyes, the tears rolling hot down my cheeks. This is more than just some sexual fantasy, this is the lair of a sadistic predator who got off on watching me suffer. It dawns on me that he was probably intending to keep me there forever, just eating popcorn while he watched me descend into insanity and hopelessness.
I crumple to the floor, my knees buckling beneath me as I bury my face in my hands.
My savior, if he really is saving me, crouches down beside me and puts an arm over my back. But I don’t want to be touched right now. Not while I’m feeling so exposed and vulnerable. I shrug away from him, sobbing. To his credit, he backs away, listening to my body language.
“I’m sorry,” he says in that low, rough voice. There is genuine sorrow in his tone, and while I appreciate the concern, it also just makes me angry. I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want this complete stranger’s first impression of me to be that I’m weak and fragile. No. I won’t let myself be broken. At least, I don’t want him to see me that way, even if I am.
And at this point, surrounded by all these surveillance monitors, I am broken. And alone. All alone and confused and shattered. I look up from my hands at the man who freed me. Tall, powerful, dressed in black with a somber expression on his impossibly handsome face. There’s a gentleness, a quiet, restrained power that intrigues me even more than it frightens me.
Before I can think twice about it, I get up and dash into his arms, burying my face into his shoulder. He freezes up for a second, clearly surprised at my sudden change of heart. But then he holds me, his hands patting my back, cradling me like a wounded animal against his chest.
I wish I wasn’t doing this. I wish I wasn’t so weak. I’m stronger than this, or at least I thought I was. But something about this man makes me feel safe.
Or maybe it’s just the loneliness, the absence of human touch for so long. I never realized how much the hugs from the kids, the brushing of hands as a customer handed me a tip, the way my shoulders pressed against someone else on the bus could be missed. I always considered myself a loner, but those little social interactions... I missed them more than I can put into words.
“He was watching me,” I murmur into his black shirt, damp from my tears. “All that time, he was watching me. I knew he was. But…”
“You didn’t know how closely,” he finishes for me in a solemn voice.
I nod, my shoulders shaking with sobs. “I-I didn’t know. That whole time, there was nowhere to hide.”
“How long have you been down there?” he asks again, stroking my hair. I push back and look at his face, searching for the answer myself.
“I don’t know. There are no clocks. No windows. I-I just slept when I was tired. There was no way to keep track of time,” I admit, shrugging helplessly.
He frowns, his jaw tightening.
“What is your name?”
I blink a few times, confused at the change of subject. At first, I worry that I should keep my identity secret, just in case this guy is actually working with my captor. But that thought quickly vanishes. The man that put me in that hole would never let another person see me, or speak to me. The cameras tell me that much. He wanted to control me, utterly.
For perhaps the first time, I believe he truly is my rescuer, and not just someone toying with me.
So I tell him the truth.
“My name is Eva. Eva Wells,” I say, sniffling.
“Okay, Eva,” he says, and the sound of his deep voice growling my name sends a shiver down my spine. “Do you know what year it is?”
“It’s 2017,” I tell him, frowning. Why is he asking me this?
He looks relieved. “Good, good. What month?”
I bite my lip. “December?”
The hint of a smile plays on his lips. “That’s right. And what is the last date you can remember for certain? Do you remember the date of the day you were brought here?”
I close my eyes and think about it for a moment. “It was a Saturday. I had just gotten off work. It was… the ninth?”
The man winces, which tells me that’s not good, somehow. “What? What does that mean?” I ask frantically. He puts a hand on my shoulder, calming me.
“It just means you’ve been down there for a while. A few weeks. Have you been eating? There’s food down there? Or has he… has he been feeding you?” he asks.
I shudder. “There are cans of food. Peas and carrots and tuna. Stuff like that. I never saw him. Once he threw me in there, he never came in. Not to my knowledge,” I add, wondering darkly if maybe that pervert had ever come into my room while I was sleeping or something. After seeing all these monitors, I wouldn’t put it past him.
“Are you hungry?”
“Yeah. Starving.”
“Okay. Let’s get to the main building, then,” he says, leading me out of the shed into the light of morning. I thought it was late afternoon, supposed to be almost dark. Weeks in that bunker...
“The sun,” I mumble. It hurts, but it’s a hurt I crave right now, after all that time down there.
“Still shining,” says my savior.
He leads me across a big, overgrown yard and into a different building. It looks like an old farmhouse, badly dilapidated in some places and still mostly upright in others. It looks like the kind of place a squatter might take up residence, and I wonder if maybe my captor was squatting here illegally. I had no idea any of this was here, no reason to suspect there was anything above ground. All I knew was the bunker.
We walk into a kitchen, which is surprisingly well-maintained. Even clean.
“How long have you been here?” I ask suddenly, looking around.
He doesn’t answer.
“Do you like grilled cheese sandwiches?” he says.
My stomach growls.
“I’ll eat anything that doesn’t come from a can,” I say plainly, taking a seat at the little table in the middle of the kitchen while he takes out a pan, bread, butter, and a block of cheddar cheese. I watch him as he cooks, seeing the muscles ripple across his powerful back.
“How long have you been here?” I ask again. “The kitchen looks clean. Different from the rest of the house.”
Without turning around, he answers, “A few days. I’m restoring the place. Starting with the kitchen.”
“So, what are you? A construction guy?” I ask. He snorts. “Cop?” I suggest.
He glances back at me, one eyebrow raised. I roll my eyes.
“Okay, not a cop, either. I guess that makes sense. A cop wouldn’t be making me a sandwich. He would just take me straight to the police station to take a statement.”
He stops and turns around, folding his arms over his chest.
“Do you want to go to the police station?” he asks, his tone tense. He doesn’t want me to say yes.
And surprisingly, I don’t want to say yes. I don’t want to go.
Not now.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
I don’t want anyone to know what happened to me. Shame burns in my face as I think of all the things people would say. All the things they’ve said to me and countless others before. That I shouldn’t have taken the bus so late, that I should have walked with a male escort, that I should’ve been more careful, that I shouldn’t have been wearing heels.
I don’t want to face that scrutiny.
>
It makes me dizzy, all the self-blame from the last several weeks, ever since I’d been captured, swirling in my mind. But deep down, I know it wasn’t my fault.
No one wants to be held captive in a bunker. No one could do anything to deserve that fate, or ask for that fate.
“No,” I answer quietly, breaking myself out of my reverie.
“Good,” he says, turning back to the grilled cheese in the pan.
I get up and walk over to stand beside him.
“Why? Why is that good?”
He’s silent for a long time. Then he says simply, “It’s not safe for you to leave.”
“Why?” I press on. He gives me a silencing look and I close my mouth.
I stare at him, the gears churning in my mind. I know he’s hiding something from me. A lot of somethings, I imagine.
But he is the man who saved me from hell, and I find myself drawn to him. He’s tall, and strong, and hasn’t done anything to make me think he wants to hurt me. I lick my lips, pondering things over.
He’s a stranger. I shouldn’t trust just anyone.
So why do I already trust him? Why do I believe him when he says it’s not safe for me to leave?
“Your sandwich is done,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts as he flips the grilled cheese onto a plate and hands it to me. The bread is the perfect brown color, the cheese melted just outside of the crust, and pulling apart into a beautiful, gooey, wholesome half.
Comfort food, I think to myself, savoring the flavor of something fresh and delicious. I never knew how much I missed bread. A sensual moan escapes my lips, and I cover my mouth, embarrassed. I feel his gaze on me, a slight smile brightening his otherwise serious face.
Something lingers in his gaze. Almost like...
Gratitude?
No. I must be mistaken. But the longer he watches me, the more I stare at him, the more I get a glimpse into his soul. Into the loneliness we share. The gratitude of just having someone else, some other calming presence in the room.
I dab my lip with a napkin, and I smile back at him. His face softens at me, and my heart pounds faster in my chest. All the while I was in the bunker, I was terrified I’d never see anyone else’s face but for the kidnapper.
But now, I’m looking at a rugged, handsome man, who seems smitten with my enjoyment of the food he made me. The moment only lasts a second before he seems to realize how intensely our eyes are locked and he turns away, heading into another room.
I stare after him, confused. A few moment later I hear the sounds of metal and plastic clinking together, like he’s rummaging through a drawer. I get up, taking my sandwich with me, and walk into what appears to be a living room.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He holds up a toolbox. “Restoration.”
“Now?” I ask, half annoyed and half amused.
“No time like the present.”
“So, freeing a trapped captive woman from a bunker is just another item on your to-do list and now you’ve moved on to… whatever it is you’re doing there?” I comment, taking a big bite of my sandwich.
He shrugs.
“I suppose so.”
He’s trying to seem normal, like this is nothing, but I can see the gears churning behind his eyes. He doesn’t know what to do with me, and he’s trying to figure it out. Figure me out. Perhaps that’s why he wanted the silent routine of hammering.
I sit down on the musty sofa while he lays out tools on the coffee table. Wrenches, hammers, screws. He means business.
I don’t want him to figure out what to do with me. Not yet. For now, I just want to sit here, and savor my freedom.
There’s a darker part of me, though. A darker part of me that was lost in fantasies in the bunker, doing everything I could to escape that hellhole. I tried in vain so many times to physically escape, so instead I used to dream about what would happen after I left. I thought about my lonely, quiet existence before the bunker. No boyfriends, no friends, no family but for an absentee father.
All I could dream about was changing that. Finding someone who would always protect me. Someone who would be looking for me if I went missing. Someone who would save me, time and time again.
I don’t know if God heard my prayers or not, but either way, the universe sent me a savior, and I don’t intend to run away from fate.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Salvatore. Sal,” he adds with a bit of softness as he gets up to walk into another room, hammer in hand.
I follow after him.
Over the course of the day, I continue to follow him, afraid to let him out of my sight for even a moment. I ask him question after question. Sometimes he answers. Sometimes he doesn’t. But he never loses patience, answering me with the same calmness. It reminds me of how I’d answer the questions at the daycare, though without the excitement and happiness.
There is a part of me that wants to leave, to bust out of this house and just run. Run in whatever direction, running back to the life I’d built for myself. It’s not too late. My job might be gone, but my rent hasn’t even come due yet. I could slide back into the routine of my old life.
But after weeks in the bunker, hidden from the world, I feel like something fundamental inside me has snapped. Can I ever return to normal?
No. Not so soon, at least. I’m terrified of being alone, and I crave the company of someone who understands what I went through without me having to say anything more. My tight-lipped savior. The only one who I’ll never need to explain what happened to me to.
Besides, I don’t trust myself to survive on my own. I don’t know how far we are from Rochester, or if we’re even in the same state anymore. I know nothing, and Sal is the closest thing to an answer I have.
He saved me. He makes me feel solid and stable for the first time in weeks. I don’t want to leave him. Right now, I’m just reveling in the freedom of getting to walk around a house above ground, safe in the knowledge that some pervert isn’t holed up watching me on a bunch of monitors anymore.
I’m relieved. So relieved that I don’t even get angry when Sal doesn’t answer a question. Maybe he’s just like me—keeping to himself. Maybe the world has hurt him somehow, too. Maybe he doesn’t trust me.
So why do I trust him?
“If you’ve been here three days, how did you just now find me?” I ask.
“I assumed the shed was in disrepair like the rest of the property. I figured it’d just be a broken down mower in it, but hoped to find some paint in there,” he explains.
“Why are you here?” I inquire.
“I’ve told you a thousand times. To restore the property.”
“What happened to that man who brought me here?”
“Don’t worry about him.”
“How do I not worry about him? He’s a crazy sadist who locked me in a bunker to watch my every move for nearly a month!”
Sal gives me a stern expression, anger and something else swirling in his cool gaze.
“He’s not a problem anymore.”
“Why not?”
“He has been dealt with.”
“How? Where did he go? What if he comes back?”
Sal sighs, looking down at his watch.
“It’s seven PM. Do you want dinner?”
I stop short, again diverted by food. Turns out, living on dusty old canned food for weeks does wonders for your appetite. Sal cooks us a steak split between the two of us, and couple of baked potatoes with cheese and sour cream, the likes of which I had assumed I would never taste again. After dinner, I immediately start to feel sleepy, my internal clock totally warped from my time without clocks or sunlight.
“You should rest,” he says.
“Where?” I ask, my eyes feeling heavy.
“The kitchen is the cleanest room, but there’s a bedroom you can use. I’ll show you,” he says, beckoning for me to follow him. I trudge behind him across the house to a Spartan bedroom. The dresser and bedside table ar
e coated in a layer of dust, but the bed looks reasonable enough.
“The sheets have been cleaned,” he says. “I’ve been using the bed while I stay here.”
“Where will you sleep then?” I ask, turning to look at him with concern.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” he says.
“No, that’s not fair to you,” I protest. There’s a look of faint surprise on his face, like he’s confused that I would worry about where he’s sleeping tonight. I get the feeling he’s not used to anyone worrying about him, in general.
“I will be fine. There’s another bedroom. And a couch,” he explains. Before he turns away, he adds, “How long have you been wearing those clothes?”
I look down at my outfit. The same one I wore the day I was captured. I can’t help but blush. They must look and smell a little off. “A while,” I answer sheepishly.
“Do you want something of mine to wear instead?” he asks.
I bite my lip, considering the awkwardness of wearing this man’s clothing. He’s gigantic, and I’m five-foot-six and slender. But it beats wearing this stupid sports bar uniform.
“Yes, please,” I admit. He nods and walks away, leaving me alone in the room for a few minutes. During those minutes, my panic returns and my heart races. It’s like the second he’s out of my sight, the terror returns. Like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.
I sit on the bed, the blankets wrapped around me as I just try to breathe through the panic attack, tears coming to my eyes as I angrily swat them away.
“You’re not down there anymore,” I say to myself, trying to reassure my fractured mind. My lip trembles as I shake my head. “This is normal. It’s normal to be scared,” I say out loud. “But I’m safe now.”
He comes back holding a pair of boxer shorts and a huge white T-shirt, looking at me curiously. In the few minutes it’s been since he left, I must look like a totally different person. Panic stricken, curled up on the bed in terror, talking to myself.
But he doesn’t force me to explain myself, his rough voice still tender with me.
Abducted: A Mafia Hitman Romance Page 4