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CHAPTER EIGHT
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I’D NEVER WISHED FOR someone to survive and die in equal measure.
I wanted him to survive because the thought of him dying after the past he’d endured was unthinkable. No wonder he was the way he was. No wonder he’d attacked me. Didn’t trust me. And had such a complicated relationship with sex.
Each time he woke, blinked at me as if he’d never met me, let alone had his tongue between my legs, I wept inside. I struggled not to break and cry in front of him. I did my best to answer his repetitive questions about where his family was, where the guests were, who I was, and ensured I managed to get as many anti-inflammatories, liquids, and food into him as possible.
But then...there were moments where I wished he would die.
Not because I wanted to be free of him but because I couldn’t stand the agony he was in. The torture of his mind. The screams of his nightmares. The catatonic slave who bowed over his knees and implored me to hurt him but no one else. Who trembled and begged me to release the others, and in return, he promised to do whatever I wanted.
It shattered me. Sickened me.
His own mind was killing him.
For eight long, unendurable days, I walked that tightrope of wanting my treatment to succeed and the god-awful admission of holding my breath in hope when he wouldn’t wake.
Of sitting by his bruised and scarred body while he slept, of stroking his hair, of whispering sweet nothings in his ear, praying that his mind would let him rest.
He deserved to rest. To feel peace.
But each time I believed his pulse had slowed and he was fading in my arms, he’d twitch awake, disorientated and unbalanced, and I’d have a few precious moments when I could guide him from his blankets, brace him with my body to the bathroom, and let him relieve himself.
I’d hurry and watch the clock, my jumpy anxiety justified because the sleepy, stumbling man using me as a crutch could, at any moment, snap back into his delusions and try to kill me.
On the third day, I made the decision to undo the rope from around his wrists. Rightly or wrongly, I’d had no choice. I’d been watching him. Monitoring his pain levels and growing intimately aware of his flinches and wariness.
His left wrist and arm had blown up with swelling, despite the drugs I fed him. The rope had grown too tight, cutting off the circulation to his fingers. I’d cut him free while he’d slept.
With no protection from his potential aggression, I’d pilfered a knife from the kitchen and kept it tucked down my waistband ready, just in case he woke and launched himself at me.
However, when he did wake, he remembered nothing.
Not our previous conversations. Not his past. Not his present.
He blinked at me with pure innocence, a softly spoken boy with his untainted life spread out by his feet.
“Who are you?” he’d asked in a voice that held no animosity, blackness, or derision. It was clear and trusting, kind and soft.
It made my entire body clench with longing because I knew, without any doubt or uncertainty, that in this short fragment of time, I spoke to the boy who’d lived before the man who’d suffered.
I’d dropped the books I’d gathered off the shelves in the library—medical texts and extensive surgical volumes that belonged in a hospital instead of a civilian’s collection—and collapsed on the floor.
He’d tried to catch me. Long-buried instincts hurling him out of his blankets to catch a stranger he believed he’d never met. However, he hissed and buckled. Pain jerked him back. Nursing his arm, he rocked over the mottled bruising before clutching his head with another groan.
It’d been my turn to catch him.
I’d crawled into him, not fearing my life. Not from this version of Kas. Not this sweet, sweet boy.
“Tell me what hurts.”
He blinked huge dark eyes at me, wetness glistening on his bottom lashes. “Everything.”
I took his swollen arm in my hands and pressed gently, working my way up and down, feeling bumps that shouldn’t be there. “There? Does that hurt?”
He moaned and bit his bottom lip. “Yes.”
“I think it’s broken.”
“I think so too,” he whispered. “It doesn’t like it when I move.”
“Okay.” I patted his hand and gave him a gentle smile. “I’ll fix it.”
“You will?” He looked at me as if I held his world. As if I was some mythical guardian who would protect him for always.
“Yes. I’ll be right back.”
For days, I’d suspected his arm was broken but had no way of splinting it. Now? Now I had another version of Kas that I wasn’t afraid of, and time was of the essence to help him before he switched again.
Pushing to my feet, I dashed out of the library, ran to the garden, and grabbed a small bamboo stake that I’d seen in the pea vine part of the veggie patch. Bolting back into the house, I skidded to a halt and dropped into the blankets.
For a second, I froze.
What if he’d switched while I was gone?
I’d just given him the perfect opportunity to kill me.
However, he shifted away from me as if my freezing like a cornered cat unsettled him. “What? What is it?” he asked warily, his eyes darting over my shoulder, looking for something he should be afraid of. “Is something out there?”
His voice remained sweet and young.
Unbroken before abuse.
“No.” I exhaled heavily. “Nothing is out there.” I forced myself to relax and scoot closer to him. “It’s nothing, truly. I was just worried about you, that’s all.”
“Me?” He gave me a shaky smile. “Why?”
“Because you’re hurt.” I frowned at his swollen arm he was cradling. “You remember what we talked about?”
He frowned and looked to the side, his mind obviously struggling to recall something that only happened a few minutes ago.
God, what did this mean for him?
Would he be destined to spend the rest of his life flickering in and out of reality and mirages?
Dropping his gaze, he stared at his arm, then twitched as if memories physically pinched him inside. “Oh, I remember.” He nodded. “My arm is broken. It hurts.”
“I know.” I resisted the urge to cup his cheek. To just touch him. I ached to touch him—to somehow keep his mind from straying, aging, breaking. “Should we fix it?”
He made eye contact and smiled again. This time, it was the most beautiful smile I’d ever seen. It made me tremble as he carefully placed his arm into my lap and shuffled closer until our knees touched. Until his body heat from the blankets tingled over my skin.
The same chemistry that existed between us from the very first moment we met existed even now. A gentle buzzing from his body to mine, sending my blood shivering as well as my bones and breath.
He inhaled sharply.
I stiffened, ever so jumpy in case the kid had become the killer again. But instead of angry dark eyes filled with murderous intent, they stayed a syrupy golden brown filled with absolute trust and gratitude.
“I like you,” he murmured, licking his lips. “I think I know you from somewhere. I feel it...” He tapped his chest with his free hand. “In here.”
I struggled to swallow, doing my best to ignore the humming electricity twining around us. “I like you too.”
He blushed.
Actually blushed.
And I swallowed tears because what kind of boy could blush at the confession of affection after every sexual desecration he’d been through.
“Thank you for looking after me,” he murmured.
“You’re welcome.” My heart absolutely pounded, wanted.
“You’re really pretty.” His free hand came up to twist a lock of my hair, his knuckles kissing my cheek. “Want to go out with me? Once my arm is better? We can go swimming at my favorite lake.”
Despite the fire in my cheek from his touch and the constant tingle in my blood from being so close to him, I forced pragmatism to focus on the pieces of his past. He’d given me his name. If he gave me the town where he lived, then perhaps, I could find his family. Maybe, after years of being alone, he could go home.
“Where is your favorite lake?” I whispered as he pulled my hair, tugging me closer to him.
His eyes lit up, remembering something I couldn’t see, but then they clouded, and he shook his head. “I-I don’t remember.”
“Was it somewhere hot all year round, or did you ice skate on the lake in winter?”
His face grew darker, his forehead knotting with stress. “I-I don’t know. I—” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Why don’t I know? It’s-it’s...nothing is straight in my head. It’s all jumbled and—” His eyes shot wide, flickering with horror. “Where is everyone? I...I had a family. Wes and—” He tapped his temple as if trying to dislodge more. “God, what were their names? Who are you?”
Worry replaced the softness of before, making me backpedal. “I’m your friend, remember? Don’t worry about anything else. Just focus on us, that’s all.” Cupping his cheek, I ran my thumb over the soft skin above his scruff. “I’m Gem, and you’re Kas, and everything is okay now that we’re together.”
He exhaled hard.
It was as if the evil trying to snatch him back receded, leaving him empty and quiet. Entirely willing to let me protect him. “Okay. I’ll just focus on you.” Swaying forward, he bumped his forehead against mine. “I really, really like you, Gem.” His chin moved, and his mouth fastened over mine.
I froze for the third time.
He sucked in a breath.
Our eyes stayed locked as if he was as shocked as me that he’d kissed me.
I waited for him to pull away. To act shy and blush again.
Instead, his lips moved over mine, hesitantly and softly. His eyes drifted closed, and he pulled me closer with the lock of my hair.
Pull away, Gem.
Stop.
I fell into him.
I parted my lips and trembled as the tip of his tongue tasted me.
As far as kisses went, this was the sweetest I’d ever had. Sweeter than my first stumbling when I was fourteen. Sweeter than my ex-boyfriend or any other kiss with Kas before.
This man had kissed me full of violence and aggression. It’d been messy and barbaric and resorted to us rolling around in the mud like beasts.
But this?
This was delicate and exquisite, full of innocent passion and everlasting care.
He moaned under his breath as I touched his tongue with mine. A tiny lick of welcome.
His fingers moved from my hair to my cheek, his palm burning me as he deepened the kiss. Our mouths parted in unison, our tongues connecting in a dance. His heartbeat drummed in his fingertips, soaking through my cheek to my own drumming pulse.
His head tilted to the other side, the choreography between us unhurried and indulgent. Deepening then retreating, kissing and learning.
Our breathing synchronized as everything inside me went heavy.
Inhale and lick.
Exhale and kiss.
His lips and tongue were hypnotic.
The connection between us tangled tighter.
The strain of the past few days melted as his tongue continued tasting me, claiming me. Our breathing turned harsher, bodies no longer content with just a simple kiss, no matter how precious.
My nipples ached. My core clenched.
His moan turned to a harsher groan as he reached for me.
Passion overflowed, demanding we finish whatever magic we’d started.
His right arm looped around my waist, and I bowed into him. His left arm swooped around my shoulders and—
He cried out, his mouth slipping from mine.
The moment instantly shattered.
The spell around us vanished as he winced and cradled his broken arm. Giving me a sheepish shrug, he murmured, “My arm...it’s killing me.”
For a second, I felt as disorientated as he must feel when his mind played tricks on him. Shaking my head, I inhaled fresh air and slipped into my role of nurse. “Here, let me.”
Nodding gratefully, he gingerly placed his arm on my lap, and we both gritted our teeth against the remaining need between us.
I dared not make eye contact with him, focusing instead on my task.
Grabbing the slim stake I’d brought from the garden, I wiped off any obvious dirt then placed it along his broken arm. “Keep that there.” Reaching sideways to my medical station, I gathered up the sliced pieces of cloth that I’d prepared while he’d been in and out of sleep.
I’d been diligent in my nursing duties.
I’d scavenged the house for any and all medical equipment. My little doctor’s pharmaceutical box beside his carpet bed had already been very useful in treating him when he was sleeping.
Hopefully, in another few days, he would snap out of his concussion-induced complications, remember who I was, who he was, and could be trusted to stay awake, eat, and survive while I went to get help.
Every time I woke from a fretful nap, I’d ask myself if today was the day I could leave. And each day, he woke even more twisted than before, trapping me inside this place, unable to leave.
And now, he’d gone and kissed me.
He’d shown me a side of himself I would never have met thanks to his past.
He made me beg for a way to help him, to keep him alive instead of wish for his death.
Unfortunately, the sweet version of Kas didn’t last long. He stayed with me long enough for me to bandage his broken arm, eat some snow peas, corn on the cob, and inhale one of my rapidly dwindling chocolate bars before he fell asleep again.
I kept my distance after that.
For personal safety, I fashioned a rope cuff and tied it around his ankle, tethering him to the same heavy couch leg. It wouldn’t hold him if he had full faculties but in the brief moments of lucidity, it would stop him from leaving or hurting me.
I needed to know he’d stay in the library.
My nerves were too frazzled to think of him stalking around the house in his current, unstable condition.
While he slept, I pushed the kiss out of my mind and studied the medical books until my eyes felt as if a thousand papercuts had replaced my retinas, then fell asleep in my nook of the library. Wrapped in a blanket, I slept with my hand on my knife, just in case.
On the seventh day, I’d left Kas sleeping fitfully, crying out occasionally, speaking the names of people he loved with such longing and reverence. Normally, if he dreamed of them, he’d wake in a foul mood. He’d threaten me, then snap into subservience. He’d war between two sides of himself—the protective brother who would do anything to save his siblings and the aggressive loner who’d been abandoned for a decade.
He was dangerous.
An enigma of wanting to hurt me all while bowing at my feet like I truly was his new master.
After our kiss and the constant stress of the past week, I didn’t know how much more of this I could take.
My brother would’ve lost his head by now. My mother would be worried sick. My fans would’ve sent snooty emails asking why I hadn’t posted a video in so long.
My entire existence was on pause, and I was exhausted.
Past exhausted.
I’m wrecked.
Needing to move on the eighth day, I explored the veggie garden again, ignoring the empty spots where I’d dug up food that’d fed Kas and me over the past week.
When I’d first arrived, I hadn’t appreciated the random food Kas had provided. I’d found his offerings primitive and lacking. No seasoning. No cohesiveness.
Now, I understood it was all he had.
He painstakingly planted, nourished, and harvested every morsel he ate.
The rows upon rows of produce were every wealth he owned. There was no other food in the entire mansion. I knew. I’d looked. It made my respect for him billow. The fierceness of his will to survive was awe-inspiring.
However, it also layered me with a thousand more questions.
From his bursts of awakeness, I’d gathered he’d been a prisoner here, along with the other poor souls he’d mentioned. He’d killed the people keeping them in hell. He’d saved his family.
But if he’d managed to overthrow those who oppressed him, then why was he still here? Why was he alone? Why had his supposed precious family left him?
Those questions kept me company as I patroled the huge house and hunted for my personal locator beacon and phone for the hundredth time. The first day I’d tried looking for it, I’d opened every drawer, cupboard, and basket. I’d tried to put myself in Kas’s shoes and imagine where I would hide two pieces of technology I didn’t understand after smashing them into pieces.
Would he have kept them or thrown them away?
And even if he had thrown them away, they would still be around here somewhere. It wasn’t as if there were trash services to take waste away. No recycling truck appeared each Friday.
The first few times of searching and being unsuccessful had driven me to look outside. I’d hunted for freshly dug holes, kicking through the overgrown daisies and grasses, squinting against the sunshine to see if anything glittered to be found.
And nothing.
Nothing in the kitchen, the bedrooms, the library, the many, many other rooms.
I had fantasies of finding my PLB, fixing whatever Kas had broken, and hearing the whop-whop of helicopter blades as help arrived. I had dreams of Kas being flown away from this nightmare and reinserted back into society, with me by his side to remind him to behave.
But that was the thing. They were just dreams. Just fantasies. Things that would probably never come true.
On the ninth day, I wandered as well as hunted. I ambled the gardens, gathered a cos lettuce, a broccoli, and a handful of green beans for a salad later on, then cut down the servant hallway to the foyer after leaving them in the kitchen.
A puff of air kissed my cheek as I passed another flight of stairs leading to the left.
Of course!
I’d forgotten about this hallway. I’d traveled this way when I’d first trespassed but had been using the main entrances ever since.
Where does it go?
My phone and PLB could be up there.
Without hesitating, I took the steps two at a time and opened the ratty door at the top.
And then, I froze.
A chill ran down my spine.
Because I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, I’d finally found Kas’s bedroom.
I’d found it strange that in all my sleuthing the past week, I hadn’t found an area where Kas slept. No signs of well-worn mattresses or a spot on the carpet somewhere. It was as if he didn’t live in this house at all.
But now, I knew.
He lives here.
In a dormitory of ten single beds all lined up along the walls, end to end, the wrought iron frames all touching as if they were one giant caterpillar circling around the space.
No other furniture.
No rugs or color.
Just gray sheets, gray blankets, and a world of graffiti above each bed on bare gray walls. Scribbles from fingernails, pens, and crayons were the only works of art. Counting off days, depicting flowers, recounting their nightmares with sketches of monsters.
I drifted forward. My hands bunched by my sides as I followed the line of beds. Each bed was impeccably made with tucked corners and fluffed pillows. On top of each pillow rested a book.
All old-fashioned tome in red leather with gold writing. All identical with the words The Fables by Stuart Page. Morals for all occasions stamped into the binding.
Only one bed didn’t hold a book. An empty mattress that seemed even lonelier than the rest. With my heart in my throat, I moved from the empty bed and gathered up one of the books, tipping it open.
I braced myself, not knowing what I’d find.
A dragon blowing fire from the pages?
A minotaur galloping to slay me?
Instead, I found a name.
Drawn in careful calligraphy and duty: Wesley.
Beneath the name was a single sentence: Chosen from the Fable of Madness. Chapter Eight: Wes & the Sparrow.
Holding my breath, I skimmed the contents, then flipped well-fingered pages to chapter eight. The title was in filigree and full of fancy swirls of birds, feathers, and a little boy hanging onto a sparrow’s tail as it fluttered toward the sky.
A printed line stated: The moral of Fable of Madness is not to covet those things you cannot have. Envy will only make you mad.
A handwritten scrawl beneath said: I cannot have Nyx, but I’ll hold on to her feathers until the day I die.
A feminine note had been penned beneath that: I belong to Wes and I’ll fly us both out of here somehow.
Tears I hadn’t even noticed blurred the rest of the fable about a boy falling in love with a sparrow, feeding it, wanting to keep it, then sinking into madness when it flew away.
Closing the book, I went to the next bed.
The same book of Fables waited, but this copy belonged to Maliki. Chosen from Fable of Fortune. Chapter Twelve: Hard-working Maliki.
I skipped to chapter twelve where a juvenile giraffe diligently swept the savannah with a broken broom all while a herd of lazy rhino looked on. He was paid in dust and scorn until his hard work took him to an oasis where his fortune changed in the form of rain and delicious grass.
What was this book?
What does it mean?
Placing Maliki’s copy back on his pillow, I turned to the next bed. Rushing to know what each one hid.
Flipping open the third, I glanced at the title page, frowning as a heavily scratched sentence shouted at me through the years it’d been penned: I won’t choose a slave name from a stupid fable. I choose Neo. I’m Neo from The Matrix. I have powers. I just don’t know it yet. I will end you. You’ll see.
Another sentence had been written beneath that. The penmanship beautiful, but the words icy and brutal: As you wish, Neo. You can believe you have powers. You will prove to be your own fable. A Fable of Disappointment. Signed, Storymaker.
I dropped the book.
Storymaker.
Kas had mentioned him enough times in his nightmares for me to know he was the devil. Worse than the devil. He was the man who’d sourced, trapped, and conditioned an untold number of sexual servants.
I wanted to kill a man I’d never met.
Kas.
My heart tugged me to go check on him.
I hadn’t been to visit all morning. He’d been furious when he’d last woken. Dangerously violent and messed up. Demanding to know how much longer his family would be forced to serve. Snarling that I’d broken my promise not to hurt them. He’d clawed at his chest and thrown himself at my feet, pleading in that murderous tone of his to use him and not them.
I’d clutched my knife, just waiting for him to launch upward and attack me—for my leash around his ankle to fail.
It’d only been through quick thinking that I’d been able to defuse him. I’d backed away and thrown a chocolate bar in his direction, repeating a lie that’d become so smooth on my tongue. “You’ve already pleasured me today, Kas. You served me well, and your family is safe. You can rest now. In fact, I command you to rest.”
His narrowed eyes had softened. His shoulders had rolled. And the switch from savage slave to obedient prisoner unnerved me.
He’d cradled his chocolate bar as if it was a reward for what he’d done for me. He stroked it as if it was gold not sugar, a gold key that could free him from this hell.
I’d left.
I’d turned my back on him because I was inching closer and closer to my limit. It hurt. It hurt so damn much seeing him so confused and concussed.
I wanted to walk out of this place and never come back.
But I couldn’t.
I’ll go to him and—
Wait.
Something caught my eye, drawing me toward the first bed by the door. The closest to danger. The one in the path of anyone who walked over the threshold and into the bedroom.
That was Kas’s bed.
I know it.
It wasn’t even debatable.
I didn’t need to smell the neatly folded blankets or fluffed pillow to know it was his. It wouldn’t smell stale like the others but lived in. Slept in. Knowing what I did of him now, he would’ve taken this bed in order to protect everyone in this room.
He was their gatekeeper, their first defense, their martyr.
The bed was so small. So uncomfortable.
Kas was tall and lean with wiry muscles. He’d struggle to be comfortable in a queen bed, let alone a single. He lived alone and would rather sleep in a tiny cot in a room rigged with locks instead of one of the decadent suites upstairs.
He’d chosen to stay in this room where he’d once watched over his friends.
Friends who’d abandoned him.
My feet carried me to Kas’s bed even as my mind scrambled with his past. The more I learned about him, the more I hurt for him. I would never accept his aggression toward me, but it made everything so much easier to understand. It made me painfully empathetic. I would go to the ends of the earth for my younger sibling. And Kas would kill anyone who laid a finger on his.
We were programmed the same in that respect.
We had the protective gene. The only difference was, mine hadn’t twisted me up into a thousand undoable knots like him.
Stopping by the bed, I sucked in a breath.
On the floor beneath the iron frame rested my smashed phone and PLB. I ought to snatch them up and run out of the room. But I had to know. Had to read what fable Kas chose his name from.
It’s not even his real name, just an address from a book.
I’d been so grateful to finally know his name.
But it wasn’t his.
Not truly.
Lifting up his copy of the identical book, I shook as I opened the front page.
Kassen. Chosen from the Fable of Happiness. Chapter Twenty-Three: The Poor Cousin & His Wishes.
Racing to chapter twenty-three, I read with tears streaming down my cheeks about a selfless, poverty-ridden man who gave up his magical wishes to benefit his villagers, friends, and even his enemies. He gave away each one without any malice or expectation.
And in return, he earned the greatest gift that couldn’t be wish-given. Something that had to be fought for.
Happiness.
My knees gave out, and I sat on his lumpy, squeaky bed.
I allowed wetness to streak my face as I hugged the book to my chest and vowed upon a vow that one day, someday, Kas would be happy.
He would smile.
He would laugh.
I’ll make sure of it.
* * * * *
I never did go check on Kas.
Guilt coated me like tar every hour that I stayed away, but I had my reasons.
My personal locator beacon being the main one.
After I’d left his bedroom, closing the door on the awful books and painfully neat beds where only ghosts slept now, I carried my broken PLB and cell phone back to the main level. I’d fully intended to return to Kas. To hope he was a nicer version of himself and would be amenable to me assessing his arm. However, as I’d headed toward the library, I’d stopped.
I’d looked at the smashed screen of my cell and the snapped antenna of my PLB and I’d grown angry, frustrated, and full of burning rage that we were stuck out here.
I wasn’t capable of giving Kas the medical treatment he required. He needed a doctor—multiple doctors. And, instead of giving him an hour of my time—time that was utterly useless in fixing him—it would be better spent trying to fix my locator beacon.
Changing course, I’d cut through the foyer and headed outside. Walking down the neat vegetable rows, I’d entered the garden shed where seedling pots, watering cans, and other propagation paraphernalia existed. Tucked in the back were tools. Drills protected in plastic, hammers hanging off nails, measuring tapes, screws, saws—everything a handyman required to keep a hidden house like this running.
And that was where I stayed until dark.
I’d moved outside as it grew gloomier, hunched beneath gray clouds, and done my best to use tools I wasn’t familiar with. Carefully unscrewing the casing of my PLB, looking at wires that made no sense, and fiddling with computer chips that looked complicated—blindly hoping I had enough dumb luck to somehow repair the piece of technology and send an invisible signal bouncing into space for help.
Once I’d poked and prodded my PLB, I turned my unskilled attention to my cell phone. The screen was past salvageable, so I worked on removing the rest of the glass. None of the touch functions worked without the pressure-sensitive glass, and the side buttons merely turned the device on with a soft chime but none of the features needed to call home appeared.
Not that there’s reception out here anyway.
The phone was pointless, but my PLB still held a minuscule amount of hope.
Once it was too dark to see any longer, I grabbed an eggplant, two courgettes, and a small head of frilly lettuce before heading into the kitchen to prepare a lackluster dinner. The other ingredients I’d picked earlier went into the ancient fridge.
I needed something warm.
Something that felt like a meal and could give comfort.
It didn’t take long to grill the veggies, grateful that the old oven still worked. My mouth watered to taste something cooked. The last hot food I’d had were the french fries Kas had made for me in the basement.
The lights over the island suddenly flickered as I plated the charred eggplant and courgettes onto a bed of lettuce, blacking out completely as I turned off the oven.
Now what?
What’s happened?
Holding my breath, I glanced around the pitch-black kitchen. Had Kas done that? Had he freed his ankle and was currently stalking me? About to pounce out of the shadows and kill me?
“Kas?” I inched toward the knife block, doing my best to keep my heart calm. “If that’s you, can you turn the lights back on?”
No footsteps. No reply.
My pulse continued to climb as I pulled a knife free, adding an additional weapon to the one already hidden in my leggings pocket. Stepping through the darkness, I fumbled for the light-switch against the wall.
On, off, on, off.
Still black.
It’s probably the solar power.
In my exploration of this place, I’d found a bank of panels in a field behind the house. Angled for the sun, clean from dust and debris, they looked well maintained and efficient.
But no matter how efficient they were, they couldn’t create power if they had no UV, and the past few days had been gloomy and gray. Sun had barely made an appearance this morning—definitely not enough to charge whatever batteries ran this place.
Crap.
Oh well, at least there’d been enough power to cook with. Lighting wasn’t necessary to eat with, and besides, I was so exhausted, I’d probably crash right after dinner anyway.
As long as Kas is restrained and I’m safe, of course.
My heart kicked. Would he hate me for staying away so long today or, in some part of his fractured mind, did he understand how hard this was for me?
Rubbing my temples, I tried to massage away my constant headache. My stomach rumbled, reminding me it wouldn’t just be me who was hungry.
Time to check on your patient, Gem.
Sighing heavily, I did my best to gather my courage and picked up the two plates. Every time I stepped into the library, I didn’t know if I’d find a monster or a miserable man who made me throb in so many indecent ways.
I was terrified of him.
Terrified of my reaction to him.
Bracing my spine, I marched through the darkness to find him.