Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 394(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Well, that answers that question.
I wasn’t free. I was still in the custody of the man who held my life in his palm.
Elder Prest was a lot of things, but he’d taken care of me, given me medical support, and left me in the care of a normal human being who didn’t expect sex or screams.
That was enough for now.
I’m lucky to be where I am.
If a half-severed tongue was the price I had to pay for it, then fine.
I reached out and took the notepad and pen. The needle in the back of my hand stung as I curled my fingers around the first ordinary things I’d been allowed in so long.
There was no strike or fist. No laugh or threat. Just a kind smile and nod of encouragement.
The moment the welcoming papyrus filled my touch, I had an unbearable desire to write to No One. To reveal what’d happened and why my future notes would be on paper and not toilet tissue.
He still has my other letters.
My eyes flew around the small, nondescript room with no windows and artificial light feathering up the walls to make it seem day rather than luminescent bulbs. Where had Mr. Prest put his blazer with my stolen stories?
Elder.
He told you to call him Elder.
But why?
He’d been so adamant about Master A not using his first name, yet he’d given me carte blanche to use it how I wanted.
I didn’t understand.
“You do know how to write, don’t you?” Andrew Michaels cleared his throat. “Judging by your injuries, you’ve been mistreated for a long time. Did anyone teach you to read? To use a pen?” He cocked his head at the door. “I can get a female to help if you’d prefer? Just occurred to me you might not want a man around.”
I let him prattle on all while my fingers stroked my pen and paper gift.
“I was the surgeon who worked on you. I ensured your tongue was repositioned correctly and sutured with internal and external stitches—don’t worry, they’ll dissolve on their own in a week or so.”
A week?
That wasn’t long enough, was it?
“Tongues are the fastest part of our bodies to heal. You should have full mobility back very soon. The pain and swelling will decrease every day. However, I can’t guarantee you’ll have full use of your taste buds and heat sensitivity. That is out of the realms of my expertise, I’m afraid.”
My mind whirled with information and questions.
Will I be able to talk?
Will I be allowed to go home once I’m better?
“I also took the liberty to ensure your other injuries were tended to while you were unconscious.” He pointed at my plastic cast and bandaged hand and another bandage that tightened around my ribcage every time I breathed. “You had a few heavily bruised ribs, and obviously, you knew the bones in your hand were broken.” His smile was gentle but full of authority—just like other doctors in my past. “I did my best to tend to you, but you have my oath, I didn’t touch you anywhere else.”
If I wasn’t so shocked to have a man doing his utmost to assure me no untoward attention was given when I wasn’t awake to even notice, I might’ve smiled.
I might’ve reached out willingly for the first time and patted his arm with gratitude.
But all this attention—kind, healing attention—made me nervous. I couldn’t stop searching for the underlying hellion who would make me pay for such kindness by beating me bloody.
I dropped my gaze. I wanted solitude so I could investigate my body and patch together the missing pieces of the past few hours.
All I could think about was Elder as he held me tight in his car. He hadn’t cared about the blood or the fact he’d committed a crime for me. He’d just given me permission to use his name and then deposited me here.
What does he expect in return?
Nothing was free and killing to give me life was the biggest debt of all.
Dr. Michaels didn’t look away as I opened the notebook and clicked the pen to reveal the nib. My brain hurt with unanswered questions and fears. No One was my outlet for such worries. The only one I could turn to.
My fingers itched to write; to scribble as fast as I could and demand freedom and food and fantastical things like my mother to find me and my friends to welcome me back to life. But all I could do was stroke the pristine lined paper and sniff silently as tears slowly spilled from my eyes.
I didn’t mean to cry—I didn’t even realise liquid had formed until tears tracked unpermitted down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop the droplets, just as I couldn’t stop the throbbing of my tongue or the battering memories of what I’d endured at the hands of that sadistic bastard.