Angel Blood

10- (The Start of) the Fall

When I wake, the mattress is cold beside me and a head-splitting ache makes me push myself deeper into the recesses of the covers.

What I would kill for a coffee and something warm and sugary and comforting. Something to take the thought of a certain brooding male from my mind and calm the raging hangover that causes leftover nausea to rise in my throat.

The wait for him to come back is excruciating. There's something so terribly addicting to his presence. I sigh, the memory of his hands burning my skin. The deep croon of his voice echoes in my ear, gooseflesh rising on my arms as I recall the warmth of his breath tickling my neck.

By the end of the day, he never comes. Oliver comes in to unlock my hands so I can shower and use the bathroom. He brings me a pint of Chinese takeout, watching intently as I pick out chunks of chicken from my lo mein before chaining me back up again.

I hate it. There are certainly worse prisons to be held in, but the silence makes me go crazy. By the time Oliver moves to leave for the last time of the night, I stop him.

"Wait." My voice is raspy as if I've just woken up. Up until this point, I've refused to speak to my jailor. So far it only seemed to make his job easier so I've decided it's not worth the effort.

His hand pauses on the doorknob. "What?"

"Can you—" I pause, clearing my throat so my voice rings clear. "Can you turn on the TV? Please."

He sighs, spinning on his heels to click on the screen a few feet away. I almost sigh in relief as a telenovela crosses the screen, filling the silence with the soft croon of untranslated Spanish.

I don't say thank you. The channel stays on for two more weeks.

Sinclair doesn't come back once. I know he's alive, the proof the beating heart in my chest. His presence haunts me although I find it especially difficult at night. I can't tell if it's loneliness or the fact he's managed to hook me on his presence like a drug.

Like an addict, something in my stomach twists remembering the feeling of his fingertips skimming over my skin. Smelling him on and around me—in his blankets and the oversized t-shirts Oliver supplies me to wear—is a strange method of torture that has the unwanted image of his body fitted against mine incessantly slithering into my thoughts.

When he strides into the apartment after fifteen days of ignoring my existence looking delectably disheveled and reeking of women's perfume, I'm not sure how to react.

He glances at me as he strides over to his dresser, tossing off his shirt with a wrinkled nose. I get a flash of tanned skin and toned muscle before he pulls a clean white shirt over his head.

"I've never heard you so quiet." The velvet-like draw of his voice makes the breath still in my throat. His brow raises at the total silence, a dry laugh tumbling from his mouth as he glances at the soap opera on screen. "Didn't know you knew Spanish."

"I don't." I hate how small my voice sounds.

He hums in acknowledgment, grabbing the remote and clicking on the news instead. A blonde woman cheerily remarks how the next few days are forecasted to be sunny without a chance of rain.

"Oliver's a prick," he says, cloudy eyes skimming over the ball I've curled into under his blankets. Something unfathomable flickers in his gaze. "I'll have someone new to watch over you soon."

A strange tightness fills my stomach, my chest filling with ice. The urge to scream itches at the back of my throat. Instead, I swallow it and calmly ask, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why keep me like this? Chained to a bed, isolated?" Aching for your presence? "Just kill me if you don't have a use for me anymore."