Spark ( Book 3: Stronger Series )

22. Shrink

Two weeks back at the estate and it was as if I never left. The staff and other guards still ignored me like I was invisible, except for the two stupid fucking stalkers who never left me alone. If I thought I annoyed the shit out of Hank and Benito, Clive and Owen deserved awards. They directed me everywhere—where I could go, what I could do, how long I could do it, and whether it was considered productive. They analyzed everything I did down to the tiniest detail; suspicious I was trying to thwart them in some way. It was kind of cute.

I had to admit for the first day or so, I did test my boundaries with them, but to their credit, they never gave an inch. They never cracked a smile, no clever comebacks, not even so much as a smirk. They were like ice, and they never melted. I'd only been threatened to be tranquilized twice since they first started, which I thought was decent enough on my part—once, when I refused to paint the first time they introduced me to my "art room," where I deliberately put my knee through a canvas, and another time, when I argued too much to continue my workout. I was only allowed an hour since Darren didn't want me exhausting myself, which was bullshit. He worked out at least two hours a day, so why couldn't I?

But after a few short days, the fight in me began to die. With zero inches to be given, I felt stuck, moving in a single file line with no deviations in sight. It was do as I was told without argument or wake up back in that fucking cage I hated so much. I could feel myself slipping back into my depression as I went through my days, mundane as ever, like the good little robot they all wanted me to be. Most days, I felt emotionless, doing things of no interest just to keep Darren happy.

He tried to spend more time with me, though I was less than enthused. I was still pissed about Holly's death, and when he explained that it was unlikely she would have made it off the island alive in the first place, it didn't help much. I didn't argue with him; instead, I'd nod my head and do my best to remain complacent, almost to the point I thought I would bore him. When we fucked, I didn't fuck him back; I just laid there, came when he made me, and waited for him to finish. I no longer cared. I didn't know if that was a good thing or not, but I had a feeling if I became too dull, he would once again try to light my fuse. But the truth was I wasn't interested in interacting with him, not in the same way, at least.

I no longer felt the need to push his buttons because that would require attention on my part; that would only give him the edge he wanted. I knew I couldn't ignore him. I'd been punished for that before. So I just gave him the bare minimum, which I had a feeling would become exhausted soon. The push was coming. I could feel it. I just didn't know what form it would take.

But the more troubling problem was... I almost wanted him to light the fucking fuse.

As more time inched by, I quickly became bored out of my fucking skull. I had no short-term goals, nothing to motivate me to accomplish anything except for Darren's orders that I do something "productive" every day. With everything as controlled as it was, it didn't take long for me to realize how much I lived for the tension between Darren and me.

Yeah, he was dangerous as hell, terrified the shit out of me, and would hurt me if I got out of line, but fuck if I didn't love to play with fire. It got me off, and I knew it worked the same way for him. Maybe I was truly becoming a masochist because when I knew shit was about to get real, I felt more alive than a baby bird taking its first flight from the nest.

In the middle of the week, Darren was working from home, and after I'd finished painting a new piece, I'd been told I'd be meeting Sid for a reason that no one would tell me about.

"Wait, what?"

"Please follow us, Miss Jaden," Clive had said, directing me from my room out into the hallway.