He Who Controls the Flame (001 fanfic)

Chapter Three - Burns

My wrists hurt.

Despite all my anger and panic and overall hysteria, my wrists really hurt. Especially my right, it was pounding in tempo with my heart, which was like a wardrum inside my chest. My head hurt too. I wondered if I had some sort of concussion. I wondered if Peter had a concussion too. His nose was bleeding from where my forehead had knocked into it, but he had a handkerchief to wipe it with, a white one, now spotted with blood. He'd take one of two hands off of me to wipe off the blood. I hated the guilt I felt at that. He deserved it. It's what he got for tying me up and then cutting off my clothes.

"I loved those jeans," I said as we walked forward. He had taken me from the room after putting a new set of handcuffs on my wrists. He hadn't bandaged my wrists, so there was nothing between my raw injuries and the metal. It fucking hurt, and he knew it.

"You wear gowns here," he said, keeping one hand on the inside of my elbow and the other on my back. I could feel where each of his fingers touched my skin. It felt like he was made of electricity, sending my blood buzzing at each point of contact. Just a couple hours ago (or at least I assumed it was a couple hours ago) I felt giddy at the feeling of just his hand on my back. Now I hated it. I wanted nothing more than to shove him away.

"You wear pants," I stated.

I heard him exhale softly. "I'm not..." He trailed off and I scowled.

"Not what? Not an experiment? Not a freak?" I gritted my teeth as his fingers tightened around me as he turned us down into another hall. The place was a fucking maze. I tried doing that cool thing where you'd track every turn and count your steps like I saw victims of kidnapping recommend doing to track where you were, but after a couple seconds I lost count and ended up with a headache from how deeply I was furrowing my brows. I clearly was not a good kidnapee.

"Well I didn't think I was any of those things either," I said, "I'm not, just letting you know. This is a mistake. Some big, cosmic fucking mistake."

"Sure," Peter said behind me. "If that's what you believe."

"Sure?" I clenched my jaw. "What does that mean?"

"I'm sure your father will explain," he said.

"You keep saying that," I spat.

"Because it's true?"

"So first you cut off my favorite pair of jeans and now you won't tell me why?"

"It was because I didn't like them. They were out of season," he said flatly.

I snorted. "And he has a sense of humor?" I whistled. "A full package. I'm sure the ladies all flock to you."

His tone was still as dry as ashes. "Like you wouldn't believe." Before I could respond, he reached around me to open up a door, his chest brushing my back. He was tall, much taller than I was. My head only reached his shoulder, meaning I felt his chin brush the top of my head as he pushed the door. Once again that smell of lemon filled my nostrils.

I felt my feet still as I saw who exactly was in the room.

"But you were so confident before," Peter whispered, giving my arm a pulse. "Walk." He pushed me forward just slightly and my legs sputtered into action. I couldn't take my eyes off of my father though. There he was, sitting at his desk like nothing was amiss, as if he hadn't put his daughter, his only child, into a cell and stripped her of her fucking human rights.

"Juliette," my father said. "Please, have a seat." He nodded at the two seats before him and I cringed at the idea of being lower than him. He was great at manipulating, the last thing I needed to do was give him even more power.