Tequila || Spencer Reid

Skye

TW:
IMPLIED MENTIONS OF SA
***

Eleven weeks had passed since Mason Harrington appeared at Skye's apartment in the middle of the night and dragged her back into a life she had nearly died escaping. Eleven weeks—long enough for the outside world to keep moving, long enough for Spencer Reid to wake up every morning without answers, long enough for hope to become something Skye rationed in secret.

She was miserable. There was no other word clean enough for it. But if enduring this meant Spencer stayed untouched, if compliance kept Mason's attention fixed on her and away from the man she loved, then Skye knew with terrifying certainty that she would make the same choice again.

For the past couple of weeks, something had felt wrong. At first, Skye dismissed it because survival left very little room for anything else. Nausea could be fear. Exhaustion could be stress. Her body had learned to exist in a constant state of alarm. But then her period was late, and the realization turned her blood cold. Silently, desperately, she prayed that if she was pregnant, the baby was not Mason's.

But she knew there was a possibility that it could be because over the time that she had been held there some nights Mason would come into the room, and well, he would do whatever he wanted to her, and Skye had no choice but to take it... No matter how much she didn't want to... But as soon as he would leave, she would immediately take a hot shower and scrub every inch of her skin that he had touched to try and feel clean again, but she never complained because she knew that she would be punished even worse if she did.

Now she needed confirmation. Proof. Something concrete enough to anchor the fear before it swallowed her whole. The problem was Mason. Everything was Mason. She would have to convince him to let her see a doctor, to make him believe the appointment mattered to him as much as it mattered to her. Maybe it was a stomach bug. Maybe some virus her body had picked up from stress and malnutrition. She knew the odds were slim, but hope had become a survival tactic.

Ten minutes later, the lock turned. The sound cut through the room with the same precision every time, a small mechanical warning before Mason entered. He stepped inside carrying a tray: a glass of water and a few slices of bread. Twice a day, he performed the routine like feeding her was proof of mercy instead of captivity.

Skye looked at him, measuring every word before she let it leave her mouth. "I need to see a doctor, Mason..." She explained that she had been sick, throwing up, unable to keep anything down. She kept her voice careful, small enough not to sound like a demand, urgent enough that ignoring it might feel inconvenient to him. After a few tense minutes of convincing, he finally agreed to take her.

Mason told her to get dressed, then left the room to retrieve whatever paperwork and identification she would need. The second the door closed, Skye moved quickly, pulling on the simplest clothes she could find. Nothing that would draw attention. Nothing that would give him a reason to change his mind. When Mason returned, he unlocked the shackle from her ankle, and the absence of metal felt less like freedom than a temporary clerical error.

The car ride passed in silence, the kind of silence that had weight. Skye watched the road through the window, memorizing turns by instinct even though she knew running was not an option. When they pulled up in front of the closest doctor's office, Mason caught her wrist in a grip tight enough to control but not tight enough to leave a mark. He had always understood appearances. Bruises invited questions, and questions could ruin everything. "Now you better not tell them anything unrelated to why you're here, or there will be consequences... severe consequences, understood?"

Skye pulled in a controlled breath and nodded, keeping her eyes lowered because defiance had a cost. "Understood."

"Good, now go so we can get back." She climbed out of his truck with her bag clutched against her side, the cards and documents inside suddenly feeling like evidence. The automatic doors opened in front of her, and Skye stepped into the bright clinical quiet of the building, forcing herself not to look back.