Unmasked (Simon Riley)

Chapter 16

*Brooklyn's POV*

"Stay still."

Rough hands dig into either of my arms, back stinging with the cold air and anticipation. My face is wet with tears, and I desperately struggle against the grasp holding me in place.

The fatigue I'm feeling is not helping, and I'm practically powerless against those who hold me.

"I want you to remember this, for the rest of your life. A reminder to stay with you incase you ever leave this place."

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold on to any ounce of strength I might have left.

The searing pain hits me like a wall, the icy touch of the hot metal, burrowing into my skin. I scream until I can't anymore, throat sore and vocal cords bruised.

"Hey!"

I jolt up, scrambling away from the hands on me, kicking out and yelling some more.

"Brooke, you're okay!"

I press up against the wall, legs pulled tightly to my chest as I adjust to the lighting in the dark room.

"Ghost?"

"You're okay, love. They won't touch you again."

He's looming over the bed, his large form more ominous than it should be. I reach over, and flick on the lamp beside the bed, eyes adjusting quickly.

It's only been two days since we got back, but nothing seems better. I'm haunted by what happened, reminded multiple times a day what they did.

His presence, however, helps. But I haven't brought myself to accept his touch, just his presence. He seems to know this, and doesn't push. He sighs, turning and dragging the desk chair over to the bed, and sinking down onto it.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, feeling bad for waking him. "There is nothing to apologize for," he replies, his gruff voice stern but soothing. I can see it on his face, the effect that place had on him, he's just better at hiding it, dealing with it.

I glance at the small clock on the night stand, reading 2:48am. I look back at Ghost, his eyes still trained on me, continuously looking me over like I'm going to suddenly disappear.

"I'm okay," I tell him softly. I hear a soft huff of air leave him, "I know." I smile softly. He hasn't questioned me once, just accepts what I say, but his actions tell me otherwise. He knows, to an extent, what's happening in my head, and I'm grateful for it. Grateful he hasn't left yet, hasn't given up.

"You going to try and sleep again? You need rest."

I bite the inside of my cheek, glancing down at the blankets in front of me. "I'll stay," he comforts. "You don't need to do that," I dismiss quickly.

"I want to do that." I meet his gaze once more, nodding softly in response. I slide down lower onto the bed, pulling the blankets up to my chin. He stands, flicking off the lamp, and I hear his form settle down into the chair again.

Silence. The light sound of our breathing echoing softly in the small room. Minutes pass, and he stays, unmoving, quiet.

Part of me wonders if I imagined it all, if he's really here. "Simon?"

He hums, the deep and low rumble coming from his chest, telling me he's still here. "Could you.. lay with me?"

The words fall from my mouth before I have time to stop them. He doesn't reply, and I begin to wonder if I fucked up. Before I can come to a conclusion, I hear him moving, the mattress shifting with his weight.