Little Lamb

12 ❦ I fall to pieces

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The next morning, a gentle knock on the door woke me. I blinked against the morning light filtering through the window, disoriented for a moment. Then I remembered everything from the night before and felt a wave of dread wash over me.

"Lola, it's me," came his voice from the other side of the door. "May I come in?"

I sat up, it was him. My kidnapper. I pulled the blanket around me for some semblance of security. "Yes," I answered softly.

He opened the door and stepped inside, carrying a tray with breakfast. The aroma of fresh croissants filled the room, and my stomach growled in response.

He was wearing his usual black balaclava, which covered most of his face except for his piercing eyes. I noticed a small cut near his eye, mostly hidden by the mask. I wondered how he got that. His black, long-sleeved sweater stretched over his muscles, highlighting their definition.

He made me forget about everything for a while, even if he hurted me too.

"Brought you something decent to eat, you need it," he said, setting the tray on the small table by the window. His eyes softened as he looked at me. He picked up a cup and handed it to me, his fingers brushing mine. To my surprise, it wasn't coffee, it was tea. How did he know I preferred tea over coffee?

"Thank you," I whispered, my voice still raw from the previous night's tears. My hands trembled slightly as I took the cup from him, the soothing aroma of the tea mingling with his clean, musky scent.

He pulled a chair and sat down across from me, his gaze never leaving mine. His intense stare made my heart race, a mixture of fear and something else I couldn't quite place. "How are you feeling?"

I shrugged, not trusting myself to speak without breaking down again. He nodded, understanding my silence. I couldn't help but notice the concern in his eyes, something different than his usual coldness.

"I know it's hard," he said quietly, his gaze unwavering as he handed me a napkin. "But I need you to eat something. You need your strength."

I hesitated, then reached for a croissant. The first bite was heavenly, the buttery pastry melting in my mouth. I hadn't realized how hungry I was. Each bite seemed to calm my nerves slightly, though the tension between us was thick.

He watched me eat, his expression unreadable but his eyes intense, as if he were trying to see into my soul. When I finally looked up, he spoke again. "I've dealt with Mr. Moss. He won't bother you again."

"What do you mean?" I asked, my heart racing with a mixture of fear and hope. I searched his eyes for answers, but they remained inscrutable.

"He's gone," he said simply. "You won't have to worry about him anymore." His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was a hint of something else in his voice, protectiveness, perhaps?

I caught in a whirlwind of emotions relief mingled with confusion and an unsettling fear gripped me. "But Mr. Moss, he's the one running everything, isn't he?" I managed, my voice betraying my unease. "He's the reason I'm here, isn't he? And considering his relations with my stepfather..."

He hesitated, his jaw tightening slightly beneath the balaclava. "That's not something you need to worry about right now," he said finally, his tone gentle yet firm. "The less you know about all of this, the better."

My hands began to shake uncontrollably, and the croissant slipped from my trembling fingers, landing with a soft thud on the plate. I could feel his eyes on me, assessing the toll his silence was taking.