Twisted Devotion

Twenty Seven

Ava traced her fingers over the tally marks she had etched into the wooden bed frame, her quiet rebellion against the passing days. Seven slashes stood defiantly on the worn wood. Seven days with Dom. Each one had begun and ended the same way, weaving a monotonous tapestry of time, and yet Ava couldn't shake the feeling that there was more beneath the surface of this carefully constructed routine.

The morning light was thin and gray, struggling through the cabin's single window, and she sensed Dom stirring across the room. Without a word, he rose, just as he had each morning before, and began his ritual. First, he brewed coffee, its warmth filling the cabin, and poured a mug, setting it down on the table beside her without a glance.

As she took a tentative sip, Dom retreated to the small bathroom, the creak of the old shower pipes marking his absence. Ava could hear the steady patter of water and found herself, strangely, not minding the sound. It was a comfort in the silence, a reminder of the world beyond these walls that now felt miles away.

When he returned, Dom had exchanged his usual guarded expression for something softer. He wordlessly took his seat at the small kitchen table and set about making breakfast, his movements as precise and practiced as a well-rehearsed scene. There was something both unsettling and almost peaceful in his predictability.

They ate in silence, the clinking of forks against plates filling the quiet. Ava had grown used to this shared stillness, punctuated by the rare stray comment or question he would throw her way. And she found herself responding, sometimes surprised at her own voice, her own thoughts, surfacing so easily after days of doubt and tension.

"Shower and get dressed," Dom said, his voice neither harsh nor warm, just even. She knew he would wait until she complied, giving her a semblance of privacy that felt almost out of place in the close quarters of the cabin.

Afterward, they would settle on the worn-out couch, him with a book he rarely seemed to read, and she with a novel he'd found in a cabinet on the first night. She had read the same pages over and over, her mind drifting between the words and the rhythm of their shared days. Occasionally, Dom would switch on the radio, letting it hum quietly in the background, news and music blending into a soundtrack for the strange captivity they shared.

As the day passed, they made small talk, conversations skimming the surface, never quite plunging into anything that mattered. They discussed books they'd read, songs from the radio, or the weather forecast Dom would occasionally repeat, as if it held significance. But Ava noticed the glances he would cast her way, like he was searching for something beyond her guarded replies, waiting for something she couldn't quite place.

It was in these unspoken moments that Ava felt the weight of their strange routine, the question lingering beneath each shared silence and carefully chosen word: what were they both waiting for? She couldn't tell if she was biding her time for a way out or if he was biding his time for her to stay. And in the stillness of that seventh night, as she glanced at the tally on the bed frame, Ava began to wonder if she wanted an answer after all.

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