Behind the Badge: Obsession in the Shadows

Still fighting

The kiss lingered on my mouth like a bruise it was undeniably hot and deliberate and completely impossible to ignore. I tasted him, cigarettes and coffee and something darker I didn't have a name for, and hated how my tongue still darted out to chase it when he drew away.

I hated how my mind wanted him to touch me how I liked when he did.
He watched the motion with hooded eyes as they film over satisfied.

"Still fighting," he murmured, almost proud. "Good. I'd hate for you to break too quickly."

My hands came up between us my palms flattening against his chest to shove. They didn't shove. They just rested there, fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

"Get away from me," I whispered though it sounded pathetic even to my own ears.

"No."
One syllable. Calm. Final.

He turned, keeping one hand locked around my wrist, and pulled me out of the room. Past the glowing screens that catalogued every private moment of my life. Past the binder under its spotlight like a holy relic. To a door I know all too well it was seamless, matte black.

Another code. Another soft click.
The door opened into my bedroom.
Not a cell exactly as there were no bars but there was that stupid chains bolted to the bed, but it might as well have been. The bed was large, dressed in charcoal linens. One pillow. One blanket folded with military precision. A single recessed light above it, dimmable. No windows. The air smelled faintly of him.

On the dresser sat a cup of water and he pulls out two white pills.

He released my wrist only long enough to close the door behind us. The lock engaged with a whisper.

I backed up until my calves hit the mattress.

"What is that?" My voice cracked as I looked at his hand.

"Medicine," he said. "For you."
He moved to the dressee, picked up the cup, and held it out.
"Drink."

I didn't take it. "I'm not thirsty."

"You're dehydrated. You've been crying for hours. Drink, or I pour it down your throat myself."

The threat was quiet, almost tender. I hated that it worked. I took the cup with shaking hands and drank. The water was cold, clean. It hurt going down.

He watched every swallow, then plucked the empty glass from my fingers and set it aside.

"The pills are for sleep," he said. "You can take them willingly, or I can hold you down and put them on your tongue myself. Your choice."

I stared at the two small white circles. "What are they?"
"Something to quiet the screaming in your head for eight hours. Nothing more."

I laughed, a broken sound. "You're going to drug me again?"

"I'm going to take care of you," he corrected. "Even when you make it difficult."

He waited. Patient. Unmovable.

I picked up the pills. Rolled them between my fingers. Thought about throwing them in his face. Thought about swallowing them dry and praying they were poison.

Instead I put them in my mouth and swallowed with the ghost of the water still coating my tongue.

He nodded once, something almost gentle flickering across his face.
"Good girl."

He reached for the hem of my sweater his sweater, really, the one he'd put on me days ago after I'd tried to run and ended up barefoot in the outside. I jerked back.
"Don't."

"You're shaking," he said. "You're cold?"

"I'm—" Furious. Terrified. Hollowed out. "Don't touch me."

He didn't listen. Of course he didn't.

His hands were careful as he peeled the sweater over my head, leaving me in the thin camisole beneath. Gooseflesh rose on my arms instantly. He tossed the sweater aside and reached for me again, palms sliding over my skin like he had the right, warming me through sheer will.

I stood rigid, fists clenched at my sides, while he undid my bottoms. When he pushed them down my hips I stepped out without being told. I didn't know why. I was letting this happen. Shock, maybe. Or the bone-deep knowledge that fighting him right now would only delay the inevitable.

He left the camisole and my underwear on. Small mercies.
Then he pulled back the covers and guided me down onto the bed like I was made of blown glass.

I curled onto my side, facing away from him, knees to chest. The mattress dipped as he sat on the edge behind me. I felt his fingers in my hair, combing slowly, rhythmically.

"You're going to sleep," he said quietly. "And when you wake up, you're going to be livid. You'll scream, you'll curse me, you might even try to kill me with whatever you can reach. That's fine. I can take it."
His hand traveled down my spine, settling possessively at the small of my back.

"But every morning you wake up breathing, Madison, you'll know it's because I decided you would. And one day you'll stop wanting to die rather than belong to me."

I squeezed my eyes shut. The pills were already softening the edges of the world.

"I'll never stop hating you," I whispered into the pillow.

His lips brushed the shell of my ear.

"I know," he said, almost fondly. "Keep hating me. It'll keep you warm."
The light dimmed to almost nothing.

I heard the rustle of fabric his shirt coming off and his shoes. Then the blanket lifted and his body slid in behind mine, heat and weight and certainty. One arm hooked around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. His thigh pushed between mine, anchoring me. His hand splayed over my ribcage, thumb stroking just beneath my breast.

I was surrounded. Owned. Caged by skin and muscle and relentless will.

I waited for the panic to spike again. Instead a traitorous exhaustion rolled over me like a tide. The pills, yes, but something else too. The animal part of my brain recognizing the thing that had hunted it had finally caught it, and there was no point wasting energy on a chase that was already over.

My breathing slowed against my will.

Just before the dark took me, I felt his mouth against the nape of my neck. Not a kiss. A vow.

"Sleep, baby," he whispered. "I've got you. I've always got you."