Innocence, Stolen {Mature/Werewolf}

Chapter Two

WE CLIMB a few stairs until we reach a door. I know it because I have seen it. I dread this door, because only he and I know what goes on behind it. As far as I know, the others have never been in this room. I had asked, but either they haven't or they refuse to relive the horrors.

The door swings open, revealing what looks to be a flat. It looks normal, if not a little cluttered. Books cover most surfaces, some old and some new. There are windows, but steel bars are placed over them. I know they don't open, I tried once.

His hand is on the small of my back, giving me what I guess is an encouraging nudge. I step inside and tell myself to breathe. The flat smells like him - of chemicals and coffee, starch and disinfectant.

"Why don't you get changed and I'll get dinner, hm?" He's smiling down at me, as of reassuring me. But there's that dark gleam to his eyes that I have come to know. I don't trust him, even when he's kind. I hate him. And one day, if I survive this, I'm going to kill him.

But I walk towards the bedroom, crossing through the joint living room and dining room as he makes his way to the kitchen. The heavy feeling in my body makes me a little clumsy, swaying, but I manage.

Inside, there's a skimpy black silk nightdress edged with black lace. I don't put it on, but instead make my way towards the en-suite. He likes me washed and clean shaven. He doesn't like the smell of the cells on my skin.

I used to hide in the shower when this first started. But hiding only makes him mad. I used to enjoy the small luxury of hot water, of sweet smelling soap and clean hair. I used to like the hot meals and the drug-laced wine. I even liked spending a night in a proper bed, falling asleep to the din glare of the TV.

I go through the motions, quickly scrubbing and shaving, lathering and rinsing. I hate how, for the briefest of mornings, I do enjoy it. But it's gone just a quick as it came.

The sound of him pottering about in the kitchen is eerily normal. I try to tune out his off-key whistling as blow dry my hair.

The other had asked at first why I looked fresh when I came back. Why I smelt of lavender and why mascara lingered under my eyes. I never told them and in time, they stopped asking. I know they have an idea, I know they're secretly glad it's me and not one of them.

When my hair and makeup is done, I slip into the nightdress which skims my thighs. There's a pair of black hold ups as well and a pair of ruby red heels. It's hard to walk in them - not only with the drugs, but I do. I can't displease him, especially not here.

I make to leave but freeze. It's the same every time, like my mind, my body, is begging me not to put them though this again. There's a blind moment of panic, that moment where everything whirls in your mind at once. After a few breaths, I will myself to move. The last time I fought this, one person died. He made we watch as he took apart Nadia limb by limb, only pausing to wake her when she passed out. When it finally came to her head, he had pulled the dismembered appendage up by the hair and made me kiss her still warm lips.

I behaved after that.

"Ah, just in time." He smiled at me in such a charming way as he set down our plates. He was undeniably handsome - in that slightly older way. I knew he was in his late 30s, educated, witty and observant.

I smiled, because I had no choice. There was a role I had to play - if I played it well I would get a reward, not well enough and I might leave with fresh scars.