Spark ( Book 3: Stronger Series )

1. Break

Sunshine peered in through the windows. Its warm glow lingered over my face, yet it did nothing to lift my mood like it used to. I had just woken up from another long nap that took up a good third of my day thanks to the heavy meds I was on; though, to be honest, I didn't want to be awake anyway. The past three weeks had been nothing but torment, and if there was anything that could relieve me of it, it was the deep abyss of my drug-induced slumber. At least, then, I was too numb to remember my nightmares.

Practically shackled to my hospital bed for the first week on this godforsaken island, I'd barely been allowed to move an inch without Darren's approval. Apparently, he wanted me to get as much rest as possible, so that meant the least amount of movement as possible. And in a way, I was almost grateful... because I had no desire to move even a single muscle. After one week of being bedridden, I had been forced to start moving around again. Apparently, it wasn't good to simply waste away in my hospital bed. Another lesson in learning my body's movements were not my own decision.

Every move was painful—even breathing hurt—but apparently, sleeping off my injuries wasn't in my recovery plan. My wrist, jaw, and ribs might be broken, but according to Darren and Sid, my legs worked just fine. I'd fought back winces and tears as I was forced to walk through the halls of the house, straining against the pain of breath, and showing none of it. I refused to let Darren see my pain. Just because he had broken my body didn't mean I had to act like it.

My wrist would remain in its cast for the next few weeks, and the wiring in my jaw proved to be the most uncomfortable and humiliating experience ever. I couldn't really speak. Only mumbles or inaudible sounds could escape my lips, so I eventually just gave up on my vocals altogether. Nurse Ginsby tried to teach me some simple sign language to help me communicate, but I was only interested in using the one containing a single middle finger.

Looking down at my bare left wrist, I found slight enjoyment in the lack of a particular silver cuff on my wrist. There was no need for them here. One was useless without the other, and I was on an island, for fuck's sake. Where the hell was I going to go? The others remained around my ankles, as did the collar around my neck. Even though I could bypass Darren's invisible electric fence, the collar itself had a greater purpose than just keeping me within my confines. It was the reminder that I did not belong to myself, that I was not of equal standing... because I still belonged to him, as if the tattoos on my wrists weren't enough of a reminder. At least I only had to endure the sight of one of them... for now.

I was now at the end of my third week of recovery, and the pain in my jaw was finally starting to fade, or maybe I was so doped on painkillers I didn't notice it anymore. Sid said it was healing well, and that I'd be able to have the wiring removed in a week or so. I couldn't wait to get the fucking thing off. Not being able to open my mouth or speak made things even harder than they already were. I could tell Darren was enjoying the silence, even though I didn't have shit to say to him anyway.

Thankfully, since my panic attack the last time I'd seen him, he stayed away most of the time. Sid felt it would help speed up my recovery if I was less stressed, and seeing Darren always pissed me off and stressed me out. Surprisingly, Darren had agreed, but he still managed to get his fill of me at night when I was asleep. Ginsby would tell me if he was on the island; he'd sit by my side for hours, watching over me as I slept my pain away. She thought it was sweet, but I knew it was anything but. Sometimes, I could still feel his presence the following morning—smell his cologne—and it often chilled me to the bone knowing he was there and I was helpless.

Apparently, Darren still had a lot going on back home from all the damage I managed to cause, plus his usual business. A single word hadn't been uttered about the status of my family, nor the outcome of my "funeral," and in a way, I was glad. If something had happened, I didn't want to know. I wouldn't be able to change it, and it would only set my recovery back by weeks. I figured if Darren had done something, he would have told me to ensure my continued obedience...or to simply torture me. But still, the uncertainty about it made me nervous because eventually, I would find out, and I couldn't do shit about it. After all, Darren had said he was a man of his word.