Red Moon Rising

49. bound

Chapter Song: Small Hands - Keaton Henson

XX

I am most aware of the voices, the way their unfamiliar cadences settle jarring in my ears, though I can't attach any faces to them. They ask my blood type, if I have any allergies, if there's anyone they should call. I try the words and Jack sounds them out again for me, a strange echo that I cling to for familiarity alone.

Even while I am not completely aware of my surroundings, I can still feel the sensation of time slipping by, just out of reach, and then the voices are gone and there is only this silence, so deep it has a presence.

When I open my eyes, my head feels heavy and hot, sunken into the pillows behind me. I'm in a room, weighed down by blankets and the lead in my chest. Soft afternoon sunlight filters through heavy drapes drawn across the windows. Along the wall are pastel pictures, rolling landscapes whose heavy oil paint catches the light in notched shadows. It's a room that is loved, that is filled with the presence of someone who isn't here now. I'm alone.

And my hands are tied.

I think I imagine it at first, but finally, finally, I manage to lift my head and look to where I can't move my wrists. The bed is covered in a heavy quilt made from patches of once-loved sweaters, and there are short metal railings on either side of the mattress. Someone, Jack maybe, looped neckties around my wrists and tied them in a practiced knot, to where pulling only seems to make them tighten further.

It doesn't keep me from trying to free myself, though. Somehow, I think of Isaac, and the panic that rises in my chest leaves me jerking harder at my binds until I consider that I may end up just breaking my bone. It's then that I see the IV in my arm with little drips of fluid curling down a clear plastic tube.

My breath catches at the sound of voices in the hall, and I strain to sit up fully as footsteps draw near the door. At least my ankles are free. At least I can kick at him if he comes too close. When the door sweeps open, I am too aware of how Jack fills the frame, and how I don't really have any choice but to cower beneath him when he closes the door and walks toward me.

"You should lie back, or you'll open up your wounds."

It's already too late for that, I realize, recognizing the warm trickle that runs between my breasts. At least I'm clothed. In whose clothes, I don't know. I've been unconscious in the care of strangers for longer than I care to think about.

"Layla," he says with a sigh, reaching for me. "Just—"

"Don't touch me," I manage. My voice is more of a ragged whisper than anything, but his fingers freeze in midair before retreating. Settling into a creaking wooden chair beside the bed, Jack leans against his knees and just looks at me for a long moment.

"We need to talk."

"Fuck you," I say, but he doesn't flinch. "You don't get to tie me up then ask me to talk."

"I didn't want to, but you kept ripping out your IV."

"I don't believe that."

"They needed to give you blood, and you kept fighting."

"You drugged me, didn't you. That's why I feel like this."

Jack runs a hand over his face and just stares at me. "Look, I'll untie you and explain everything. But if you attack me, I'm going to tie your hands again." It's the sort of deal that Isaac would make; cooperation to earn a minimum of decency. His hand slips over my wrist, warm calloused fingers running over my skin. I hope he doesn't sense the way that I stiffen, or how helplessly scared I am in this moment. It doesn't really matter if he unties me or not; I'm not strong enough to fight him, or even get out of this bed. He's just trying to get me to talk.