Outside your window (18+)

Chapter twenty four

(Extra long chapter for you babes, thank you for being patient and supportive<33)

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I don't know where he's taking me but I'm way past giving a shit. I've already asked him three times and he's only given me the cold shoulder so far. But as we drive further into the dark night, watching as the trees pass by, the only thing I can think about to calm myself is the fact hat he won't kill me. Or at least I'm praying to whatever god there is up there, or down there, even, because I'm desperate. I don't want to die. Not like this, not right now. It's...humiliating. My feet hurt, my head is throbbing and my heart hasn't stopped racing. And the only thing he's offering me is silence. I don't want that, I don't want this. At least I have stopped crying, so that's a plus.

We take a left onto a small road and my body follows the movement a little, my eyes glancing out as the car slows but doesn't stop. I can see nothing. We're nowhere. Fucking nowhere. In the woods. He has brought me here to fucking kill me and bury my body, I knew it. My heart begins beating a little faster, yet feeling as if a big hand is wrapping around it and squeezing tightly. Panic makes me feel nauseous all over again and I turn my head to face him, looking for any sign of murder-instinct. But he's just stoic and cold, as always. Are you going to kill me? The words are at the tip of my tongue but I manage to hold them back and lower my head instead. We drive for only a few minutes more, and as we go I can see where the trees part, where the road gets slimmer. And as I look back up I see it, a house, a big ass house in the middle of the woods. A fancy, black two-story house. Though it won't surprise me if he has a basement down there where he holds his hostages. The car comes to a stop and the silence is deafening when the engine is shut off. He isn't speaking, neither am I.

I glance at him when he gets out of the car and then walks over to my side, opening my door. And before I can protest I'm thrown over his good shoulder like a sack of potatoes, my ass in the air as he begins walking toward the house. No he did not. I hiss and begin squirming, my legs kicking to get free. But my actions are only answered with a sharp slap to my ass, leaving me stunned as the stinging sensation settles.

He's angry at me, I can tell. There are no teasing words, no sexual remarks. Just...anger. He doesn't have the right to me angry. I have the right, not him. Fuck him. But it's not like he cares as he carries me to the front door, entering the house and then begins taking me up the stairs. I manage to look around from my position upside down, and I take in the dark and modern interior. The rich, dark shade of brown for the cabinets and floorboards, while most of the furniture remains black, even the marble tabletops black with flickers of gold and white. It's cozy in its own way, but scary, and haunting somehow. And the scent that has been evading my senses ever since I entered is so annoyingly familiar. The mint.

"What is this place?" I say, not noticing I've said it out loud before I'm set down on a sink countertop in a bathroom, making me shiver as my bare thighs touch the marble, watching him stop in front of me and open his mouth to answer.

"Where all my victims go before I kill them." The dry sarcasm in his voice is evident, the deepness of his voice startling me for a moment. He's not looking at me, keeping his eyes trained on the cabinet beneath the sink, rummaging through it. "So don't feel special."

"Funny." I drawl, the dryness of my throat making my voice come out as a croak. He finds what he's looking for and and stands up, suddenly locking his hand around my ankle and raising it, forcing my knee towards my chest. "Hey-" I protest but he shuts me up with a single glare before bringing an alcohol wipe to the underside of my foot.

His movements are strangely gentle, making me hesitate as I let him do his thing without pushing him away. Even if I wanted to it'd be impossible, not with the strength he has. The wipe stings as it wipes over the scratches under my foot, making me hiss, and I swear I feel his movements turn ever more careful. Or maybe I'm imagining it. I'm supposed to be angry at him, not let him treat me and be all caring now when I'm hurt. I frown, glaring down at his hands as they work. My eyes momentarily flicker up to his, and the focus on his face makes a weird feeling creep up my chest. I look to his shoulder instead, the wounded one, seeing how blood has soaked up his black shirt and left a dark, wet stain. Something like regret and guilt begins to bloom in me, but I shut it down before it manages to grow, thinking of all the bad things he has done. The tension is pliable in the air, thick between us with the words we aren't saying.