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2. Emily

The short chain around my right ankle prevents me from getting close to the window, but if I can outstretch my arm long enough maybe my fingers can reach the beam of light.

I get on my stomach and crawl my way to the window. When the chain refuses to let me move another inch, I stretch my arm out in front of me, but it can’t reach the light.

Fitting.

Silence returns around the house, and I lay where I am, hoping that the sun will move soon and, this time, the light will reach me, just for one second. I’m so cold, I don’t remember ever being warm.

The wooden stairs leading to the basement squeak as  514 climbs down them.

I retreat to my dark corner, pressing my back against the wall, making myself as small as possible.

Shadows surround me like old friends. I welcome their comforting presence.

514 unlocks the door and enters. He doesn’t move for a moment, his face obscured by the shadows, his body shakes uncontrollably as if trying to control himself around me. He does this each time he comes here. He hates having me here, and yet he refuses to let me go.

I asked him why he kidnapped me since we didn’t know each other before.

A lie.

My body retreats even more into the corner, the shadows as I remember what 514 did to me. What Azael forced him to do to me.

I don’t understand 514. I tried, but reading him has been impossible so far. He is no longer under Azael’s influence, yet he still harms me. He enjoys doing it. Inflicting pain seems to give him power, which he never had in the facility.

What did I ever do to him?

Maybe this is my karma for everything I’ve done to the men I love.

After a deep breath, he locks the door as if he’s afraid I’ll escape. There’s little to no chance of that ever happening. Not for lack of trying. The first few weeks after I was kidnapped, I tried to free myself, but nothing worked. I even managed to hide a steak knife and planned to cut out my ankle, but 514 caught me before I could do so. That was the first time I had a meltdown in front of him. I screamed at him, demanding to tell me why he kidnapped me, but as always, he remained silent.

Just as he is now. Just like he always is.

514 walks up to my mattress and puts a fruit smoothie next to it before sitting on a chair in the middle of the floor. I hate that damn chair. If only I could get to it, I’d break and burn it!

My stomach makes a sound, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. But I’m so tired of all the smoothies that I don’t bother grabbing the cup, no matter how hungry I am. Besides, I’ve been starving for so long that the pain in my stomach barely registers.

514 watches me. It’s a habit of his. He comes here daily with the pretext of bringing me food and stares at me for a few hours without saying a word. When he finally becomes bored, he leaves.

In the beginning, I tried talking to him, wanting to know what he planned to do with me, but I received no reply, just his unending muteness.

Our gaze lock, our eyes carefully watching each other. Sometimes, I feel as if we are silently communicating, like a dialogue is happening between us with the depth of our gazes. It’s nonsense, but it makes me feel less alone.

I just wish he would get over whatever sick obsession he has with me and let me go.

If I had listened to Stefan and left when he told me, I would be miles away from here by now, sipping cocktails on a tropical beach, but like the fool I am, I stayed in Veross City, wanting to know everything that Stefan, Alekos, and Reyes had done since the day Jason stole me away from them.

Finding out they had moved on and gotten married threw me into a very dark hole. It was only natural they did so, but I never expected it would affect me so much.

After all this time, I still care about them—more than I’d like to admit.

I still love them. My heart yearns for them, for what could have been.

Minutes slip by like the sand in an hourglass.

His eyes never leave mine. He barely blinks.

His brown eyes are sad. It’s nothing new. They have been like this since the day I first laid eyes on him. Something dark lurks behind his eyes. Probably his demon. Like all Lords, 514 is the vessel of a demon. Unless Azael experimented on him and had his demon replaced with an angel.

From what I heard while in the hands of Azael, no Lord had survived such an ordeal.

The beam of light starts to retreat. It won’t be long until the basement is once again flooded with darkness. I wouldn’t mind being here if I had something to do. I enjoyed doing patchwork and playing the violin before all of this. Even a book would be a great companion in these dark times.

While I haven’t done anything since I woke up except for moving around a bit to use the bucket that serves as a toilet, I’m exhausted. Since I have nothing better to do, I gather the old quilt around me that I found rummaging through the boxes next to my mattress since 514 didn’t bother to give me anything, and close my eyes.

My fingers trace the pattern that reminds me of Native American tribes. 514 is a Native American with deep tanned, russet skin, beautiful brown eyes, and amazingly long, black hair that he mostly wears down or braided. It is not his beauty that makes him stand out, but the number 514 tattooed on his left cheek.

666 is written on my face.

For Azael, we were only a number, the one he gave us.

Today, 514 has several feathers in his hair. I wonder what tribe he’s from. I wish I could ask him. I have so many questions.

Even if I could talk to him, he won’t answer.

It's as if he is mute. A hot mute, that is, because, so help me God, he is one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen.

“Eat!”

For a moment, I forget to breathe. Did I imagine hearing 514 talk? He never has, so why would he be bothering now?

“Don’t make me force you!” he sneers after a few seconds.

My eyes flutter open, and it takes a bit for my vision to focus, but 514 is no longer sitting, instead he is hovering over me. How did he move without me hearing him when he was so loud moving around the house?

Not wanting to give 514 any reason to get angry, because he can become quite violent when he loses his temper, I grab the cup and force the straw between my sewed lips—he had the ‘courtesy’ to sew shut my mouth for a second time since I’ve known him—and suck. Banana smoothie floods my mouth. If I could vomit, I would, but since 514 is a very mentally ill person, I’m forcing myself to swallow.

I manage to drink half of the smoothie before I put the cup on the floor and look defiantly at him.

If I could talk, I’d tell him, ‘Make me drink the rest.’

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