Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117363 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Wymack let go when he was through and set to work carefully wiping away soup and juice from Jean’s bared arms and chest. Only when he was done did he turn a serious look on Jean and ask, “Did someone forget to mention you shouldn’t be walking? What were you thinking?”
“I want to go home,” Jean demanded.
The look Wymack sent him for that hurt more than anything Riko had ever done to him, and Jean had to look away.
“Get some rest,” Wymack said. “We will talk this afternoon. Here.”
Jean considered biting the fingers that slipped pills between his lips, but Wymack was a coach, which meant he was off-limits. He swallowed the drugs dry and stared at the ceiling as Wymack carefully got off the bed. Jean heard the clink of glass and silverware as Wymack collected scattered and broken dishes from the floor, but he was asleep before the man made it out of the room.
-
When he woke a few hours later it was Wymack once more waiting at his bedside, seemingly absorbed in a newspaper. Two mugs sat on the nightstand, and Jean smelled the enticing aroma of black coffee. It was a trigger he didn’t need, reminding him how blindingly hungry and thirsty he was, and Jean sat up at a snail’s pace. Despite the caution, he was barely breathing by the time he let the headboard take his weight.
He wondered if he could even manage the weight of a full mug right now. It was bad enough he was sheltering here; if they had to spoon feed him, he might as well bite his own tongue off and be done with it.
Wymack looked up. “Bathroom?”
He wished he could say no. “Where is it?”
Wymack set aside his paper and stood. “Don’t put any weight on your left leg.”
Jean began the too-careful process of trying to get off the bed again. Wymack took hold of his upper arms in a firm grip as Jean tried pushing himself up, and Jean understood when his legs almost gave out on him again. Wymack’s grip went tight enough to bruise. It hurt, but it was enough to keep Jean from falling over, and Wymack offered his own body as a crutch. Jean chewed through the inside of his cheek so he wouldn’t say anything about this miserable situation.
The bathroom was just one door down on the left, but it took an eternity to get there. Wymack propped him against the wall closest to the toilet and left him to sort out his business in peace. He was back as soon as he heard the sink running, letting himself in with just a rap of his knuckles on the door in warning. Back to the bedroom they went, moving slower than grass grew. Jean’s vision was swimming by the time he reached the bed.
Maybe it was pain making him hallucinate, but now there was a steaming bowl of porridge sitting by the coffee. Jean’s stomach betrayed him with a vicious growl.
“Eat,” Wymack said. “We haven’t been able to get anything but water down you in almost thirty hours now.”
Jean looked at the bruises staining most of his hands, then dragged a reluctant gaze to the stripes of raw skin on his forearms. Riko had bound him with racquet laces, which were far too rough and ragged to be used on bare skin. Jean had rope burn in six or seven places on each arm, and his wrists were worn raw. Riko hadn’t wasted time tying Jean up in years, knowing Jean would submit to any punishment Riko felt like doling out. The last time he’d had to resort to such methods was—
Jean forcibly derailed that thought, refusing to tilt sideways into memories he couldn’t easily claw out of. Some boxes had to stay closed, even if he had to break every finger to hold them shut. If Riko had tied him up this time, it was because he’d deserved it. He’d proven his disloyalty the moment he tried pulling Riko’s hands off his throat.
“I will eat later,” Jean said.
“It’s cream of wheat,” Wymack said. “Do you know how awful it’s going to be in about ten minutes?” He didn’t wait for a response but scooped up the bowl and held it so close to Jean’s face he could feel the steam licking against his chin. “I’ll get this. You just worry about managing the spoon.”
“I am not hungry,” Jean said.
“Suit yourself, but my hands are cold, so I’m going to keep holding this bowl here.”
Jean worked his jaw on words he wouldn’t say, demands and questions he wouldn’t trust the answers to. Surely this was an act, the carrot before the stick, a way of getting past his guard so they could use whatever they found on the other side. It had to be an act, but Wymack fell into his role like he’d done this song-and-dance routine so many times he’d forgotten to watch for the curtain to fall. He’d spent too long pretending the Foxes were a genuine investment and not a publicity stunt, perhaps.