“Here,” he says, handing me a T-shirt. “You can wear this for now.”
Trying to hide my ecstatic relief, I accept the piece of clothing and pull it over my head, noting the heat in Lucas’s eyes as he watches me do so. It’s a man’s shirt—his shirt—and it’s long enough to cover me to mid-thigh.
“All right, let’s go,” he says when I’m dressed, and leads me back to the chair. As he ties me up, I look at his big, sun-darkened hands looping the rope around my ankles and wonder if he’s feeling the same electric tingle that I am. It’s fucked up that I still want him, but it may also aid me in escape.
It may help propagate this new, more amicable dynamic between us.
When he’s done tying me up, Lucas stands up and says, “I have to get some things done. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Okay, sure,” I say, keeping a poker face.
With a lingering glance at me, Lucas departs, and I let my relieved smile break across my face.
* * *
After a while, my ebullient feeling fades, replaced by a combination of boredom and discomfort. The chair is hard under my butt, and the ropes bite into my skin every time I try to change my position. The minutes begin to stretch, passing by slowly and monotonously. I keep looking at the window, waiting for the mystery girl to return, but she doesn’t. There’s only an occasional lizard running over the window screen.
Sighing, I look down and ponder the other tidbit that gave me hope. If Lucas didn’t lie, my dark-haired visitor wasn’t his girlfriend.
He doesn’t have a girlfriend at all.
The knowledge is like a balm to my ragged feelings. I don’t know why it matters to me whether Lucas is single, married, or hooking up with a dozen women, but the fact that he’s not cheating on that girl with me makes me feel better about last night. I didn’t wrong another woman. Whatever’s going on with me and Lucas is just between the two of us. Nobody else is going to get hurt.
Of course, I have to allow for the possibility that he lied, that this is all part of his interrogation technique, but I’m inclined to believe him on this. There are no signs of a woman’s presence in his house: no decorations or picture frames, no hair dryers or feminine products in the bathroom.
This place is a bachelor residence, right down to the almost-bare fridge, and if I hadn’t been so terrified and exhausted yesterday, I would’ve noticed that obvious fact.
Yawning, I look at the window again. Another lizard runs by. I watch it and wonder what it’s like out there, in the jungle beyond these walls. Every part of me aches to be out there, to feel the warm sun on my skin and hear the singing of birds. The small glimpse I got yesterday hadn’t been enough.
I want to be outside.
I want to be free.
Soon, I promise myself, shifting in the hard chair. I now understand the game Lucas is playing, and I can play along. I’ll be his sex doll for as long as he lusts after me, and I’ll seem weak and open. I’ll tell him everything except the information he seeks, and I’ll let him think that he’s prying the secrets out of me, that his soft interrogation is working. This way, he won’t resort to harsher methods for a while, and I’ll use this time to formulate a real escape plan, something more promising than a desperate attack with a broken toothbrush.
I’ll also work on building a bond with Lucas.
Lima Syndrome. That’s what they call the psychological phenomenon where the captor sympathizes with the captive so much that he releases said captive. I studied it during training, as there was a high probability I’d be captured one day. Lima Syndrome is not as common as its inverse, Stockholm Syndrome, where the captive falls for his or her captor, but it does occur. I’m not foolish enough to think that I’ll be able to get Lucas to release me, but it’s possible that I could get him to lower his guard and do little things that would make my escape easier.
Like letting me wear clothes.
Yawning again, I watch yet another lizard scurry across the window, and I imagine that I’m small and green. Small enough to slip out of my bonds and slither through the vents. If I could do that, I’d be the best spy in the world.
It’s a silly thought, but it comforts me, taking my mind off what awaits me if my plan fails. My eyelids grow heavy, and I don’t fight it. As I nod off, I dream of little green lizards and my baby brother, who’s laughing and chasing them around a jungle park.
It’s my most joyful dream in years.
* * *
“Yulia.”
I wake up instantly, my heart jumping, and look up.
Lucas is back—and he’s not alone. In addition to my captor, there is a short, balding man standing in front of me, his brown eyes regarding me with a detached curiosity. His clothes are casual, but the bag in his hands appears to be a medical kit.
My stomach drops. I was wrong about Lucas waiting to use the harsher methods.
Before I can panic, the short man smiles at me. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Dr. Goldberg. If you don’t mind, I’d like to examine you.”
Examine me?
“To make sure you’re not injured,” the doctor explains, undoubtedly reading my confused expression. “If you don’t mind, that is.”
Right, okay. I take a deep breath, my fear easing. “Sure. Go right ahead.” I’m tied to a chair wearing nothing but Lucas’s T-shirt, and the man is asking if I’d mind a doctor’s examination? What would he do if I said I minded? Apologize for the intrusion and go away?
Apparently oblivious to the sarcasm in my voice, the doctor turns to Lucas and says, “I’d like the patient to be untied, if possible.”
Lucas frowns, but kneels in front of me and begins working on the rope around my ankles. Glancing at the doctor, he says tersely, “I’m going to stay here. She’s creative with household items.”
“But—”
At a hard look from Lucas, the doctor falls silent. Lucas finishes untying my ankles and moves around me to undo my hands. I wiggle my feet surreptitiously, restoring circulation, and think longingly about the bathroom.
I don’t know how long I’ve been tied up, but my bladder’s convinced it’s been forever.
“I need to pee,” I tell Lucas, figuring I have nothing to lose by being honest. “Would it be okay if I went to the bathroom before the examination?”
Lucas’s frown deepens, but he gives a curt nod. “Let’s go,” he says when he’s done with the rope. Grabbing my arm, he pulls me up, his grip as rough as upon my arrival. Startled, I nearly stumble as he drags me down the hallway, the gentleness of this morning nowhere in sight.
My anxiety returns. Was I wrong about him, or did something happen? Does this examination have something to do with it?
Before I can analyze my captor’s alarming behavior, he pushes me into the bathroom and says harshly, “You have one minute and not a second longer.”
And on that note, he slams the door shut.
8
Lucas
When I bring Yulia back into the living room, Goldberg has her stand while he feels her pulse and listens to her breathing with a stethoscope. “Good, good,” he mutters under his breath, jotting down something in his notebook.
He bends down to look at a big bruise on her knee, and Yulia shoots me an anxious glance. I can see that she wants answers, but I don’t give her any reassurance.
I don’t want the doctor to know how much I’ve softened toward my captive.
After a minute, Goldberg stops and gives Yulia a smile. “Just a few scrapes and bruises,” he says cheerfully. “You’re underweight and a little malnourished, but a few good meals should fix that. Now, I’d like to take some blood if you don’t mind. Please, have a seat.”
He points toward the couch, and Yulia glances at me again.
“Sit,” I bark, doing my best to ignore the distressed look that steals over her face as she complies.
Goldberg pulls on a pair of latex gloves and takes out a syringe with an attached vial. “This won’t be too bad,” he promises. I wonder if he’s trying to compensate for my harsh manner. He’s not usually this gentle with the guards—though, granted, none of them have Yulia’s fragile beauty.
She doesn’t wince or make a sound as the needle sinks into her skin, her expression one of stoic endurance. I, on the other hand, have to fight an irrational urge to tear Goldberg away from her.
I hate to see someone hurting her, even if it’s the doctor I brought here myself.
“All done,” Goldberg says, taking the needle out and pressing a small sterile pad to the wound. “I’ll take this to my lab for analysis. Now, one last thing…” He gives me an imploring look, and I respond with a curt shake of my head.
I’m not leaving him alone with Yulia; he’ll have to do the exam with me present.
Goldberg sighs and turns his attention back to her. “I have to perform a gynecological examination,” he says apologetically. “To make sure you’re okay.”
“What?” Yulia’s eyes widen. “Why?”
“Just do it.” I make my voice as hard as I can. I’m not about to explain that I’m worried I hurt her last night with my roughness. She had been wet, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t tear her or bruise her internally.