Sheepskin

Without a way to tell time, her attempts at knowing how long she lingered there were futile. Eventually, he had started to gently card his fingers through her hair, relieving any tangles he encountered with the same gentleness he had used to draw her in against him. When he had shifted to stroke her hair, he had also freed up on of her arms—now she considered returning his embrace. It was easy to see his need for control; imposing her touch on him might be taken as her trying to force some of that control away.

Her silent debates were cast aside when the hand stroking her hair stopped and abandoned the soft strands. Momentary worry seized her, wondering if this was when he left her and ordered her back into the room with the other girls.

I don't want to go back!

Instead, he only shifted his touch down to grab her wrist for a second time—much gentler than before. Using that hold to guide her, he shifted her arm forward and around his side. She took the hint and moved on her own, wrapping her arm around him in return until her hand rested in the small of his back. Once there, she made sure to hold it in place.

He was so warm beneath her hand, pressed in against her front. It chased any cold from her limbs at the loss of her sweater.

The steady strokes through her hair resumed.

Don't let go. Please, don't let me go.

His hold around her tightened so suddenly, it was as if he could hear her silent plea. Her arm constricted around him in response, pulling them in so close together she could feel the digging press of the keys in his front pocket. She almost wanted to clutch her fingers into his shirt but remembering the neat and pressed appearance halted her.

It has to be perfect; nothing out of place.

Breath hitching in her lungs, she was sure he could feel the abrupt jolt against his chest.

"You're not cold?" he asked in his quiet baritone. The rumble could be felt through his chest into hers.

Inhaling deeply, the strong scent of laundry detergent and peppermint filled her senses. "No," she breathed out. "I'm finally warm."

It was true. No matter the layers she piled on, there was a chill in her bones that refused to warm. No number of hot showers or hours of manual labor relieved the painful cold at her core. Yet it took only this man's embrace to, finally, reach deep—where nothing else could. Perhaps she had hardened herself against the hatred and abuse of her parents, unknowingly freezing against possible pain.

His gentle stroking stilled again at the base of her skull. A gentle tug against her hair had her head tipping back, lifting up from his shoulder as he did the same. The worry about his impending anger returned. However, the softness she had seen on his face before was back and gave him a younger, lonely appearance.

"What's your name?" she asked quietly, then almost choked on her own tongue. Why had she done that? Speaking out of turn was the reason she was still recovering from belt marks on her thighs and buttocks.

There must have been a visible change in her complexion as the blood fled from her face. His expression firmed again, but it wasn't nearly as stiff as the rest of the times she had seen him. "Dennis."

No punishment.

Having spoken so out of turn should have left her at the very least badly bruised, but he showed barely a reaction and answered her all the same. "Dennis," she repeated quietly. He maintained a steadying grip on her hair, keeping her face turned up toward his. Some of her colour gradually returned, removing the sickly appearance that he knew well. The rush of fear that came upon someone with such force that it chased out every once of blood. It was half expected for her to sway in place.

Apart from when he had grabbed her wrist to stop her from taking the pail, she had not actually shown much in the way of fear. Instead, she was a carefully blank slate. Malleable and pliable like soft clay. Perhaps it was a defense mechanism; it's difficult to bring someone's anger down on you when you did everything asked.

He told her to be walk, she walked. He told her to come, she came. He told her-

"Close your eyes," he ordered.

She closed her eyes.

Releasing her hair, he framed her face with his hands. So small, her thin cheeks and sharp jaw looked like they were being dwarfed between his palms. He himself was pale, but the stark white of her flesh made it seem as though she never saw of day throughout her entire life. The smallest collection of freckles painted across her nose and cheeks, but his attention was diverted in favour of the shadows beneath her eyes.

Warm breath fanned her face, shifting the strands of shorter, loose hair that naturally fell across her cheeks.

He remembered seeing her in the parking lot, straightening up as she turned to see where the man had fallen. The faintest hint of the shadows had been visible then, lurking beneath the pale makeup that she used to cover them. Even then, she had been carefully blank. What caused those shadows?

He hadn't accounted for her. Or the other girl, wrapped in the layers of sweaters and curtains of brunette hair. But he could not delay or start his planning over from the beginning. Four was more of a risk, but it was one he had to take. However, at every turn the green eyed one—Adelais—had acted against his expectations. The screaming, crying, and fighting was something he had been ready for. Not so for her quiet, patient, submission.

It was beautiful.

But she was not for him. She was for the Beast.

Releasing her, Dennis stepped back. Her arm dropped to her side, limp, and she kept her eyes closed in wait. Rather than telling her to open them, he moved in behind her—just as he had when he hauled her, gasping, from the trunk—and crossed her arms across her chest with his hands shackling her wrists.

Turning together, he walked them toward the room where the other three remained. Even when he released her wrist, she kept it at her chest. So dutifully obedient. He almost wished to find some fight in her this time, a reason to hold her tighter. No, she was pliant and patient, waiting either for a command or a strike.

Unlocking the door, he let it swing open and nudged her forward with more force than necessary. Falling into the room at a stumble, she regained her footing quickly. Barely clear of the door and he had swung it shut behind her. The resounding click of the lock signified her return to imprisonment.

Opening her eyes, the girls were all standing several paces back with matching looks of unease and confusion. Glancing to the left, the pail and cleaning supplies were exactly as she had last seen them before following Dennis from the room.

They were watching.

The familiar seething anger started to heat under her skin again.

Ignoring them, she stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Picking up the cloth and the pink bottle for the ceramics, Adelais allowed herself to fall into the familiar routine of cleaning. Cleaning was something she did well. It had been beaten into her since she was old enough to carry a rag. Colour coding was her mother's specialty; there was no excuse for using the wrong cleaner when they were so easily marked. Even the sponges and rags had a specific colour for each purpose.

At least the other three were smart enough to leave her alone. No one tried to knock or talk through the door. She could hear them speaking amongst themselves, yes, but they left her out of it.

Since she finally had the necessary cleaning supplies, Adelais fixed up the bathroom from top to bottom. The shower and sink were back to pristine, the mirror was wiped down of fingerprints, the facet and taps shined, and the hair that had collected on the floor from so many girls tracking in and out was wiped up and flushed away. It gave her at least an hour of peace—much longer than she had ever taken before, but she doubted Dennis was outside the door with a stopwatch like her mother.

Time was even taken to straighten unused towels.

Everything was returned to the pail, draping the rags over the lip since she had nowhere else to put them to dry, then stashing the bucket under the sink. It would have worked better if the sink wasn't a stand-alone so she could hide it behind cabinet doors, but the size of the room didn't provide much option.

I want that room spotless by the time we get back. Am I clear?

Spotless. Spotless. Spotless.

Swallowing down the scream that wanted to break free from her chest, Adelais leaned her hands forward on the sink as she took several deep breaths. The scent of the cleaning products was still thick in the air, but that was nothing new for her.

Neatly folded towels. Not a speck in sight. No water droplets in the shower. Mirror perfectly clear.

"Adelais?" Marcia's voice called through the door, breaking her from her moment so suddenly a shudder ran rampant up her spine. In case her voice was not heard, a soft knock followed. "I need to pee."

So much for a clean bathroom.

Deliberately avoiding her reflection, the oldest of the group finally left the bathroom behind—as pristine as it had been when they arrived, aside from the used towels hanging on their hooks. Marcia gave her a hesitant nod as they passed one another but refused to meet her eyes. Casey was sitting on the same bed as before, Claire occupying her usual place.

Normally, Adelais would take her spot at the head of the bed she shared with Casey, but the thought of being so close to people made her skin itch under her covering clothes. Sitting down next to the door was her other option. Resting her forearms on her knees, she dropped her head until her face was obscured by her arms and her hair. She could feel Claire staring at her. What would her cousin have to say this time? Perhaps she could accuse her of working with Dennis—that's why he kept taking her from the room.

"You let him hold you."

Predicable.

"I can't explain to you enough how stupid it is to anger the person with the metaphorical knife to your throat."

Her voice sounded so rough, as though she had given into that earlier desire and screamed until her throat was raw.

"The other door is locked, he's stronger than me. Would you have rather I tried to fight him, gotten myself hurt or killed when he retaliated? I wouldn't even have gotten a hold of the key before he stopped me."

"You didn't even-"

Casey's voice cut through Claire's hiss of anger. "Shut up. She didn't do anything wrong."

"She was hugging him!"

"He made her."

"That would've been a good time to knee him in the balls, but instead she's cuddled up to the guy that's probably going to kill us. Is this Stockholm Syndrome? Falling for your captor or some crap? Seriously?"

Marcia returned from the bathroom, frowning at the apparent argument that was going on inside the main room. "Claire?"

"She's fucking crazy!" Claire exploded, standing up and motioning wildly in Adelais's direction. She continued to shout, even as Casey and Marcia tried to quiet her down. The older blonde didn't try to defend herself—she was not entirely wrong, anyway. There was something wrong with her. None of it was her own doing, though. Abusive parents, being abducted, whatever issues she had with her memory—she asked for none of it.

They were the unfortunate cards she had been dealt.

Unlike Claire's perfect hand, a card for everything she could ever want for her in her hands. Adelais's fingernails bit into her palms as the rage steadily returned. The time she had spent in the bathroom was nor naught.

"Shut up!"

Casey watched from across the room, falling to sit on the cot as Adelais surged to her feet much faster than should have been possible for someone so long-limbed. Claire flinched back as her cousin rushed forward like an enraged bull, grabbing her upper arms with a strength that did not match the thinness of her hands. Marcia wisely stayed still and silent outside the bathroom door.

Claire was given a shake so rough that her head snapped back. "You can question me all you want. Call me crazy. Accuse me of whatever you think is going on between me and that man. I don't care. No matter the blood we share, you are never going to be more important than my own safety." Shoving Claire roughly, the younger blonde hit the cot with a surprised grunt. How was someone so thin able to toss her as though she weighed little more than a feather?

Shoulders shaking with her anger, Adelais looked like she was barely keeping herself from hauling off and physically maiming her. Even the anger and disgust on the man's face as she threw Marcia back into the room hadn't come close to the expression her cousin was now wearing.

Casey curled herself into her familiar ball on the opposite cot. The aggressive stance was so similar to the one that had manifested the last time she had lost her temper on the teen. She stayed close, leaning over Claire and dominating everything about her. Claire seemed to understand on some instinctual level, since she stayed reclined back on her elbows where she had been shoved.

"The time will come when it's just you and him. Maybe you'll have finally pissed him off, maybe he'll come in here and cart you off next—but I can assure you right now, when that time comes you will do exactly what he tells you. The thought of attacking won't even cross your mind. Until then, I don't want to hear another word about me and how I chose to keep myself from dying in this goddamned basement."

Adelais's voice was almost a growl, gravel rolling in her chest, by the time she finished. Her cousin was too fearful to meet her gaze, otherwise she would have noticed the lightening of the green eyes to a sharp, chilling hazel.

Claire nodded her head in sharp, jerking movements.

She lingered a moment longer, pinning Claire with her stare, until she resumed her place on the floor beside their only exit.

Suddenly, the safety that came with it being only the four of them wasn't as welcoming as before. It was beginning to feel like a wolf had hidden itself amidst the sheep.