For the next two days, Tig was alone. He only saw the girl when a Nord unlocked the door long enough to let her set food in his reach. She did not speak and she moved as silently as a cat. She never met his eyes. The Nord always did. Tig could do nothing but seethe, enduring endless hours of lying still and trying to will himself to heal faster. Sometimes, he heard laughter from elsewhere in the building. Other times, he heard screams, which weren't always men's. Mostly it was quiet.
On the third day, the screaming started and didn't stop. It went on for what seemed like an hour, but was likely much less. It made his skin crawl. When the screams quieted, it was silent for a time. Then the lock to his door turned. His blood pounded and adrenaline surged. He staggered to his feet, despite the tearing pain of his wound.
However, they hadn't come for him. A different Nord than usual--who looked entirely too happy with himself--roughly handed the girl into the room. The door slammed behind her. She stood for a long moment, looking at nothing. He was fairly certain the screams hadn't been a woman, but she was clearly rattled. When he moved, putting his back to the wall and sliding back down to sit, her gaze turned to him.
"I'm not going to hurt you, sweetheart." Tig said, trying to sound reassuring. If he had time with her, maybe he could get answers.
She glanced over her shoulder at the door. Tense and wary, she crossed the room slowly and picked a spot against the wall out of reach. She moved as if in some pain, and when she crossed her arms, he saw fresh bruises around her wrists. Her shirt was stained with blood. There were hollows under her eyes and she looked exhausted. She put her head down on her arms, silent and still.
"Look, I get that this is fucked up. But I really need to know what the deal is here." He tried to keep his voice gentle.
Her head lifted. "You're in a gang?"
"Yeah."
"Then you probably know more than I do. This isn't my world. Or at least, it didn't used to be."
Well, he'd already figured out she wasn't a biker hanger-on. Nothing about her tone invited further question, but he pressed on. "Where do you go when you're not with me?"
His only response was a shudder. Her eyes closed and she leaned her head against the wall behind her. Ordinarily, he would appreciate a woman who kept her mouth shut. Today, it was infuriating. He stifled a sigh.
"Okay, let's start with something easier. What's your name?" Tig tried.
She didn't even look at him. "Anne."
"I'm Tig. Let's try another one. Where are we?"
"I don't know. My leash doesn't stretch as far as the door." She said, bitterness creeping into her voice. But bitterness was anger, and anger meant she still had spirit.
"Okay. How long have you been here?"
"Weeks."
"Do you know why?"
A pause. "No."
He was willing to bet she knew something, but he let it drop. "Is that your blood?"
She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. "No."
"Whose is it?"
"The man who runs this place is a sadist." Her voice had a quaver to it. "He gets off on pain. He made me... help. So if you don't mind, I'm going to sit here and try really hard to not think about what I've just done. Or what's going to happen next."
He remembered Happy talking about Matthew Connor. The Nomad had been right. Tig opened his mouth to ask who they'd been hurting, but he noticed that she was shaking hard enough to make the chain links tremble. He'd seen shock before, and recognized it. He said, "Hey, c'mere."
She didn't seem to hear him. When he asked a second time, her eyes focused on him with some disbelief. He just shook his head and held out a hand. She hesitated, then came to him. Tig was sitting with his back against the wall, legs outstretched on the mattress. Anne lay down next to him, her back against his leg. She curled in on herself, shaking like a scared puppy in a thunderstorm. In the chill air, she was a welcome warmth. He stroked her soft hair and felt her shiver. She reminded him of a dog his mother rescued when he was a kid--all angry and scared, but starved for affection.
When she stopped trembling, he guessed she was asleep. Carefully, he lifted her hair away from her neck to look at the chain. It wasn't jewelry. It was industrial chain with a small but solid padlock linking the ends. There was just enough length left over to wrap around a man's hand. The bruises around her throat weren't kidding, either. Not only that, there was a fresh bite-mark in the curve of her throat. It didn't break the skin, but the clear imprint of teeth was freshly bruised into her white skin.
Tig rubbed the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. There had to be a way to get out of here.