It was never effortless to love Aaron Warner. He was a difficult teenage boy who seemed to forget a lot of the time that that was what he was-a teenage boy. He'd always felt that loving or even caring for him would be impossible for all the world to...
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MY HEAD THROBS and every muscle in me hurts. It hurts so terribly.
My breath is choppy and I can't sit straight, I can't focus and is that my ear ringing? What has happened to me? I try to look around at my surroundings but it's pitch black in here, wherever it is that I am. Instead, I want to bury my head in my hands but I can't. I can't move my hands. Their tied up behind me, tied against metal, tight and painful. I'm really desperate to calm down, I know I need to. I know I won't be able to concentrate until I've calmed myself. But it's so hard.
Tears flood my eyes and the aching becomes even more consistent, taking residence in every cell inside of me. "Stop it, stop it, stop it," I mumble, hoping that'll get rid of the pain. It doesn't. Even my voice is raspy, and when I swallow my throat concentrates on a bruised part of itself, like someone has already choked me.
Who? Who would do such a thing? Who would—
I come to a halt. You idiot, of course. OF COURSE. He would, he would definitely do this to me—Anderson wouldn't hesitate on a chance to take me down. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have walked outside on my own without thinking anything could happen to me? And Aaron. . .oh, my sweet Aaron, he's probably worried sick.
I shift in my seat but instantly regret my moving when that blinding pain shoots up my arms, a pain so excruciating I'm sure I've never felt it before. I've had my hands tied once in the past but never like this—whatever is binding them together is different. More dangerous.
I hiss, "Shit. . ."
Something clicks in front of me, like the sound of a lock before a door opens, the light from what behind it taking me by such surprise I nearly fall back on my chair but manage to catch myself in time. A second later, I squint my eyes and watch as a silhouette of a tall, muscular man comes into view, overshadowing most of the brightness and giving me a chance to open my eyes again. Still, though I can't see his face, I know better than to question who this is. And when he switches on a light, my suspicions are confirmed.
Anderson's lips rise into the sickest, most twisted, evilest grin I've ever had the displeasure of witnessing. His eyes gleam in their aquamarine shade under the warm, yellow light of the lamp above me. Without taking my eyes off him for even a second, I scour the room for any clues out of the corner of my eyes—there's nothing. I'm the only thing in this empty, windowless, concrete-walled room.
I want to cry again. I can feel my eyes stinging, my lips pursing. I try to be tough, I try to remain strong but this is my breaking point I fear. I was already in a very fragile state when Anderson took me, but now that I'm in agonizing pain too? I fear it's over for me. In every way.
He cocks his head at me, smiling still. "Mara Lockhart. America's sweetheart, am I right?"
"What do you want from me?" It's such a weak whisper. I don't think I've ever sounded mousier.
