The Desired Victim

Chapter 8: This Crow's Caress

"If you don't want this to hurt, quit moving."

We were back in the cabin, and Emory was wrapping my cut leg with a piece of cloth. My leg wasn't in the worst condition, but it wasn't exactly pain-free either. I hissed at the pain, and kept fidgeting. I felt uneasy having Emory touch my thigh so much. After what had almost happened, physical contact almost made me sick. At least he was being gentle about it.

"There, that should do it." Emory tied the final knot on the cloth which was already starting to bleed through. He stepped back a few paces, but I still remained completely frozen.

"Are you going to be alright?" Emory asked me warily.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, and nodded.

Emory looked at me for a few moments, thinking. He crossed his arms. I couldn't look him in the eyes, because I knew how badly he wanted to kill that man. And I had interfered with that. I stepped out of line. I should probably expect intense punishment soon.

"Honeybird," Emory said quietly. I barely remembered that that was my new pet name. At least it was much better than being called "slave."

I looked at him, wincing.

"Tell me something." He walked slightly closer. "Why did you want him to live?"

I sucked in a breath. How was I supposed to answer that? I didn't even know myself. But I couldn't just sit here and not speak. Emory stared straight into me, expecting an answer.

"W-well . . ." I croaked.

He raised his eyebrows.

"I-I didn't want to . . . see him die, I suppose . . ."

"Why? He tried to rape you, for Christ's sakes."

"H-he was . . ." I couldn't even speak properly anymore. I swallowed. "He was drunk . . ."

"That's not an excuse." Emory started pacing the small floor, slowly becoming angrier. "Don't you realize how worthless you would've become, if he would've stolen your innocence from you?!?"

I remained silent.

"You should've let me kill him . . . That sick bastard deserved it!!"

"Maybe he has a wife."

Emory spun around to face me. "What?!"

Cowering back a little, I repeated, "M-maybe he has . . . a wife. That loves him. And children. Maybe he wants to come home to them . . . I j-just . . . couldn't bear to know that he was killed, and I . . . did nothing a-about it . . . "

Emory stared at me, unblinking. I suprised myself, that was the most I had spoken in . . . well, a while. I didn't even know that that was how I really felt.

"I'm sorry . . ." I finished, and got off the bed to go lay in the corner where I was supposed to sleep. But Emory put his hand on my shoulder, stopping me.

"Honeybird," Emory said in a low voice. He put his face extremely close to mine, and stared deeply into my eyes.

"Sleep in the bed tonight."

And before I could protest or question anything, he left the room.

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