“Did you have fun,” he said, gripping my arms tighter, “going through my things?” I dropped the penlight, it clattered onto the floor by his feet. I shook my head. “Then why’d you do it?” I didn’t answer him. Words failed me, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth, to make him any angrier than he was already. His fingernails dug into my skin. “Okay, that’s fine.” He pulled me over, across the desk, my injury hitting against the top of it sent a flare of pain up into my hip.

I struggled to get free of his vise-like grip. He was calmier than he had been before while angry. It was frightening, even more frightening than when he had me bent over the bathroom sink. His grip got tighter as he threw me over his shoulder. I hit at his back, tried to bring my knee back enough to kick his chest. He stopped my struggle with an effortless, “I will throw you down the stairs,” in that calm tone of voice. I held onto him instead as I felt him start the walk down the stairs.

He seemed to know the way around the cabin like the back of his hand. Not once did he pause to second guess himself. He walked into the kitchen, went to a drawer, and pulled out something I couldn’t see in the dark. My mind started racing as to what he’d do to me with the mystery object. Take out my eyes? Stab me? Shoot me again? Kill me?

He deposited me on my back on the floor of the den. I started to crawl away from him, only for him to pin me down and flip me over. He grabbed hold of my left leg, midway up my calf. I continued my futile attempts at escape, only stopping when he forced my left leg in an uncomfortable position. My knee was almost touching the floor and I had no room to turn my body to alleviate the discomfort. I wanted to dislocate my hip as my solution to this problem, but he practically did it for me by pressing my knee into the floor.

My knee was kept touching the floor with him putting his leg over it. He pulled my pant leg up, my sock down and almost off my foot with one hand; his thumb and two fingers pressed into the bony part inside my ankle. He moved them around before settling his thumb into the tip of the bone. I flinched, tried to bring my ankle closer to my hands when sharp pain went through it. I couldn’t tell what was worse, the initial hit with a hammer, his fingers pressing into the now swollen skin, or the second hit.

It was after the second hit I was able to hold my ankle, force my hip back into a normal position. He positioned himself in a squat, tapped the hammer on the hardwood, then left the room. The window. I crawled to the window, the pain in my ankle making me forget about the pain in my right leg. But I stopped, pulling myself upright and clutching the windowsill. What was I going to do when I got outside? We were in the middle of nowhere. I wouldn’t be able to get very far either in the snow before falling from my injuries and freezing to death if I was lucky—Mathias would probably kill me if I wasn’t.

There was nothing I could do. My best bet, only bet, was to call for help on his phone. There was no way of me knowing when the next time his phone would be within my grasp. I was at his mercy until then. Maybe…maybe he would treat me nicer if I told him who I really was. Shed the skin of the man named Soren…yet there was no way of knowing what Luis would do to me. At least with Mathias I had a vague idea of what might happen. From that small interaction I had with Luis…he unsettled me something awful.

“Come away from the window,” he said calmly, somewhat lovingly. I turned my head, having to block my eyes with my hand from the light of a flashlight. I crawled away from the window, back to him. I sat with my legs out in front of me, the only comfortable position now. He sat cross-legged in front of me, putting my swollen ankle in his lap. He shone the light on my ankle, holding it between his teeth to free his hands.

I flinched in pain as his fingers dug back into my ankle. I wasn’t sure what he was doing, what he was checking for, I was just sure that I wanted him to stop. When he did, he wrapped my ankle tightly, but not tight enough to cut off circulation. He put my sock back on that had been forgotten in my haste to get to the window. He took the flashlight from his teeth, stood, left. I rubbed at my ankle trying to discern what exactly had happened. What had he actually done to it? He hit it with enough force to break it, and that was probably what he was checking for. To make sure he hit the right bone, that it didn’t splinter in a way that he didn’t want it to.

Mathias held his hands out to me when he came back. Reluctantly, I took them, and he moved his grip further up my arm. He pulled up and at a slight angle. I found my footing, holding onto his arms. I shifted my weight around in hopes of finding a stance that didn’t hurt either injury too much. The position that I found was to lean more of my weight into him than I was comfortable with.

He took multiple steps back, as many as he was able to without letting go of me. He waited, as if he was waiting for me to walk towards him. It started to solidify that he did want me to walk towards him. It burned just to stand still; I couldn’t imagine the pain that I would be in if I took a step. He tugged my arms slightly. I took a step with my right leg, the pain shooting into my hip almost enough to send me to the floor. What sent me to the floor, however, was when I slid my left foot in front of my right and put the smallest amount of pressure onto it.

I was on my knees, my arms above my head in his hands. “Good,” he said, pulling me back to my feet. He picked me back up, brought me back to the bedroom. He handcuffed me to leg of the bed. I heard the bed creak above me, his voice low, “It’s three in the morning, if you wake me again…” he let the threat hang in the air, allowing my mind to fill in the blank. I swallowed, nodded, hoping he could see me in the dark.

I tried to get comfortable in the makeshift bed. My ankle throbbed, above my knee ached. As the shock from him breaking my ankle started to subside, the cold seeped back into me. I was shivering under the quilt, and that only made everything hurt more. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. I felt like his abused dog. He brought me home, established the hierarchy. Only to pull it back to gain my trust, then remind me of the order.

Violence, he only thought in violence. I wanted to know if it was because of how he grew up. Or maybe it was due to his military training. It could be simply he was born this way. There was nothing anyone did or didn’t do to make him into the man now sleeping above me. It was nature’s fault.

I wanted to stop thinking, but it gave me something other to focus on than my ankle. Stay where he could see me, he said that first day. It wasn’t enough to cripple one leg, crippling both was the only way to force me to stay where he wanted me. Where he could see me. That had to be the rule I broke, not the rifling through his objects—the key. I wish I had taken it, put it in my sock or something. It may have been for the room across the study, an important box, or the likes. Something to use as a bargaining chip against him.

Until he woke up, I laid there on my back thinking, spiraling down and down. At some point, I realized that Margot’s shoot was tomorrow. I went through every scenario I could come up with on what would happen if—when—he talked to her. If she’d give me away, or if she still hated me and pretended I didn’t exist anymore. My thoughts were stopped when the bed creaked as I presumed he got up. He walked around, his feet silent on hardwood. He came into my line of sight a few times as he changed, slid his boots on.

He finished up in the bedroom, closed the door as he left without even checking to see if I was awake. I heard his footsteps disappear down the cabin, then the front door slam shut. I waited, listened to see if I could hear him walking in the snow outside. I was unable to, but I heard the heat click to life when the generator was turned on. I sat up, rubbing at my eyes with my free hand and waited for him to uncuff me from the bed.

My panic started to rise since he never came back in after that. He was going to leave me here, in a makeshift bed on the floor, to starve to death. I started tugging at the cuff attached to the bed’s leg. I’d break the cuff, or I’d break my wrist, I’d take either as long as I wasn’t attached to the bed anymore. That proved futile. I got on my knees, trying to pick the bed up enough to slide the cuff out from under the leg. I tried three or four times before the realization that I was no match for a solid wooden bedframe set in. I laid back down, admitting defeat.

I wasn’t sure how much time passed before he came back. I heard him walk to the stairs, up them. It was silent for a while. He probably sat to do whatever it was he needed to. It was nerve wracking waiting for him to remember I existed. I was hungry, in pain, irritated that he would suddenly forget that I was cuffed to his bed. And I stewed in this anger, wishing I could eat something, could get something for the pain in my ankle.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at him when he walked into the room. He squatted by me, and I titled my head away. He uncuffed my wrist, another hand on my arm. I was dressed by him, I had no choice in the matter. He put my boots on for me, gingerly sliding the broken one into the shoe. I wanted to ask him for food after he dressed me, but I couldn’t find my voice.

I let him half-support me, half-carry me to the front door. I was in no position to argue with him, to fight back. Not when I could barely walk. The winter coat, gloves, hat, made their reappearances as he put them on me. We were leaving, and I could hazard a guess to where. He was taking me to see Margot. I prayed, I hoped, I could stay out of sight. I didn’t want to risk her saying anything to him about who I really was.

The snow was still coming down in small flurries. He trudged in the snow while carrying me. I couldn’t get my footing easily in the heavy boots, on the uneven, powdery snow when he put me back on my feet at the passenger side of my car. I opened the door, wanting to sit as quickly as possible to alleviate the pain in my leg and ankle. I sat halfway in the car seat, moving the half-dozen donuts out of my way. He closed the door when my feet were in the car.

He got in the driver’s seat. “Eat as many as you want,” he said, then drove over the powdering of snow.

I opened the box to find three different donuts. My stomach rumbled from the smell of food. I gave in, taking off one of my gloves and picked up a random donut. It would be another long, quiet drive to my doom.