a flat pillow, I blinked, my blurry vision slowly clearing on a wall with a painting of a pinup model dressed in only a leather harness, covering nothing, whipping a tied-up man.
What the hell? Where am I?
Pain jerked my head up, and the sudden movement shot bile up my throat, my head swimming with agony. I heaved over the side of the bed, right into a bowl placed on the floor. Puking up mostly bile with nothing much in my stomach, the violent action made me more nauseous. I collapsed onto the pillow with a whimper, already spent of energy.
But curiosity pricked the back of my neck. I slowly looked around. Filtered light seeped into the room, making it hard to decipher the time of day. The daylight unmasked the room, showing how much grime had been hidden in the magic of darkness and shadows the night before. Not that I was complaining. The lumpy bed and pillow felt heavenly compared to sleeping on the ground. And being here meant we had truly escaped the Death House. It wasn’t a dream. We were free.
“Warwick?” My voice came out weak and gritty, sounding like a scratched record, as pain slicing down my throat.
Raw. Sore. As if I had been strangled or had screamed until it gave out.
Oh right. Both happened.
Twisting to look over my shoulder, I saw my leg was wrapped up with gauze and propped on a pillow, blood staining the discolored whitish towel. Warwick Farkas had tended to me. What a bizarre idea when just a few days ago he was going to kill me.
Where was he?
Strangely, I felt unsettled waking up without him here.
“Warwick?” Pushing up, every muscle, nerve, and joint complained, telling me to lay back down, my head spinning in retaliation. Inhaling, I placed my feet to the floor, my knuckles curling into the duvet, trying to hold back the urge to vomit again.
A soft knock tapped at the door before it swung open. A pretty woman looking to be in her late twenties or early thirties with bright red hair and blue eyes poked her head in. She wore a corset, half-slip, and silky kimono.
“Hi.” She smiled, wrinkles lining her mouth, her teeth slightly yellow. Those things told me she was human, instantly easing my tension. “Thought I heard you.” A light British accent glazed her words like icing.
I watched her, my brain feeling slow and groggy as she stepped in, carrying a bowl and more towels. She trotted over to the dresser and set them down.
“Who are you?” I croaked out.
She moved to me, taking my face in her hands, peering at it from different angles, cringing as her thumbs moved down my bruised neck.
“I don’t mean to be rude, luv, but you look like hell.” She clicked her tongue, shaking her head as she backed away from me. “Nothing a nice bath and soap won’t help with. Lots and lots of soap. Maybe some disinfectant? I hope we have something that can handle this.” She motioned over me, her eyes opening wider at my bloody sports bra and prison underwear. “Oh, my…good thing I’m here.”
“Who are you?”
“Oh, sorry, luv.” She batted her hand at me. “I’m Rosie.” Curtsying playfully, her voice was suddenly heavy with accent. “The English Rose.”
“You’re from England?” I couldn’t imagine leaving the glorious Western countries to be here. In hell. “And you left?”
She let out a trill of laughter. “Oh lord, no. I’m not English at all.” She put her hand on her chest, winking at me. “But they love the accent, and we all have our roles to play here. With some people, accents are their kink.”
I stared at her in confusion, my brain working through fog.
“I was an actress before this. Have an exceptional ear. I pick up on brogues easily, but now I’ve been playing this role for so long it’s become part of me. Sometimes I forget I am not British.” She laughed, switching back to me in a blink. “So, let’s get you a bath, fresh clothes, and some food. Sound good?” She talked so quickly that my fuzzy mind struggled to keep up with her.
“Rosie?” I rubbed my head. “Where is Warwick?”
“You mean that virile, intense, dangerously enticing man?” She sighed heavily, fluttering her fingers across her breastbone. “He has to be part beast or something. Hell, could you imagine him in bed? Oh lord… He’s one I would not charge.” She fanned herself. “Oh, I’m sorry, is there something going on with