Cabin of Axes - Bea Paige Page 0,9
just a single bed tucked in the corner with a side table and lamp beside it. The chocolate brown comforter is clean and soft, but the bed itself is hard. The room is square, with plasterboard walls painted a neutral light grey. In the corner of the room are a set of stairs leading upwards and if I listen carefully I can hear footsteps above me. I must be in the basement. Perhaps the door that I found locked earlier had led down into this space? Opposite the base of the stairs is another door and on the floor is a large cowhide rug that I swear wasn’t there before. Then again, it was pitch black and I was totally disorientated so I could have missed it.
Tentatively, I get to my feet. I’m still wearing just my underwear, but a t-shirt has been placed at the end of the bed. It’s plain white and large, most likely from one of the men. Despite where it’s come from, I pull it on, feeling a little better for it. Honestly, I wonder why they left it, given their threat. I would’ve thought they’d want to keep me bare. Strip away my clothes, strip away a layer of safety. Whatever the reason, I choose to take comfort in that small act of kindness.
Stepping gingerly over the floor, I head towards the door opposite the stairs and turn the handle. It’s locked. I should’ve known. Turning on my feet, I look up the set of stairs to the door above. Light filters beneath the door frame and despite my internal warning bells, I climb the wood stairs slowly, wincing when one creaks under my weight. Stilling, I hold my breath, waiting for one of the men to yank open the door and come hurtling towards me. Fortunately for me, none of them do. When I reach the door, I hunch down, pressing my ear against the smooth wood and listen.
“How long are we going to keep her down there?” the same male voice who first spoke to me yesterday, asks. He’s the one who called me darling, his voice has a slight Irish lilt. I hadn’t noticed that in my state of fear, but now the accent is obvious. From the tone of his voice, the question doesn’t appear to be being asked because he’s looking out for me, more out of curiosity.
“I don’t know, but we need to figure shit out,” another male voice responds. It’s smooth, husky, authoritative and makes my skin prickle with recognition. He was the man who’d offered me the choice between pain and pleasure. Oh, God.
“You saw the letter, Franklin,” another man says with a voice that is dark, dangerous, and filled with edges sharp enough to cut. It’s the same male voice who, the last time I was awake, said he wanted to lick my salty tears. Jesus. “It was tucked away in your jacket, Berrin,” he continues.
So it was the Irish guy’s jacket I was wearing? But how the hell did I come across it? Do I know these men? Or had I stolen it? Are they angry because they’ve found the thief and want to scare me, or is it more fucked up than that? Something tells me it’s the latter.
“It was, Mathieson, but fuck me if I know how she ended up with it,” Berrin responds, brushing off the comment with a light laugh.
“I don’t recognise the handwriting. It’s certainly not mine, or either of yours…” that same sharp voice says. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“And you’re not? I see that glint in your eye, Mathieson,” Berrin comments, humour in his voice and an edge that has me quaking in fear despite the gentle Irish lilt. In another world, I would’ve found it attractive. Now, it just makes me afraid.
I grit my teeth, hating that this Berrin guy is finding this whole situation amusing. I’m being kept prisoner and threatened with worse than just my lack of freedom. Thoughts of rape and molestation run rampant in my mind, but I force them away. If I think like that then I’ll just curl up in a ball and freak the fuck out. I need to be smart. It occurs to me then that doing what I am right now, without grabbing something to use as a weapon should they suddenly open the door, isn’t actually the smartest move I’ve made, but my need to listen in on their conversation overrides everything else.
“I can appreciate a