His Captive Ch. 02-03

The walls, streaked with moss, had grown soft, and bulged with dampness that seeped up from the ground. The wild, overgrown garden was full of the whisper and scurry of small lives.

Exiting, he runs up the front steps and inserts a key then presses a password. Once open, he beelines back to the car and opens the back seat, collecting Olive in his arms. Her head lolls back daintily, curls spread out beneath.

Malachi moves quickly, once inside the house he walks around the furniture covered in bedsheets, and up the winding staircase. The hallway is empty and in need of thorough cleaning. Her bedroom is the only clean room.

Carefully, he sets her on the bed and removes a camping knife. Flicking the blade, Malachi cuts the tape around her ankles and wrists then gently works the tape on her mouth off.

For a moment, he simply stands over her, watching. The soft rise and fall of her chest, each even secured breath, long lashes brushing the tops of cheekbones, eyelids the color of a dawn sky - she is beautiful and cold as moonlight even in sleep.

Silently, he exits the room and shuts the door, then walks back down and out of the house.

The rain pelts on him, beating the broad of his shoulders, neck, it slides down his back and clings material to him desperately.

His footsteps do not stop. The wet mud under his shoes makes rude, sucking sounds.

Twenty feet or so away from her, he finally stops and stares at the ground.

He had done it. He was safe. She was safe. They were safe.

The laughter bubbles from him in soft, unrelenting waves. His shoulders shake at the blatant realization that he had secured her without the others finding.

His laughter is manic, choking, free.

"I did it," Malachi whispers. Water trails down the hollows of his cheeks, collecting along his jawline like raindrops on the edge of a roof.

Then he squats on his haunches and rocks himself in the rain.