I wake on cement. Light leaks in under the crack between the door and the first stair. Everything is too dark to see, even with that light. No windows, and if there are any light switches, I wouldn't know because I can't fucking see.

As far as I can tell, I'm alone. There's nothing holding me down or restraining my limbs, so I sit up and roam. There's a small bed against a wall, a chain wrapped up near the foot similar to the one I'm accustomed to. I don't know why I wasn't placed there instead.

Within a couple feet of the bed is a small bathroom I make use of and thankfully finding a light switch. Once I'm done, I find a pile of clothes near the door. There are more outfits than I would've expected and I hope I won't be here long enough to use all of them. I don't feel the need to change, so I leave them as is. Next to the pile is a note telling me to knock on the door at the top of the stairs once I wake.

I don't want to piss Thomas off. No one gave me any indication of how long he's keeping me here. I'm thankful he can't kill me, but it frightens me that I didn't know it was on the table for Adam to begin with.

I take the stairs, obnoxiously steep, and gather my thoughts before knocking. It doesn't take long for him to appear and open the door just to stare me down. A sadistic smile finds his pressed lips as he looks me over.

"Oh, boy. We're going to have a lot of fun, aren't we?"

He curls his fingers, beckoning me towards him. I oblige until I'm within his reach and I'm thrown against the only solid wall in the pantry. His fingers slide around my throat, but he waits to press in.

"Keep your hands at your side," he commands.

I nod, taking the fabric of my shirt into my fingers to avoid any impulses to pry him off me.

"Now, I promised my cousin I'd babysit you while he's under watch. This isn't a vacation for you. From the moment you entered this house until the moment you leave, you are my bitch. You will do what I say without question and without flaw. You won't speak, you won't move, you won't look anyone other than me in the eye without my explicit permission. Do I make myself clear?"

I open my mouth to answer, but I'm unsure if that counts as permission to talk. Warily, I close my mouth and nod.

His smile widens as his fingers tighten until I can't breathe. "Good boy." My hands twitch, but I refuse to let them move. "I haven't been able to really hurt Jenna for a while due to our kid. God, I miss the feel. It works just fine for me if you don't want to obey."

After a couple more seconds, he lets go. I follow him into the kitchen when he asks and sit on the floor next to the table where he points.

A dog bowl filled with oatmeal. That's what he hands me. At first I think it's a joke, but his expression tells me otherwise. I accept it, glad that he at least offers me a spoon.

I eat in silence, feet from the table and his family. I'd never met his parents before, but I don't try to note their appearances in fear I'll accidentally make eye contact. When I finish, I place the bowl before me and stare down at the floor. I tremble at the thought of what these next couple of days are going to be like. Sure, if I had the choice I'd be home with my parents, but I'd rather be with Adam than with Thomas.

Adam actually cares about me. He doesn't hurt me without reason. He doesn't derive pleasure from watching me in pain. If there's anything right left in this world, I'll be able to go back soon.

After everyone's done, Thomas gathers all the dishes and places them in the sink. He soaks them in hot soapy dishwater, then calls me over.

"You have ten minutes. I want them cleaned and dried before then. They will be spotless or you will be punished."

He leaves for the next room, but his threat hangs with me in the air. I scrub everything over quickly. I never realized how many dishes five people can use in one meal. By the time I'm ready to rinse them off, I fear I've spent too much time. Rushing through drying them, I'm just barely able to finish and set the last dish down as he comes back to judge my work.

He brings one to my face. "The glasses have streaks, idiot."

"How is that my fault? They're marks from the water."

The last word barely has time to exit my mouth before his hand connects with my face. Clutching at my cheek, I fall back a step.

"Did I give you permission to talk?"

My head shakes before I can comprehend what I'm doing.

"No. I did not. Now get on your knees."

I do as I'm told immediately with no idea what to expect from him.

His knee connects with the underside of my chin, knocking me hard onto my back. A groan escapes my lips moments before his foot jabs into my side, forcing the rest of the air from my lungs. He doesn't let up, barely giving me enough time to breathe.

Instinct tells me to cry out, to beg him to stop, but reason tells me that it will only make it worse. Better intuition makes me lie there and take it. It doesn't take long for him to bore once I stop fighting, so soon he's off me, leaving me to make my way back on my knees.

I keep my head down, but I can't help but notice the sneer on his face.

"Anything else you want to say to me?"

I snap my head sideways, shaking at the thought of being kicked again.

"Yeah. 'Swhat I thought." His hand wraps around my arm, dragging me to my feet for a mere moment before he shoves me back to my knees beside a couch. He kneels next to me until he's at my eye-level. "That's the punishment you get when you talk back to me. This is the punishment you receive when you don't do as I say."

His hand wraps around the back of my neck, pulling me up until my back is straight. The position reminds me of Adam and I fight back the urge to cringe away from his grip. That would only make it worse. A quarter is placed on the wall in front of me and I sigh in relief when he presses my nose against it instead of smashing my face into it.

"Put your hands behind your back. No slouching. Keep your back aligned. Do not let the quarter drop. You'll kneel here until I say you're done. Do I make myself clear?"

Without the ability to talk or nod, I give him an expression for him to decipher. The grip around my neck is released as he gets my intent. I keep the pressure on the quarter on my own, my muscles already aching from the angle and my bruises.

Thomas takes a seat next to me on the couch, turning on the TV. After a couple minutes, he reaches over, running one hand through my hair. The touch nearly makes me lose focus, but I catch myself last moment and keep myself still.

He tightens his grip with a faint chuckle, not moving his eyes from the screen.

As he mercilessly teases me and my sore body, I can't help but wish I was anywhere else.