Felicia cringed from Mick, whimpering. He’d hurt her. He’d hurt her a lot, and memory of it rattled in her bones, making her whole body tremble. He’d been the one to lure her out of the club. He’d thrown her into the van. He’d stopped her from burning the vampire. He’d chased her down and kept her from getting outside. He’d kept her from finding help. He’d held her down, strangled her, hit her, and God, he’d probably been the one that’d stripped and tied her to the chair.
He was the single worst choice she’d made in her entire life and he—
Had a drink for her?
She darted a look at him, the cup, and the straw, her cracked and dried mouth opening in disbelief. He must’ve interpreted it as acceptance of his offering because the straw was between her lips and oh, it hurt to pucker them and it hurt to swallow, but she’d never been so thirsty. Part of her wondered if he’d put something in it, but the other part was just happy to have water and hey, if he wanted to drug her, then maybe she’d fall asleep for a while and not feel every spot he’d pulled, pushed, or punched her.
When she couldn’t drink any more, she drew her head back as far as the chair allowed and looked at Mick and the sandwich in his other hand.
Her stomach gurgled.
He’d brought her food and he’d brought her drink.
Maybe he could be convinced to return something to her, too.
"My clothes," she rasped. "What’d you— Did you…" She couldn’t complete the thought, much less the sentence. She licked her lips and tasted blood. "Can I please just have them back?"