When I was a kid, I’d been afraid of the boogeyman, and even though my father had slept on the floor in my bedroom for two straight weeks, that little tendril of fear had lingered until I was a teenager.

Armen brought all those fears back, but back then, I’d never thought the boogeyman would look like him. He was dressed impeccably, the day’s activities seeming to have no effect on him. Somehow, he even smelled good, like a mix of expensive cigars and even more expensive alcohol. I didn’t know whether it was cologne or just remnants of his earlier indulgences.

Either way, every breath I took made my stomach churn, the stench of the place contrasted with Armen leaving me off balance.

“I don’t know anything,” I repeated, mostly speaking to take my mind off the nausea that had me spinning.

I’d lost count of how many times I had said the same thing and how much time had actually passed since he’d brought me here, but every second seemed to last a year, especially when he was like this.

He was staring at me, or more accurately, staring through me.

I couldn’t tell if he was paying attention to me or lost in thought.

But I braced myself, prepared for the blows that were sure to come.

My preparation didn’t help.

The slap came quickly; the two after that even faster.

My head twisted, and I flinched at the sound of his hand against my skin, one that had been unfamiliar before, but one I was getting more acquainted with than I’d ever wanted to.

Swallowed down metallic-tasting blood that his slaps had drawn.

Some part of me was bewildered beyond comprehension.

The last time someone had hit me was fourth grade.

But these weren’t the wild, glancing blows of an elementary school girl.

I supposed he thought he was doing me a favor, his open-hand slaps a concession of some sort.

But my lip was split, my face was stinging, and if I had been able to touch it, I suspected I would find it swollen.

But I couldn’t touch it because of the bindings digging into my wrists, trapping my arms against the cold, hard metal of the chair.

It was the same with my ankles.

Funny how the only fucking thing that seemed sturdy in this place was this chair.

One bright side was that there was no way I was keeping these pants or shirt. So Elias wouldn’t have to worry about seeing them again, and my mother wouldn’t fret that I wasn’t taking care of myself.

But then again, it occurred to me I was getting ahead of myself.

Way ahead if the look on Armen’s face was anything to go by.

In the next second, he smiled, the expression bright and completely incongruous with the circumstances.