Tangled in Moonlight: Unshifted (Ava and Lucas)

Chapter 242 Lisa: Waking in Comfort

LISA

Waking up in a bed is too comfortable.

My brain wants to wake, but my body wants to keep sleeping.

If this comfort is little more than an elaborate trap before I'm murdered, just take me away. At least I'll be going in bliss.

A sharp poke in my side jolts me from my half-asleep musings. I crack open an eye, squinting against the sudden brightness. A face swims into view, so close I can count every wrinkle etched into leathery skin.

"Up! Up, you lazy girl!"

The voice is shrill, grating against my eardrums. I blink, trying to focus on the owner of that voice. It's a woman, impossibly small, with a nose so red it could guide Santa's sleigh.

I open my mouth to speak, but my tongue feels like sandpaper. Before I can form words, a stinging slap lands on my calf. The pain is sharp, unexpected, and I jerk away, nearly tumbling off the bed.

"Ow! What the—"

"No time for your nonsense," the tiny woman interrupts, waving a hand in front of my face. Her fingers are gnarled, reminding me of tree roots. "You stink. Shower. Now."

I sit up, head spinning. The room tilts and sways around me. Where am I? How did I get here? The last thing I remember is... Darkness.

Cold. A strange man who brought me out of my personal hell.

The tiny woman's groan snaps me back to the present. "Look at this mess. Filthy! You've ruined the sheets."

I glance down at the bed. The once-white linens are stained with dirt and... is that blood? My stomach lurches at the sight of my wrists, raw and a little bloody.

my arm by the elbow, her strength surprising for

beneath me, and the floor is cool against my bare feet. Bare feet? Ah. Clothes I don't recognize—a simple white night dress that is several sizes too big, soft and deceptively clean. I'm

across the room, muttering under her breath. I want to ask questions—so many questions—but they stick in my throat. There's something about her

almost feels comforting to be afraid of

I'm going to need some serious therapy, if this tiny person isn't dragging me around to murder

open,

can protest, she shoves me inside and slams the door

in the mirror. My face is pale,

And speaking of bones…

watched my fingers grow to little more than bony sticks, but my

God.

with

Horrible.

happening?"

in the mirror has no answers. She looks as lost as

eyeing it warily. Part of me wants to march over and slam open the door, demanding answers to all

grime I can feel coating my skin, and

shift dress. My body underneath is a map of bruises and scrapes. Some

Marisol didn't beat me.

it wasn't technically all that

That usually involved falling to the floor in various painful ways. And when it wasn't escape attempts, it

surprised my wrists and ankles

the spray, whimpering as the hot water hits my battered

water cascades over me with a sense of peace

soap on the ledge is the first thing I grab, rubbing it all over me until it turns in a dingy gray, scrubbing at my skin as

Still, I take my time washing it with shampoo and conditioner, leaving in a layer

clouds the mirror, and I wipe it away with my hand. The face that stares