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.

on, come on. No time to waste." She tugs at my arm by

recognize—a simple white night

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 demeanor, gruff and no-nonsense, that makes me feel like a scolded

fear that it almost feels comforting to

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

pushes it open,

I can protest, she shoves me inside and

the mirror. My face is pale, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Dark circles underneath them speak

And speaking of bones…

fingers grow to

God.

look like a skeleton with some

Horrible.

happening?"

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

of me wants to march over and slam open the

of hot water, of washing away the grime I can feel coating my

My body underneath is a map of bruises and scrapes. Some look fresh, angry red against my pale skin. Others are older, fading to sickly yellows

Marisol didn't beat me.

victim, it wasn't

do a lot of thrashing around, trying to escape my chains. That usually involved falling to the floor in various painful ways. And when it wasn't escape attempts, it was me trying to do basic stretches and exercises to keep up my muscle mass—hard to

wrists

under the spray, whimpering as the hot water hits my battered skin. But the pain fades, replaced by a blessed warmth that seems to seep into my

me with a sense of peace and cleanliness

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 if I could wash away the memories along with the dirt. By

to brush it out. Still, I take my time washing it with shampoo

the shower, I wrap myself in a fluffy towel. Steam clouds the mirror, and I wipe it away with my hand.