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.

time to waste." She tugs at my arm by

recognize—a simple white

they stick in my throat. There's

time in fear that it almost feels comforting

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

open, revealing a

me inside

staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face is pale,

And speaking of bones…

grow to

God.

a skeleton with

Horrible.

hell is happening?"

has no answers. She looks as lost as I

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

promise of hot water, of washing away the grime I can feel coating my skin, and the memories

My body underneath is a map of bruises and scrapes. Some look fresh, angry red against my pale

Marisol didn't beat me.

victim, it wasn't technically all that

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 do with heavy chains weighing

wrists and ankles

the spray, whimpering as the hot water hits my battered skin. But the

cascades over me with a sense of peace and

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 the

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

fluffy towel. Steam clouds the mirror, and I wipe it away with my hand. The face that stares back at me is familiar, but strange. There's a hardness in my eyes that wasn't there