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.

tugs at my arm by the elbow, her

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

questions—but they stick in my throat. There's something about her demeanor, gruff and no-nonsense, that makes me feel like a scolded

time in fear that it almost feels comforting to be afraid

going to need some serious therapy, if this tiny

a door, and she pushes it open,

I can protest, she shoves me inside and slams

stand there, alone in the sudden quiet, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face is pale, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Dark circles underneath them speak of exhaustion I

And speaking of bones…

my fingers grow to little more than bony

God.

skeleton with some

Horrible.

hell is happening?" I whisper

in the mirror has no answers. She looks

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

larger part craves the promise of hot water, of washing away the grime I can feel coating my skin,

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

Marisol didn't beat me.

it wasn't

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

I'm surprised my wrists and ankles

quickly filling the small space. I step under the spray, whimpering as the hot water hits my battered skin. But the pain fades, replaced by a blessed warmth that

over me with a sense of peace and

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 time

not even sure it's possible to brush it out. Still, I take my time washing it with shampoo and conditioner, leaving in a layer of conditioner in hopes it will help with brushing out the

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