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.

at my arm by the elbow, her strength surprising

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.

want to ask questions—so many questions—but they stick in my throat. There's something about her demeanor, gruff

so much time in fear that it almost feels comforting to be afraid of someone

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

reach a door, and she pushes it open, revealing a bathroom.

protest, she shoves me inside and slams

face is pale, eyes wide with confusion and fear. Dark circles underneath them speak of exhaustion I can feel

And speaking of bones…

face is gaunt. I've watched my fingers grow to little

God.

a skeleton with some skin hanging

Horrible.

happening?"

girl in the mirror has no answers. She

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

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

I peel off the shift dress. My body underneath is a map of bruises and scrapes. Some look fresh, angry red against my pale skin. Others are older, fading to

Marisol didn't beat me.

it

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 do with heavy

I'm surprised my wrists

the hot water hits my

water cascades over me with a sense of peace

dingy gray, scrubbing at my skin as if I could wash away the memories along with the dirt. By the time I'm done, my skin is pink and raw, but I feel more

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

wipe it away with my hand. The face that stares back