Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 76572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
I don’t freeze, even though some long dormant self-preservation instinct whispers at me to give in, to go limp, let him have his way. Yet I’m tired of letting everyone walk all over me, to let them take more and more and more of me until there’s nothing left. I shove at his chest, trying to get him off, but he feels like he weighs a ton, and I don’t have a chance.
When I give up shoving at his chest, he wraps his hands around my wrists, stilling them, his entire weight pressing down on my chest and belly. “I’m not fucking them, Cilla!” he roars in my face, and I squeeze my eyes shut, turning my face away as if I might protect it from a blow.
But he doesn’t hit me. “Look at me. Now.”
I swallow, going still, keeping my eyes closed, face up. When I don’t respond, he seems to press into me harder, somehow forcing the air out of my body. “Fucking look at me,” he hisses.
He moves, and then his teeth clamp around the side of my neck hard enough that I whimper. It’s not a move to cause pain. And it doesn’t. Some twisted part in my body and mind takes it completely differently, shooting a warm heat under my skin.
He eases and releases me, leaving me cold, shivering with the adrenaline and the lost heat of him. “I said I’m not fucking them. You know I’m not them. So why are you acting like I’m going to use you and throw you away like those fucking bastards?”
I hear a drawer slide open, then close. When I open my eyes, I catch his back as he enters the bathroom and slams the door hard behind him.
Some noises leak out of the bathroom. Water running, and I try not to imagine every inch of his sleek, tattooed muscles under hot water. I can’t figure out what I’m feeling. Some mixed-up, braided, screwed-up mix of fear, arousal, and shame. The fact that he saw me break down when he was the one that was held captive, the one I helped capture even. I did that to him, and he still treats me better than my father and his men.
I arch up, my muscles protesting, as I sit and stare around the room. It’s sparse and decorated with the necessary furniture in beige and gray tones. Like a middle-class hotel room. Nothing personal. Nothing I can use to identify where we are in the city, no way to see if there is anything here that can help me get free and stay free.
The skin on the side of my boob aches, and it hurts to take a full breath. Damn him, damn them all for putting me in this position in the first place. Fucking men who think they can use and abuse us to get what they want.
I scoot to the edge of the bed and stand. The noise in the bathroom doesn’t pause, so I creep toward the door and listen for a few minutes. He doesn’t burst out, and I’m not brave enough to go inside, so I stay there and press my ear to the painted wood. When the water shuts off, I jump away from the door and scramble back to the bed, over the other side, to make it to the corner.
I don’t know how much time has passed. There’s only my racing heartbeat to keep track. I stay with my back to the corner and draw my knees up under my T-shirt to stay warm. Nothing happens, though, and soon the pounding in my head slows, and I can breathe again.
Although, as more time passes, I start to get worried. He doesn’t exit the bathroom, nor do I hear anything from this side of the door. Eventually, I pry myself out of the corner and approach, listening. It takes a second to get the courage, but I knock softly and wait.
He doesn’t answer, and I assume maybe he needs space. Something I understand intimately and am willing to give him. I head into the kitchen and poke around, looking for food. I can’t help but smile when I see the fully stocked fridge. Vegetables, eggs, fruit. It looks like someone went to the grocery store yesterday and filled it up.
I pull out the eggs, butter, cheese, and some peppers. There aren’t many things I can cook, but eggs are easy enough. Plus, they are cheap. So when things were dire at home, and I had to scrounge around for food, eggs always fit the bill.
The act of cooking relaxes me a bit. Letting me resettle and uncoil my muscles. Everything aches from the running, the adrenaline, all of it. I focus on making myself breathe and relax and finally let myself consider what I can do next.