Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
I hadn’t had time to go further into her past, medical history, childhood, like I might’ve. It was all necessary. Information was power. If I was going to break her, I needed to know which tools to bring, which soft spots to probe.
I’d mistakenly assumed a kindergarten teacher who had lived her entire life in New York would easily crumble in the Appalachian Mountains.
I’d been wrong.
And watching her, the way she moved, still hearing her fucking laugh echoing through the empty parts of me, I knew I was in a lot of fucking trouble.
Piper
I was exhausted. Chopping the wood was a huge part of it. Despite my snarky comment, I was not a huge gym goer. I liked my runs. Pounding the pavement, the burn in my legs, the high in my blood, the fresh air in my lungs.
I ran daily. Which meant I was physically fit in the cardiovascular sense, at least. But it had been a long time since I’d chopped wood. Luckily, it was like riding a bike. I’d gotten the handle of the axe, found the right angle, pressure and impact to slice the wood, but my shoulders screamed after an hour or so.
We likely didn’t need as much wood as I chopped. Or I told myself I wouldn’t be there long enough to need that much wood. But the only other option was to either wander around the woods or stay in the cabin with Knox.
The latter wasn’t a possibility. I couldn’t. His presence overwhelmed the small space, suffocating me. He scared me. A lot. Which was his intended purpose, I assumed. But more than that I was … curious about him, something inside me responded to him. The darkness seeping from him.
One thing I did not need to stoke was some kind of fucked-up Stockholm syndrome.
By the time the sun had completely set, I was soaked in sweat, the crisp air chilling me down to my marrow. The pile of wood beside me was impressive and my entire body groaned with exertion.
Not just from the chopping, but because of the tense way I’d been holding myself since seeing Knox in Central Park. My nervous system had been in a state of fight-or-flight, so it was inevitable that I would crash.
I snatched handfuls of fitful sleep during the drive, but never relaxed enough to let myself be pulled into a deep state of unconsciousness. Not with Knox a few feet from me in the car.
It took all my effort to drag myself into the cabin, dim light pouring out of it. It was force of will alone that allowed me to carry in some wood.
The small space smelled of food, Knox’s back to me at the stove.
The sight made my step stutter. Well, that and the exhaustion.
It was such a benign, domestic task. A human task.
The sight shouldn’t have been shocking, but it was as if I’d walked into the cabin and saw a grizzly bear holding a spatula in front of a sizzling pan.
My captor was cooking. For us, presumably. Or maybe not. Maybe his goal was to starve me. Force me to watch him eat.
Maybe that was Stone’s plan to get my submission.
My stomach growled and turned at the same time.
Right then, I had resolve. Even if I’d had nothing but processed gas station snacks since … breakfast this morning.
Despite the scant amount of substantial nutrients in me, I was certain I’d be able to withhold. That I’d be able to starve rather than relent.
But then I thought. Remembered. What starvation felt like and how vastly it differed from simple hunger.
I’d felt it once in my life, the memories were faded because of my young age, and I suppose my subconscious, trying to protect me from the horror of it.
The details were hazy, but I remembered the pain. The desperation. How I’d turned into an animal, tearing apart old cracker boxes to find stale crumbs that I would then split between Daisy and me, always giving her the larger portion.
I’d been a child then. Helpless. This would be different.
But would it? I was essentially as helpless as a child right now.
I tasted the acidic tang of bile as I considered this. The sharp taste brought me back to my body, to where I’d been standing in the middle of the room, staring at Knox, covered in sweat, holding a pile of wood. I glanced to where I should put it, if only to escape his gaze.
Apparently, he’d turned at some point as he was now looking at me. There was a flatness, a deadness in his expression that made the hair on my arms stand on end.
His eyes were deep, unyielding and … soulless. It was like there was nothing human or soft inside of them. Yet I couldn’t deny the pull I felt toward them, toward him. One that I’d told myself was a figment of my traumatized brain. I was searching for redemption in this story, in this man, that maybe if we had a connection, he wouldn’t hurt me. He was watching me so intently because I was his captive, not because he felt anything toward me. I reminded myself of that.