Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
17
ALICIA
I guess it’s a good thing we were interrupted, even if, once again, my body feels like it’s dangling at the edge of a cliff. Am I ever going to get the relief I’m craving?
I absolutely should not want that relief from him, so why do I? I never thought of myself as being desperate before. If I was desperate, I wouldn’t still be a virgin. It never seemed worth it to me, especially since I had never met a man who interested me for very long. It was almost enough to make me wonder what was so different about me when other girls my age got laid all the time. I wondered if I was too picky or just afraid to go all the way.
Now, when I should be afraid more than anything else, all I want is for him to have his way with me. It’s sick.
And when I look down at myself, at the blood he smeared on me, that feeling only intensifies. There’s got to be something wrong with me for liking this. If for nothing else, I hate that he’s brought out this side of me. I resent him for it.
With him out of the room, I get up and go to the bathroom to wash up. I can hear him talking on the phone, even if I can’t make out the words. I don’t need to make them out to know he’s angry—extremely. This has to be the person who called and told him we were getting married. From what little I heard when he first answered the call, it was clear the voice belonged to a man. His father? Maybe a grandfather. Either way, whoever it is has a lot of power over him.
It’s almost enough to make me wonder what their secret is because I could use a little bit of that power for myself. I’m tired of always being the one fighting for every inch of ground.
Every swipe of the warm washcloth reminds me of how the blood got there. When he ran his hand down my chest. Over my boobs. My neck. It’s enough to tighten my nipples just thinking about it. I’m going to need a load of therapy after this, that much is obvious. It makes me angry, and I finish washing quickly before throwing the cloth into the hamper.
Once I’m dried off, I go downstairs to where Enzo is on the phone in the kitchen. He’s washing his hand, cleaning where he made himself bleed. He doesn’t acknowledge my presence, too busy grunting into the phone. “Yes,” he mutters. “I know. I get it—you don’t have to keep explaining it to me.” He’s fighting as hard as he can not to show his temper. There’s no reason I should know that, really, but I can tell. I guess that’s thanks to spending the past few days with him, watching him fight that temper when he’s dealing with me. I sort of wish he’d fight a little harder is all.
Then he begins pacing the room, his hand wrapped in a dish towel while he holds the phone in the other. His knuckles stand out, bone white against his skin because he’s clutching it so hard.
It’s strange, the impulse that washes over me. I want to find a way to comfort him—it’s stupid, but it’s no more stupid than anything going on so far. Considering I’ve already come close to begging this man to take my virginity, this is nothing. Decency, that’s all. Because I sort of feel sorry for him now. He seems a lot more human when he’s on the receiving end of whatever verbal abuse he’s getting from the man on the phone.
My empty stomach reminds me it’s been a while since I’ve eaten anything resembling a meal. Maybe that will help—if I fix us both a little something. I need to establish a relationship with him where we’re on equal footing. It’s probably beyond naïve to think that will ever happen, but I need to do my best. The longer he thinks of me as his captive, the less likely it will ever be for me to get out of this. I have to believe there’s still hope. Just because somebody told Enzo we’re getting married doesn’t mean it needs to happen. He has to have some say in it, doesn’t he? Once he starts looking at me as an actual person with an actual life of my own, it might make him less likely to go through with this.
I need to believe that, even if it’s hopelessly childish. Otherwise, I’m going to lose it.
One problem: I can’t really cook. I start opening the cabinets to look around and see what’s available—maybe cereal? There’s plenty of food in the fridge, but I’m not even very good at cooking eggs. They always end up coming out overdone and rubbery, and I can never seem to get all the bits of shell out. What good is fixing something for him if it’s disgusting? So that’s not going to work.