Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 426(@200wpm)___ 341(@250wpm)___ 284(@300wpm)
The way he is staring at me disturbs me on a different level. He isn’t just looking. He’s seeing. All of my darkest secrets. The part of me that nobody ever gets to see. But he does. My armor means nothing to him.
He is different than Arman. This man scares me more than Arman. He’s too well put together. Too calm. His emotions do not show on his face for all to see. And his hands… they are huge. Heavily tattooed.
I imagine one of those hands around my throat, crushing my windpipe. It would only take one.
“Do not worry.” He brushes the matted hair away from my face in a surprisingly gentle manner. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
There’s a haunted sadness in his eyes. And something else too. A flicker of guilt. It’s a rare emotion in the men who come to visit me. It sets off all of the alarm bells in my head. If he’s not going to fuck me, then I don’t know what he has to be guilty for.
The confusion must be written all over my face, but he doesn’t explain further. Instead, he holds up a packet in his hand and shows it to me. Pain killers. He releases them from the foil and signals for me to open my mouth.
For just a split second, my eyes dart to the left. In the direction of my stash. Where I have every intention of putting these two pills when he leaves the room. So that I can make my seven days a reality, and not eight.
But this stranger is watching me carefully. Too carefully.
My lungs cease to function when he stands up and walks to the other side of the mattress.
I flop over onto my side, pressing it down with my weight. As if that would stop him. The man is a tank. He could toss my entire body into the wall with one hand, should he so choose. But I can’t let him win. Not this battle. The only battle I have left. My hands claw at his arms when he reaches down, but he’s too strong. And I am too weak. And now I’m merely a spectator as my peace is snatched away from me in horrifying slow motion.
He finds the pills easily. Some half and some whole, and some only a fine powder. For sixty days I have saved those pills. I have planned so meticulously. And in five seconds, he has uncovered my secret. He has destroyed everything.
“Please,” I find my rusty voice again. “Leave them.”
His eyes meet mine, and now… now they are even colder than before. Frozen over with a disturbing level of hatred.
His fingers pinch my face and his lips part. But the words he means to speak don’t come. Instead, he takes a breath. And then another. Calming himself. His brows draw together and his eyes search mine. I am a whore. A slave. A subhuman piece of merchandise that Arman will use until he finally tires of me. It should not matter to this man if I die.
He flicks the painkillers in his hand onto my tongue and then retrieves a flask from his jacket. He holds it to my lips and the liquid sloshes into my mouth, strong and rich. Cognac. It is not the thing Arman drinks, and I am grateful. This man doesn’t let up. He forces me to drink what’s left in the container. I know why. I know what comes next. But I don’t want to accept it.
When the flask is empty, he pulls it away and pinches my jaw between his fingers, prying my mouth open. He looks inside, and without an ounce of finesse, he seizes my tongue and searches beneath it.
But the pills are not there. He ensured that with the amount of liquid he made me consume. When he eases me back down onto the mattress, I can only hope the combination will usher me off into oblivion. His fingers sweep over my cheek. Gentle again.
An abominable noise escapes me when he bends down and scoops up every last remnant of my stash. The thing that is mine- the only thing I had- is now in his pocket. The dying ember of hope, snuffed out by one careless mistake on my part and one man too cruel for words.
The door opens and he does not seem to notice. Only when my gaze moves behind him, his posture straightens and he rises. There is another man in the door. A man like this one, only older. With the same type of clothing and many tattoos peeking out from every seam. He’s the type of man that upon first glance, people would cross the street to avoid. His eyes are without emotion when they land on me. He says something in Russian to the man in front of me while they both seem to appraise me.