Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 158635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 793(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158635 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 793(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
When he reaches the middle of the room, he places me on my feet with a softness that startles me. I don’t know why I expected him to throw me on the nearest object just to prove a point.
I take a few steps back, scanning the space for an escape. Aside from the front door, there’s the stairs and another door that leads to the kitchen.
I know because I actually took a tour of the cottage the last time he abandoned me here. But I was foolishly trying to find him, not explore.
“Don’t.”
There’s that word again, a little bit low and very much commanding. It’s like he’s reading my mind without me needing to express my thoughts.
“I’m not doing anything.”
He slides his finger on his jeans, up and down, like a fucked-up lullaby. “But you’re thinking of escaping, which is both impossible and futile. The moment you run, I will chase you, Cecily. I don’t have to tell you what I’ll do if—when—I catch you, do I?”
I purse my lips, hating how images and sounds from the last time slaughter my consciousness.
Slapping, moaning, groaning, sucking, gasping, whimpering.
Falling.
I dig my nails in my palm to put a halt to those erotic memories and glare at him.
“Just because I let you do it once doesn’t mean I’ll allow it again.” Screw him if he thinks I’ll give him that power over me when he’s prone to not only stomp on it, but also falsify, vilify, and threaten me with it.
He eats the distance between us in two large steps and it takes everything in me not to push back and show him exactly how much he intimidates me.
Because he does. Frighteningly so.
And it’s not only because of his huge physique or how brutal he can get, it’s that emotionless look in his cloudy eyes—the undeniable proof that he couldn’t care less if he trampled all over me and left me for parts.
That, after he’s done tormenting me, he’ll grow bored and move on to his next victim.
Jeremy stares down his nose at me as if I’m nothing more than a nuisance in his path of criminal greatness. “You say that as if you can stop me. If I want to, I can squash you as if you never existed. So don’t make me choose that option. Be smart, pick your battles, and quit the infuriating habit of going for my throat for the fun of it.”
The apathy behind his words shoots a chill down my spine. He means it, doesn’t he? It’s not just a flex of power. This man is capable of robbing my humanity and leaving me for dead.
“So I don’t have a choice in this? Whatever this is?”
“Of course you do.” He cocks his head toward the door. “You can always leave.”
“I can?”
“As long as you remember the consequences of running.”
“How the hell is that a choice? If I stay, I’m doomed, and if I leave, I’m also doomed.”
“You’ll have to trust your instinct to make the better choice. Here’s a tip, don’t use emotions.” He heads in the direction of the kitchen and doesn’t turn around when he says, “Follow me.”
The moment he disappears inside, I peek at the front door, so tempted to sprint outside.
But where would I go? And for how long can I run before he eventually finds me?
I have no doubt that he’ll keep his word about what he’ll do if he catches me. The first time was different because I actually wanted it, but I won’t be able to handle an actual burst of violence.
My old wounds are barely stitched beneath the surface and if I undergo a similar episode, I’ll go insane.
With a sigh, I trudge to the kitchen, stop at the threshold to get myself together—something I have to do often in this wanker’s presence—then step inside.
Like the rest of the property, the kitchen gives a gothic vibe similar to Dracula tales and paranormal activities.
The wood is chipped in places, probably not having been maintained for years. There are two built-in banquettes with an old-looking table in between. They face the window and a glass door that leads to the patio outside.
The opposite side of the kitchen area isn’t any better. The bar-style counter looks greasy, the stainless-steel equipment is gathering dust, and the fridge might as well be out of a nineties film.
Jeremy fetches some canned tuna from the overhead cupboard and dumps it in a frying pan on a surprisingly functional stove.
I remain in place, refusing to take another step forward as long as I don’t have to.
Jeremy adds some eggs and vegetables from the fridge and mixes them up with expert moves.
It’s kind of weird to see him do mundane things such as cooking. He looks like the type who was served his entire life and wouldn’t know what a kitchen looks like from the inside.