Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I don’t want her to be grateful I showed up. I want her fucking terrified. I want her to beg to be left, to be mad I killed the other men because she knows what she’s going to get from me is going to be worse than they ever could’ve imagined.
But then I use gentle hands to run soap over her body, my heart racing as more tears leak down her face.
Everything I do is contradictory.
I hiss angry words at her, blame her for this entire situation, all the while cradling her head against my chest as I wash her gently between her legs.
In order to get better control over myself, I leave her in the draining tub while I head back to my truck to grab a blanket I brought with me. It’s not for her comfort, but peace of mind for the guy that will help me get back across the border into Texas. I don’t need his conscience rearing its fucking head at the sight of a naked, battered woman beside me in the truck.
She’s shivering when I reenter, the open window letting the cool winter air into the room.
I’m in no rush to wrap her up, to ensure that she’s warm and comfortable. The agitation the cold causes will help her body fight the drugs flowing through her veins, and I need her completely aware when we get back to my place. I need her to know who she’s with and that I’m so fucking mad at her.
Two of the three women in the room are gone by the time I carry Lauren out of the house. The one in the corner remains, but I pay her no mind as I make my way to the truck.
Getting across the border goes smoothly despite my mind racing with all of my plans for this woman.
She only thought she was experiencing hell in that fucking house.
Chapter 24
Lauren
Hangovers have nothing on what it feels like to wake up from a drug-induced stupor. The headache is different, more intense.
I have no idea why they let the drugs wear off, but it can’t mean anything positive for me. These types of men don’t change overnight. They don’t get a rush of conscience. Maybe they were tired of my lethargy and are in need of more of a fight, more struggle.
I do my best to paint a smile on my face. Nothing riles them up more than a different response than they’re expecting. It may mean more pain for me, but it also opens the door for mistakes on their part.
My arms are heavy, but it doesn’t take me long to realize I’m tied up, arms splayed out to the sides. It’s not ideal, but I’ve gotten out of such restrictions before.
Normally, my first considerations would be helping those around me. I’ve never focused on my own needs because that’s not the reasoning I use in situations like this, but I can’t keep those ideas away—the need to escape, the self-recrimination for being here in the first place.
This time is different, and it has nothing to do with how I’m being treated. There’s only so many ways an evil man can hurt a woman. As sinister as some of them can be, their means of torture and pain have easily become rather run of the mill, common, uncreative.
Right now, I just want to be someplace safe, someplace where I can relax and recover, reevaluate what the fuck I’ve been doing.
It’s so dangerous to want those things, to think even for a second that I deserve it.
My dreams have been the most brutal of all—thoughts of Angel being my white knight and rescuing me. I’d laugh if my throat wasn’t so fucking dry.
He’ll never be someone to go out of his way and help someone he loved to hurt so much.
I squeeze my eyes closed, hating the burn of tears behind them. I blame the drugs in my system for my lack of controlling my emotions.
With a deep breath, I let that pain sink inside of me. This is what I deserve. This is how I honor my sister. I asked for this, and wishing things were different have never benefitted me in the past. Why change things now?
I roll my body, taking care to feel the soreness in my muscles. It’s an inventory of sorts, allowing me to determine where my injuries are and if my body would be capable of fighting back if given the chance.
I ache from the top of my head to the balls of my feet. Everything hurts, but I’m no stranger to pain.
What’s new is the desperate urge to cry, to beg for mercy, to ask my captors to set me free.
I don’t want to help others. I only want to help myself at this point.
I make a plan in my head to seek my revenge, and it’s not on those that have me bound to the bed. No, that energy is focused on Angel. He made me weak. He made me want things I have no right to consider. He made me lose sight of what I need to do and how I need to spend what little life I may have left.