Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 72854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72854 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
That was the last day he looked at me as if I was a pawn in his game. My wounds were still fresh when I started hitting him back. And I never stopped. I wouldn’t do the stupid shit he wanted me to. I would make money, a fuckton of it. But I never set foot on Talvery’s turf again. I wasn’t a dumb fuck like my father. And the next time he pushed me into the truck and screamed in my face so loud it shook my veins and the spittle hit my skin, I let my anger come forward, slamming my fist into his jaw.
I let the fear rule me in that moment. But it’s the fear I saw in my father’s eyes that defined the change between us.
Each time I went out, leading a life I didn’t choose, I thought it would be my last. I wanted to die, and it wasn’t the first time in my life that I wished for sweet death to end it all.
But without fear of death, I learned what power really was.
And none of my brothers understand that.
Not a single fucking one of them.
Chapter 10
Aria
* * *
His eyes won’t leave mine.
He won’t leave the room.
He won’t give me any space.
I don’t know how many days I’ve been here, but I do know that today is different by the look in Cross’s eyes.
It’s hard to count the days. My eyes flicker to the carving of stripes on the wall just beyond Carter Cross’s never-changing stern expression. Sitting on the metal chair a few feet from me puts him at the perfect height to block the etched stripes. One for each of the days I’ve been here. But I stopped a while ago.
My sleep is fucked and there aren’t any windows in the room. I’ve noticed that when I lie down and curl up to sleep, the lights go off. Which means two things, as far as I can tell.
He wants me to sleep. And he doesn’t want me to know how much time has passed. It could be midnight a week from when I was taken. Or it could be noon with even more days between now and my last day of freedom.
There are four stripes on the wall. One scrawled after each time I slept. But on the fifth day, I slept on and off with terrors of my childhood that woke me up constantly.
The first two days I got three meals, always delivered the same way. A small slot in the door opened, the food was shoved inside on a small foam tray and then the slot quickly shut with a deafening slam. I waited for hours by it on the third day, praying I could catch it, snatch the hand… I don’t know what. All I knew was that on the other side was freedom. But I quickly found that the slot only opened when I was in the corner of the room farthest from the door. Otherwise, no food would come.
I can barely eat as it is, but hunger won a few times. And instantly, I slept afterward. I don’t know if he drugged me or not, but the fear of sleeping is at war with the need to eat.
Either way, the food I’m given doesn’t aid me in knowing what time of day it is. There doesn’t seem to be a rhyme or reason as to what’s on the tray.
There haven’t been any breakfast foods at all. The last thing I ate was a biscuit and a chunk of ham. It was glazed with honey and my stomach was grateful. I devoured every scrap and then immediately regretted not eating whatever it was he’d given me before. If I don’t eat what’s given, he simply takes it away when I sleep. And somehow, he knows when I’m faking sleep. I tried that, too. I don’t know how many times I laid in the darkness waiting for him to open the door, only to fool myself into sleeping and waking to the tray being gone.
So much wasted time.
Maybe losing the time is the first sign of victory for him.
But I want it back.
“What day is it?” I ask him and it’s the first thing I’ve said in the time he’s been in here.
He comes in every so often, merely watching me. Scooting his chair closer and waiting for something. I don’t know what.
“It’s Sunday.”
Sunday… It was Thursday when I left to go to the bar. I know it was Thursday. “So, that means it’s only been three days?” I ask him although inwardly my gut churns. It’s not possible.
A devilish smile plays across his face.
“You slept a lot, songbird. It’s been ten days.”
His words steal the bit of courage from me and I turn to face the door rather than him, pulling my legs into my chest and sucking in a deep, calming breath. Ten days of screaming and crying in this room. Of not knowing when help is coming, or if it ever will. Of barely eating and only bathing from a bucket of water while hiding under my dirty clothes.