Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
I would have given this guy the time of day.
But as I watch him, I realize none of that matters now.
Any explanation I could come up with won't work on this man.
He has a plan, a goal, and I don't know that there's anything I can do to knock that off course.
I have to do something.
I can't just lie here tied to a bed and allow myself to be victimized further by him.
So I do the only thing I can, I smile.
Kill them with kindness.
Isn't that the saying?
Isn't that what you do when someone is mistreating you? Isn’t it supposed to make them reconsider the pain they’re causing?
My smile doesn't garner the same reaction it normally does.
He doesn't grin back.
He reads me like an open book.
He knows I'm being fake, and a tear strikes down my cheek when I realize that I'm not going to be able to fake my way out of this situation.
Chapter 5
Liam
I don't know why I held out hope that she would open her eyes and recognize me, but she doesn't.
It grows increasingly difficult to manage that anger as I watch her.
She's trying to hold on to her grace, despite the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks.
She doesn't wrestle against her restraints.
She's a smart woman.
She understands her reality, and it should make me feel a sense of pride that she's capable of holding on to her dignity despite the situation she's in.
But it's just another irritation to add to the long, growing list of things that are annoying me about her.
I despise fake people and, believe me, I understand the hypocrisy of this entire situation.
I know that I'm fake.
A hundred percent of the time, in every social interaction I have, I’m fake.
I have to be. People would run screaming if they knew the real me, but even amid the fear that's so blatantly clear in her eyes, she's doing her best not to give in to it.
I realize that there's a good possibility that I'm a true psychopath because I swear I can see a hint of curiosity tangled with the terror in her eyes. And isn’t that the worst part about being fake, being unable to show who your true self is to those around you?
It makes me want to ask her if she's more scared of who I am, or if the real fear lies in who she truly is.
I reach for her once again, garnering the same reaction, and I rage inside.
She has the audacity to pull her face away from my touch.
I know this wasn't part of the plan, bringing her here to my home, a place no one else has ever been.
Dropping her on the street with a note attached to her no longer held its appeal after placing her lifeless body in the backseat of my SUV.
Sure it would terrorize her. She would look over her shoulder at every turn.
She would increase her security.
She'd definitely never walk alone on the beach again for the rest of her life, but it doesn’t seem like enough.
I want more from her, and I plan on getting it.
A slow smile spreads across my face as another plan begins to form in my mind.
Taking from her would be easy.
I could overpower her.
I could drug her again, but where’s the fun in that?
The true manipulation would be convincing her to give me what I want willingly. At the end of the day, I want to see her true self.
I want to chip away the prim-and-proper demeanor she carries like a shield.
I want her to eventually cast off all the fake responses.
When she leaves, when I finally let her walk away from this, I want her transformed.
She needs to be the woman she’s meant to be, not this fake paper-doll cutout that her life has created.
I want her raw and real and true to herself. I don’t care how long it takes for that person to emerge.
I’ve got nothing but time to see it through and make it happen.
I reach for her again, and for the third time, she pulls away from my touch.
All I can do is nod and give her a little fake smile of my own.
She may not want me to touch her now, but before it’s all said and done, she’s going to be begging for it.
I stand from the bed, turning the dial on the combination lock until it releases. As her left arm falls free, she doesn’t move it.
She attempts to grab her wrist with her other hand. I don’t know if it’s because she’s tied up and cognizant enough to know that she can’t touch it.
People usually reach for the untied limb the second that happens.
It’s a natural instinct.
Her instinct is to keep her eyes on me, to assess my every movement, and what I wouldn’t pay to have access to her thoughts right now.