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)
“Excuse me,” I say when she steps in my way as I try to walk past her.
“I was just about to make a cup of coffee,” she says. “Would you like one?” Her voice is soft and unintrusive. But it's that side of me I've been trying to free myself of the last month that agrees to her offer.
I've always been taught to be agreeable but cautious, and I think that skill serves me well right now. As much as I want to get back to Liam, this woman has given me no reason to doubt that a cup of coffee is all she’s offering.
The small kitchen that we enter is just as homey and inviting as the bathroom. I take a seat at the table when she waves her hand in that direction but I keep a cautious eye on her as she steps up to the coffee machine on the counter. She doesn't look back at me or speak as she prepares our drinks.
Although the silence is expected I feel the need to fill the void. “Congratulations on the baby,” I say, having noticed her very round belly when I first entered the building.
She gives me a weak smile over her shoulder before continuing with the coffee. I have to wonder if the sex I had with Liam will lead to the same thing. He didn't seem opposed to the idea of getting me pregnant. If anything, it excited him. A baby right now would be completely impractical, but it doesn't keep me from hoping.
“Cream or sugar?” she asks as she pours the coffee into two separate mugs.
“A little of both please.”
Once she’s done, she places a steaming cup in front of me on the table. I instantly wrap both palms around it, wondering how Liam would react if he walked back here and saw me with a cup of coffee. He tortured me for weeks with his own cup. When he offered me my own cup two weeks ago, I found I no longer had the need for it.
“It's been a long time since I've had a cup of coffee,” I confess to her. “I hope it doesn't make me jittery.”
She scoffs as she lifts the cup to her mouth. “You don't have to worry about that,” she says with a frown. “It's decaf.” She points to her belly as if that explains everything. I can only assume that caffeine consumption is something that should be limited during pregnancy because I have no real-world experience with it.
The campaign trail is hard work. It's exhausting. Most women who find themselves pregnant while working for my father end up in an office. It looks bad to work a pregnant woman so hard, my mother said once. Constituents don’t like it.
“What happened?” the woman asks me. I give her a look that makes her chuckle. “I used to be an FBI agent,” she says. “I've seen a lot of abductions. Hell, I've been abducted more than once.”
I shake my head as if rejecting her words, because it doesn't make sense. I can't imagine putting myself in a situation to be taken a second time.
“I've watched the news reports. I've seen the images of a shadowy man carrying you away from the beach. How does one go from being abducted to being okay with it?”
My cup of coffee becomes very interesting as I lower my eyes to the creamy liquid inside the cup. “You wouldn't understand,” I say.
“Try me,” she counters. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things I’ve seen.”
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Because you don’t feel safe?”
“I don’t want him to get in trouble.”
“And I know you didn’t go willingly,” she says but there’s no judgment in her tone. “If you’re in danger, I’ll help you.
“I’m not in danger,” I assure her. “At least not in the way you would think.”
“You care for him.”
“It didn’t start out that way.”
“It never does, Raya.”
I look up at her, only now realizing I don't even know her name and she's expecting me to confide in her. So, I ask her.
“Lauren Voss,” she says.
“And you were an FBI agent?”
She nods. “My specialty was sex trafficking cases. I worked undercover and have seen many horrifying things. I know that it's not uncommon for women to behave a certain way to stay safe.”
I swallow down a rush of emotions. I've seen newscasts and read stories online about the horrific things that happen to sexually trafficked women.
“You no longer have to pretend to care for him or like what has happened. You're safe. And that man out there won't ever be able to hurt you again. He can't hurt you any longer.”
“He's not hurting me,” I rush out. “He's never hurt me.”
“There's a difference between hurting you a little and hurting you a lot,” she says. “The man drugged you and carried your unconscious body off the beach. He doesn't care for you.”