Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 370(@200wpm)___ 296(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“You’re a guy. Girls don’t just point… and… spray… then shake it off. Ew.”
He makes a low sound that could either be a growl or a laugh.
Weapons… weapons. That is a viable option and maybe my only one. Of course, he’s the one with the gun and I'm just me, with no knowledge of weapons at all. Dammit, I wish I had more experience.
But at least I know what I have to do now. I have to keep an eye out for an escape. I don't really care where I go or what I’ll do after I get there. I don't care if I have to find some menial job and take a different identity and become broke to do it. I've had a life of wealth, and it is very seriously overrated. Nothing comes free.
So my best bet right now is to play a long game. To “obey” him. Eye roll.
Do every single little thing he asks and bide my time until I have the freedom to escape. This isn't like my captivity back on the wharf when I was tied with a rope. This affords a lot more freedom, and I only have one person to escape from.
It’s doable.
I make up my mind. I'm probably dead to my family by now. They don't care about me anymore, and Vivia Montavio is no longer who I am.
I’ll take on a new identity, I'll find my way.
I finish my business and leave the smelly outhouse. He stops the door with his palm, and steps in my space. "Stay right there." Any trace of gentleness I thought I imagined before is gone, and now he's nothing but bossy and implacable. Whatever.
With his back to me, he unzips his pants. Door still open.
“Oh my God, you’re not just —”
“I am just taking a piss with nothing but air between the two of us. Get over yourself," he says. "I don't trust you enough. Stay right there."
Guys are so disgusting. I turn and look away, and remember my purpose. I quickly scan the woods for anything I could use as a weapon. There's a thick, fallen branch that could work as a club, but I grimace at the thought of actually bringing that down and hurting him. Sharp sticks yes, but God I can't… impale a guy. Jesus, I don't have the constitution for shit like this.
Maybe I don’t need to hurt him. Maybe I can just… sneak away.
He takes me by the arm and leads me back to the house.
“I don’t suppose there’s any instant hand sanitizer around here.”
He sniffs. “Poor little spoiled, sheltered Montavio sister,” he says without a trace of sympathy. Is he mocking me? Whatever. Any woman would be grossed out by this. Spoiled my ass.
When we’re back inside, he sits me down in a chair and cuffs my arms behind my back. The hardback wooden chair is stiff against my back. Once I’m secured, he goes over to the supplies and retrieves a large jar of peanut butter and another of strawberry jam, along with a loaf of white bread. My stomach growls.
I've never been a peanut butter and jelly sort of girl, but anything sounds good right about now.
He makes three, presumably two for him and one for me, takes two blue speckled camp mugs from a rustic shelf, and I watch him go outside to pump water. My heart pumps a little faster when he does, but he’s only paces away. I can’t run. I’m not even prepared, and I’m starving. My lips and mouth are so dry, and I haven't really thought about it until now, but I'm seriously dehydrated.
When he comes back in, he's all business. He stands by the table, his large frame unencumbered by the loose, dirty clothing he wears. I must look a sight myself. It would be good to change into something clean.
He's something to look at, I’ll give him that. His profile speaks of power and an ageless strength. Square jar tinged with stubble, framing a handsome, square face. A girl can at least admire him.
I wait for him to unfasten my cuffs so I can eat. I suppose I’m pretty naïve since he has no such plans. He pulls a chair directly across from me and straddles it, lifts the sandwich in his large, rough hands, and takes a huge bite.
Did he wash those hands? I saw no washing. I imagine he washed them in the water outside and stifle the wave of nausea.
"Open up, buttercup." I stifle a sound of disgust, open my mouth, and actually let him feed me little bites of sandwich. My cheeks flame with embarrassment. You don't realize how much you value your own autonomy until you’re reduced to feeling like a child. Someone providing for your food, watching your every move, hand-feeding you. It’s demoralizing, which is probably exactly why he does it.