Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
My phone isn’t here; I lost it somewhere. The landline is busy, which means Jonathan must’ve suspended it. I left my laptop in the car, so that’s out.
Every now and then, I spy on the buff blokes through the window in case they change position and I get a chance to escape.
They don’t. Both remain standing there as statues.
Not that I expected less from Jonathan’s level of control freak.
Around eight in the morning, I’m in my wardrobe, searching for something, a modern device or anything I can use to call for help.
The door opens and I startle, my injured knee hitting the wood panel. I wince, using my other leg to stand upright and bending the hurt one.
Jonathan waltzes inside, carrying a tray of food and wearing his impeccable suit as if this is an ordinary morning.
I can’t help feeling relief at how his shirt is clean, not smudged with blood like earlier. It hides most of the scratches, but there’s a long one that peeks from the edge of his collar.
I swallow at the view. It’s reddened compared to when I last saw it. Not that I should be sorry. He’s the one keeping me against my will.
“You haven’t slept.” He places the tray on my makeup console, flips over the coffee table I used to block the door during my failed escape, then slides the plate across it.
“Do you have a camera in here, or something?” I study the corners of the room because I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.
“Not currently, no. But that’s a good idea.”
Damn it, there I go putting ideas in his messed up head. I bite my tongue to stop from spouting nonsense. That will only give him the upper hand more than he already has.
“Sit down.” He motions at the sofa with a tilt of his arrogant nose. “Eat.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to shove the food down your throat, is that it?”
“I want you to let me go.”
“Are you going to sit the fuck down and eat, or will I have to do it?”
I jut my chin and realise my mistake too late. Jonathan reaches me in a few long strides and throws me over his shoulder as if I’m a sack of potatoes. A squeal rips from me as my world tips upside down, my hair falling to his thigh-level. Blood rushes to my head from this position, and I hit his back over and over, ignoring how my palms sting.
“Stop that or it’ll reopen your wounds.”
“Then let me go.” I hit him some more.
Slap.
I freeze as fire erupts in my arse. My thighs clench, and I can feel the wetness coating my knickers.
Shit. Fuck. No.
This can’t be happening. Why the hell am I still turned on by this? I shouldn’t be. He…he’s going to hurt me, to kill me. Like he did with my sister.
However, a part of my brain is numbed to that fact as if it doesn’t exist. A part of my brain horrifies me because that idiot doesn’t think Jonathan would ever hurt me.
That part felt no threat when Jonathan walked into the room. If anything, it was something completely different that I don’t like to name.
“There. Good girl, though you’re not acting like it lately.” He slowly drops me on the sofa and I scoot to the edge, pulling the nightgown down, nearly ripping the straps.
Jonathan’s head tilts to the side, eyes devouring my chest in that purely lustful way. “I like the view.”
I stare down in horror and sure enough, in my attempt to cover my legs, I exposed my breasts and a hard rosy nipple peeks through. I let the cloth snap back into place and glare at Jonathan, who seems…slightly disappointed.
The moment ends when he points at the food.
“No.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday.”
My stomach growls as if agreeing with his statement. I ignore it and the embarrassment that comes with it.
“I wasn’t joking about shoving it down your throat, Aurora. You know I can do it, so don’t make me act on it.”
“You don’t get to keep me against my will, then force me to eat as if I’m a prisoner, okay?”
“You’re not a prisoner. You get to walk out of here any second you like if you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you since last night.” His voice turns lethal with every word and I know that he’s losing his patience.
Jonathan and patience aren’t on the best of terms, even on good days, let alone on bad ones. He’s used to getting what he wants with a snap of his fingers and now that he isn’t, he’ll get more ruthless with every moment I remain silent.
But on the other hand, if I tell him about the message Alicia sent me, I’m never getting out. That’s like accusing him of murder, and someone like Jonathan won’t let anyone throw something like that around. He’ll smother it in no time.