Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83221 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
I clamp my lips together.
He sits on the bed with ease and reaches for me after setting the pills and glass down, and I realize he's going to put me over his lap like he told me. I'm humiliated when I remember how he spanked me last night.
"Fine! Fine. I’ll take them! What are they again?” The thought of being treated like a child makes my cheeks burn.
“Pain meds and anti-nausea,” he snaps, but he doesn’t ease me off his lap. “I don’t trust you to obey. You have three seconds.”
I am absolutely going to end up over his knee. God.
I put the meds into my mouth and swig the water.
"Careful. If you're nauseous, too much water will make you sick.”
He says it like he cares. Liar.
I obediently take a small sip.
"Lie back down until those meds kick in." To emphasize his point, he lays me back down on the bed. This time, his advice makes sense, so I do what he says. This is definitely a “pick your battles” kind of situation.
"Are you hungry?"
I don’t really want to talk about things like food when I’m waiting to hear what he’s going to do to me. Again, I wonder…if he were going to rape me, wouldn’t he have already done it?
Or...no?
If he were going to hurt me, would he be giving me pain meds and offering me food?
I may be a prisoner, but this is a very civilized setting. I’m sure if he wanted to, he could easily put me behind bars or in a basement or handcuff me in a…cage or something.
I shiver.
I’ll need my energy for whatever the day brings, though, so I finally answer. “I’m starving."
"Here. Sit up." I don't understand why he's being so gentle with me. I wonder if he's trying to trick me, to lure me into some kind of Stockholm syndrome thing where the victim bonds with the captor because they’re the only one that fulfills the victim’s basic needs.
Stockholm syndrome is real, and this is exactly what happens. The human brain is naturally wired to attach to people who feed them when they're hungry. Even abused animals will turn to their abusers when they’re fed and their basic needs cared for.
When I shiver, he wordlessly lifts the fluffy blanket at the foot of the bed and spreads it over me. I wonder where he slept last night because I'm at his place. Is this his bed? I look around. This is either a guest room or he’s a minimalist.
I watch as he walks into another room and comes back with a plate of food on a tray. My mouth waters. Scrambled eggs. Thick slabs of buttered bread. French toast, pancakes. Berries with whipped cream, half a grapefruit with sugar, and a small bowl of creamy oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon.
"I didn't know what you liked, so I got you a little of everything.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t have a private detective figure all that out.”
“I did, but all he came up with was a cereal bar for breakfast.”
My eyes go wide. “I was…joking.” I shrug and snort. “And yeah, it’s a cereal bar or donuts, so…yeah.”
“No protein? You need real food in you.”
Interesting that the man who kidnapped me cares about nutrition.
I gesture to my wrapped wrists. With a nod, he lifts a forkful of eggs and brings it to my mouth. I open my mouth and eat them, my eyes riveted on his gaze. This shouldn’t be…so intimate. My tastebuds explode with flavor. I swallow the buttery, creamy eggs and eagerly take another bite when he offers.
Halfway through, his watch vibrates on his wrist. With a scowl, he shuts it off and continues to feed me. “Easy,” he says patiently. “Not too much, now.”
After the fifth vibrating text, he curses and unfastens my wrists, allowing me to feed myself while he steps away for a moment.
In his absence, I feel strangely…bereft.
I take a bite of the buttered toast, and some more of the eggs. The berries with whipped cream are delicious, and by now the meds are starting to kick in. I sigh in relief. I won’t admit it to him, but I’m feeling loads better.
When I lay the fork down, he returns.
“Good. Now we need to bathe you next.”
We?
Since when is there a “we” involved in bathing? I consider telling him I’m pretty capable of bathing myself, but then decide that’s probably not going to get me very far.
I look again at the gun on the bedside table. It hasn't moved, but it doesn't need to. It's there to remind me that I'm a prisoner. To remember why I'm here.
I fucked with the Russian Bratva, which is arguably worse than the situation I was in that led me there.
He lifts me, likely because my ankles are bound. Something white flashes in the corner of my vision, but I can’t make it out. Are we alone in this house? It’s the first time I’ve considered the fact that we may not be.