Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56182 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 281(@200wpm)___ 225(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Unstoppable.
Untouchable.
Un-take-able.
No one would ever again put me in a situation like this woman - my grandmother - had.
No one would ever again make me feel helpless, trapped, hopeless.
And in my heart, I knew that maybe meant something for my future that I would have to face eventually.
But those were thoughts for another time, when I didn't have other, more pressing things to worry about.
My freedom.
Chris'.
Mary's.
That had to be at the forefront of my mind.
Not my father's - and aunts' and uncles' - dealings.
Not what they had done almost two decades ago.
Not what I would do weeks or months from now.
All I had right now was this moment.
This moment with a big guy who wanted to take my weapons from me.
This moment where I was confronted with a psychopath who also happened to be my only living grandmother.
This moment where I wasn't exactly sure what part I was supposed to play - the sympathetic ear, or the badass she had been impressed by.
"Who on this Earth is innocent?" she asked, shrugging one of her shoulders as her gray eyes pierced into me. "No one. Not even you, granddaughter." I must have raised a brow, shown some sign of confusion or interest - both of which I felt at those words - because she went on. "All the petty rebellions. And moon-eyeing a man you know would go to jail if he touched you."
Vance.
It was weird; I hadn't thought about him at all.
It was especially strange seeing as for the past several years, it seemed impossible to think of anything else. At least not for longer than a few minutes. He was like a magnet, and my mind was drawn to thoughts of him, images of him, dreams of him.
But it had been days.
Days when maybe my mind should have drifted, should have sought out his memory, should have found comfort in it.
And... nothing.
It was a really inopportune time for these thoughts - what with Grandma-of-the-Year staring daggers at me - but there was no stopping them once they started.
Like... what did it mean?
Was I maybe not in love with him after all?
Or had I not wanted to feel more of the things I was missing by being trapped? Did I not want to think about the fact that my plan had always been to get to eighteen, finally snag his attention, and let him be my introduction to all things physical... and that this situation could possibly mean that was no longer an option for me?
Even just that thought made my saliva turn acidic again, burning like battery fluid down my throat.
Yet another thing to contemplate at a different time.
I had a lot of introspection in my future.
If I had one.
Which I would do everything in my power to ensure that I did.
Even if I did decide to go with giving back as good as I got instead of stroking her ego.
"I hardly think having a high school crush on an older guy is even anywhere near the same thing as abducting women, and selling them out to be raped, Grams."
The Grams seemed to be the only part that penetrated her calm, collected, evil witch thing she had going on. Her eyes flashed, edges of daggers caught in the light. Her back stiffened. Her lips pursed.
"Careful," she said after giving it a moment, giving herself a moment to get her guards back up. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase about biting the hand that feeds you?"
There was no stopping the snort that rose up and forced its way out.
"What? The two times in, how many days I have been here?"
"My hospitality doesn't live up to your standards?"
"It doesn't live up to a third world jail's standards."
Her lips curved upward at that, snide, condescending. "It could be worse for you, you know," she said, tone deep, heavily weighted by the reality we both knew she was speaking of. "It really is only my word protecting you from that fate."
"Your word didn't protect my mother from getting scars all over her back," I spat.
"No. My word demanded that. So it might be smart to mark your tone."
"What's a few more scars?" I asked, shooting a look at her man who was slowly approaching. "If it is between bowing to your will, or fighting for my freedom, I will fight every time."
"So be it," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "Get her back in the basement. And try not to get yourself stabbed in the process. It would be a real inconvenience to lose two men in one day."
An inconvenience.
My gaze shifted to her man, looking for a reaction, offense, disgust at hearing that his death would simply be an inconvenience. That was how she would see it. After months or years of loyalty.
There was a flicker in his eyes for a short second before it was banked down. I figured that was a survival mechanism in this environment. Having feelings, even legitimate anger or resentment, could likely spell out death for you.