Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 627(@200wpm)___ 502(@250wpm)___ 418(@300wpm)
Did I just use past tense?
“Now. I’m going to fix you something to eat, and when I come back, I expect you to be in a more rational mood.” He even has the nerve to shake his head, clicking his tongue like I’m a naughty child in need of punishment.
It’s beyond surreal now. At the same time, I know I’m not dreaming this. It’s really happening. I’m really trapped here, and I may as well be launched into outer space without a tether. Nothing to hold on to, no sense of where I am in relation to anything else. Floating in place, knowing I’ll die without help. No idea what’s real and what isn’t.
At least when I’m alone, I can catch my breath. Even though it’s no easy task, thanks to the dread that won’t stop building. I force myself to breathe slowly, focusing on nothing more than the air coming in and going out. My panic response begins to calm down, and I’m capable of thinking beyond the immediate need to get away.
Something must have happened to him. That’s the only explanation that comes close to making sense. He got hurt somehow. That would explain so much. His change in attitude, the way he refuses to touch me in any meaningful way. All that weird stuff he was saying about his darker side—what the hell was that supposed to mean? He must be sick.
I want to help him. The pain of being unable to understand him is quickly wiped out by the pain brought about by the idea of him needing help and being alone all this time with no one to care.
Are you crazy? He didn’t deny the accusations.
Right. It’s so easy to forget the things I don’t want to focus on. Too easy. I can’t let myself fall into that trap.
He hurt them. Q and Aspen—his friends, family even. And he doesn’t even seem sorry.
And he swears he would never hurt me—is that supposed to make me feel better? Because I’m sure there was a time he couldn’t have imagined hurting Q, either. Unless he’s the best actor who ever lived. There’s no way he could have faked years of friendship and camaraderie and even devotion to my family. I mean, my dad can sniff out a traitor like a pig sniffing a truffle, and he never so much as caught a whiff. He was just as bowled over by Ren’s treachery as anyone else was.
If I crane my neck, I can see out through the bedroom door again. There’s a lot of clutter out there. He’s been here for a while. I hear him out there, rattling a pan, opening a can. He might be muttering to himself, a habit I guess he would’ve picked up being alone for so long with nobody to talk to.
How did he find this place? Is it his, or is he squatting here? What if he hurt the person who used to live here? No, I can’t even let myself think that. He’s changed, but he can’t have changed that much. Even now, tied to a fucking bed, I still can’t let myself believe the worst.
I would ask myself what it might take to get to that point, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
My chest tightens painfully when I hear him approach, his heavy boots loud against the wood floor. He’s carrying a bowl of steaming soup in one hand, and a couple of slices of buttered bread on a paper towel in the other.
“You must be hungry by now,” he murmurs, taking a seat. “Once you’re fed and thinking clearer, you won’t make any mistakes like trying to run away. That’s not like you. You’re usually a lot smarter than that.”
My heart sinks further than ever when, instead of untying me so I can feed myself, he sets the bowl on the bed and dips the spoon into the fragrant broth. Watching him blow over the surface shouldn’t bring tears to my eyes, yet here they are. A little gesture like that makes me believe he cares. Like this is all a big misunderstanding.
“Where have you been? Were you here all this time?”
“Open up.” He’s either deliberately avoiding my questions, or he simply doesn’t want to hear them, shutting them off. Nothing about his demeanor reveals any anger, exactly. That same blank emptiness is what he’s operating from, and it’s just as unnerving as it was before.
I open my mouth. I have to trust he didn’t do anything to the soup. I have to believe he wouldn’t hurt me, or else I’ll go crazy. Our eyes meet, and they don’t look quite as empty as they did back in the garden, but something in them still makes it difficult to swallow the vegetable soup. Something that makes it tough to breathe.