Total pages in book: 64
Estimated words: 59250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59250 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Straddled over the basin, she looked away, her face reddening with embarrassment. After several seconds, a stream of piss tinkled against the porcelain. Then she glanced around, probably looking for toilet paper. Finding none, she turned on the spigot and splashed some water between her legs.
“Let’s go,” Damon snapped, tired of her dawdling. “Get over here.”
She climbed off the sink and walked toward him, her arms wrapped around her torso. He pointed to the cot. “Lie down so I can chain you up for the night.”
She bit her lip and furrowed her brow but, wisely, kept her mouth shut.
The piss had dried on the cot, though a faint odor lingered in the air. Callie wrinkled her nose as she lay down. Too damn bad.
He clipped the chains to her wrist cuffs and then reattached the ankle cuffs. “Nighty, night,” he said, leaning down to give her a kiss on the forehead.
Taking a step back, he admired her lithe, naked body. He couldn’t wait to chain her up to the St. Andrew’s cross for a proper whipping. But first he needed a good meal and a solid eight hours of sleep. Tomorrow, the fun would begin in earnest.
~*~
Callie lay for a long time staring into the dark, tears trickling into her hair and ears.
How had this happened to her? How could Damon have gotten away with it? Was there a hunt on for her? Did anyone even know she was gone?
Her parents would get worried when they didn’t hear from her. She texted or talked to them on the phone at least twice a week. But it had only been—what—twenty-four hours or a little longer since he’d kidnapped her? It would be several more days before anyone got seriously concerned. And then what? How would they even know where to begin to look for her?
She was on her own, the captive of a madman, who knew where. The guy was clearly out of his fucking mind. She was his prisoner, with no way out.
“No,” she murmured aloud, clutching her hands in fists. She refused to accept that. There had to be a way out. Men had escaped from Alcatraz using a spoon, their wits and determination. This wasn’t a prison—it was just a house. And Damon was just one man. While he’d clearly planned this whole thing out well in advance, that didn’t mean he was perfect.
Having shucked the suave charm he’d exhibited over dinner, he now struck her as less of a man and more of an overgrown, spoiled adolescent. His extreme good looks and obvious wealth had apparently allowed him to sail through life in a bizarre, entitled bubble. He’d quickly revealed his arrogance and smug, self-congratulatory pride at what he’d done.
She had the impression he was making things up as he went along. Was this the first time he’d done something like this? Did he have some overarching plan for her? She had to figure out where the weak points were in his plan, and exploit them. She had to get away before things got any worse—and she was pretty darn sure they were going to.
He couldn’t keep her here indefinitely, could he? But, then what? She refused to consider what he might do if and when he got tired of this sadistic, dangerous game.
She had to get away. Damn it, she had to! But how?
Rage rose inside her like a fire, heating her blood. It was easier to stoke that flame than to acknowledge the constant terror and creeping despair that threatened to overwhelm her. She jerked at her restraints, furious at her helplessness. “God fucking damn it,” she whispered furiously. She didn’t dare make too much noise, in case he was nearby, waiting to pounce.
After a while, exhausted and defeated, she stilled. The canvas beneath her was rough against her skin. Her bottom felt tender and bruised from the spanking and anal rape. She was thirsty and still hungry. She could smell her own sweat, mingling with the odor of stale urine rising from the cot. Her teeth felt furry as she ran her tongue over them, a sour tang at the back of her throat. The few ounces of milk and cereal she’d managed to slurp up were nowhere near enough sustenance. She was bone weary from the ordeal and the constant stress of the situation.
But she had no intention of giving up. She needed to come up with a plan—a concrete plan. She should try to rest while she could. She needed to gather her strength. She closed her eyes, certain she’d never be able to sleep.
Callie was being lowered into some kind of pit, her body wrapped in chains. She struggled desperately to get free, aware if she didn’t, the huge pile of dirt waiting nearby would be shoveled over her, burying her alive. As the first shovel-full cascaded over her, terror consumed her, blotting out everything else as she thrashed and howled…