Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
The only constant is my body, my nakedness. And Victor. I hate how my thoughts go to him immediately and constantly. I hate even more how my body revs up at the thought of him.
I could spend a few minutes lying here imagining shooting him properly. His eyebrows are darker than his silver and gold hair, a honey color. A bullet between them would kill him instantly. But then I’d feel the tangle of emotions when I watched the light drain out of his ice-blue eyes.
Suddenly, the bed is too soft and confining for me to stay in a second longer. I stretch and metal clinks. My right wrist is handcuffed to the headboard, but other than that, I’m free.
I’m free!
I swing myself out of bed and brace against the heavy wooden post. Gritting my teeth, I pull my hand against the steel circle of the handcuff. With the right amount of joint-screaming pressure, I pop my thumb out of its socket and wrench it through. Fire blazes up my poor thumb, and I have to swallow my scream, but with my thumb out, my fingers follow easily. Shuddering, sweating, and panting with the pain, I clutch my throbbing hand to my chest and head for the door.
It’s unlocked. I stop breathing and turn the knob slowly so as not to make any sound. The space beyond the bedroom is a smaller version of Victor’s penthouse. There’s a kitchen with a giant quartz-topped island with four black leather-topped bar stools pushed under it. The rest of the area is bare, with a thick plush rug and a single, deep black leather armchair. Doors line the walls, thick and utilitarian. Probably locked. One of them might lead back to the large room where Victor’s been holding me. Even if escape lay that way, I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to enter the dungeon-like space again.
The first door I open leads to a small bathroom. My bladder screams at me, but I ignore it. Next door, locked. The next, by the kitchen, opens to a dark hallway. I’m through it in a flash, racing down. It’s dark, and I pat the walls with my good hand, finding door after door, each one locked.
He comes out of the shadows, his silver-gold hair lighting up the dark. “Lula.”
I scream, and he grabs me, tugging me back the way I came. Maybe back to the dungeon—
I kick, and he grunts, then lifts me. I’m a wild thing, thrashing and flailing. I’ll do anything to escape him. I can’t go back to the dungeon; I just can’t—
He drags me down to the rug, his weight falling on me. A few feet away, the open door to the hallway swings shut. I feel the final click, like a guillotine blade slicing down, severing all hope.
“No,” I growl.
“Lula,” he murmurs in my ear. “You can’t have thought it’d be this easy.”
I jerk away, but he holds me fast. When I try to free my arms, the move hits my dislocated thumb, and my body seizes with the pain.
I cry out, and he rolls me to my back, pressing me into the floor with his hips heavy on mine.
“Oh, krasiva, what have you done to yourself?” He pins me and reaches for my hand.
I try to wrestle him one-handed, breathlessly pleading, but he immobilizes me.
“Shhhh, precious one. I’m not going to hurt you.” He shifts his weight so he’s not crushing me.
Whimpering, I let him take my hand and study it.
“Correction. This will hurt for a moment.” He searches my eyes until I nod and pops my thumb back into place. My whole body seizes, screaming, and then I slump, panting.
He bundles me in his lap, and I settle there, draped against his chest, while the sweat dries on my back, and my body gets used to the empty feeling where the pain used to be. The fight’s gone out of me. . . for now.
After a few minutes, my breathing matches his.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I tell him quietly. He rises effortlessly, still holding me, and carries me to the bathroom. For a moment, I’m afraid he’ll stay with me in the small space, but he sets me down, waits until I’m no longer wobbling on my feet, and, with a brisk kiss on my forehead, leaves me. I sink down onto the toilet, feeling pathetically grateful.
I spend long moments in the bathroom, finger-combing my hair and scrubbing my face with one hand, scolding myself the whole time. He’s the enemy. He’s the worst.
But when I warily exit the bathroom, I can’t help searching for him. And when I see him, barefoot and broad-shouldered, standing in the kitchen area, my heart flutters.
“Hello, beautiful.” His eyes crinkle as he smiles. Behind the island, tending to something on the stove, he’s the picture of domestic bliss. A boyfriend welcoming me home.