Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106541 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 533(@200wpm)___ 426(@250wpm)___ 355(@300wpm)
It is a long and tormented thirty minutes. He is testing me as he did earlier, aware I’ll be even more obedient now that he’s proven me wrong.
I want to live, and now that he knows that, he will play it to his advantage.
I’m certain of it.
The wind that turned my nipples into stiff, artic peaks has nothing on the iciness of Ghost’s voice when he nudges his head to a chair across from me and orders me to sit.
When my feet remained glued to the floor, he mutters, “Don’t make me ask twice, маленький ягненок.”
When I scurry for the seat, many pairs of eyes follow me. I don’t pay them any attention while slipping onto my wooden chair and folding an untouched napkin over my lap. It may seem pretentious to instigate the white-glove lessons I was taught, but the outside of this cargo ship doesn’t match its opulent insides. If I didn’t weave between many shipping containers on my way to the stern, I’d be none the wiser that we weren’t on a luxury yacht.
“Only give her water,” Ghost demands when a woman as young as me pours a thick red liquid into the glass in front of me. “And send her things to my room.” As his narrowed eyes scan the full dining table, the number of hushed comments lessens. “No one will be game to drink from any well in my room.”
The unnamed woman dips her chin in understanding, then makes a beeline for the closest exit. As I sip on the chilled water she poured for me, I eye the feast in front of me. I shouldn’t, but it’s been years since I’ve tasted red meat, and the mashed potatoes look like they’ve been prepared with butter and milk. They’re super creamy.
“Eat, маленький ягненок,” Ghost demands before downing a double shot of whiskey like it has all the protein he needs.
While licking my lips, I stray my eyes to the almost empty plates of the people next to me. Only steak grit and a handful of beans remain, but they’ll see me through the next three or four days with barely the faintest grumble of my stomach.
My eyes snap front and center when a noisy clang hits my porcelain plate. After dumping a massive spoonful of mashed potatoes onto my empty dishware, Ghost picks up a piece of steak bigger than his hand and plops it on top of the generous serve. “Gravy?”
I’m too stunned to speak, so instead, I shake my head. Condiments are reserved for the men. We can’t even borrow a sprinkling of salt.
“It will slide down easier with gravy.” Ghost pours a thick brown substance over the serving for five in front of me like he’s adding maple syrup to a stack of pancakes before he stabs a fork into the meat that’s so tender it falls apart with only the slightest spear of a fork.
Unable to ignore the groans of my stomach for a second longer, I dart my eyes from the gooey chunk of meat to Ghost. “Wh-what will it cost me?”
The glint that fires through his eyes sends the twists of my stomach several inches lower. It is a weird and unusual sensation, but one I am certain I don’t want to explore.
“I’m not hungry.” My voice sounds foreign, almost accentuated with an accent I don’t have.
I realize the light bulbs in half of the dining room were removed on purpose when Ghost’s slant across the table unshadows the half of his face he doesn’t want me to see. “You’re not hungry?”
I shake my head. It is a lie, and I will most likely get punished for it, but the arch of Ghost’s lips as he stares into my eyes has me forgetting every action has a consequence. They have me wanting to kneel in front of him again like it would be more about pleasure than punishment.
“Well, okay then…” He works his jaw side to side before he strays his eyes across the room.
I think I’ve won this battle until the clattering of cutlery on pricy dishes rumbles over the thud of my heart in my throat.
Without speaking a word, the room is emptied of patrons, leaving only Ghost and me in a space big enough to house fifty.
After watching the slow bob of my throat, Ghost raises his eyes to my face. “I can hear your stomach grumbling, yet you lie and tell me you’re not hungry.”
“I am not lying. I’m not hun—”
Quicker than I can finish my sentence, he lunges for me across the table. Dishes go in all directions when I’m plucked out of my seat and yanked across the large chunk of glossed wood. I blink in rapid succession when Ghost’s grip on the neckline of my nightie pops several threads, but the blows I’m expecting when we meet eye to eye never come. I’m not hit by his fists or his weapon of choice. I’m slapped across the mouth with a piece of juicy steak.