Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
My mind flashed back to The Devil card and its urging me to embrace my shadows, my sexuality, but also reminding me that doing so could destroy me.
The clanging sounds continued as my indignity spiraled.
He was in the kitchen, that much was clear.
How long he’d been in there was anyone’s guess.
A burst of horror squeezed my lungs.
What if he’d come in when I was…?
No. Even with my extremely questionable survival instincts and my dulled senses from injury and masturbation, I would’ve noticed a killer in my midst.
Surely.
No. He hadn’t seen me.
But I’d done it. And I absolutely couldn’t do it again.
Masturbation was healthy and normal; I believed every adult should regularly indulge in self-love, using whatever fantasies got them going. But that should be done in the privacy of their own home, not in a cabin in the woods while being held hostage until they agreed to marry a murderous mob boss.
A pang of panic and thick homesickness clutched my stomach.
Would I ever be home again? In my warm, chaotic, messy apartment that held all of my memories, an entire life that I’d treasured?
Never in my life had I felt so hopeless. And that was saying something since I’d lived a far from charmed life.
But I’d always, always had hope. Even if it was just a small shred of it shining in the darkness.
In the cabin, despite the soft lamplight in the corner, there was only bleakness and despair.
I angrily wiped away the single tear trailing down my cheek.
It took a lot of effort, both mental and physical, to get myself up off the sofa. My legs were shockingly unsteady, as if I’d been lying in a coma for weeks instead of napping the day away.
My bladder urged to be emptied, so I made my way toward the bathroom, planning on ignoring Knox completely. For the rest of our time together.
A dark form emerged in my path just before the bathroom door.
Since I’d been so intently not focusing on him, he’d been able to catch me off guard.
Coward that I was, I couldn’t lift my eyes to look at him in the face. Not out of fear. Out of shame. I was convinced I was wearing some kind of brand, a scarlet letter from what I’d done on his makeshift bed, and he’d be able to see it, figure out what I’d done.
Then he’d find a way to use that to break me.
That was his sole intention, after all.
He wasn’t interested in me. There was no way he felt the spark between us. In order to feel a spark, you had to be capable of warmth. Possess human emotion. Neither of those applied to him. Whatever vision I’d had of him was conjured by my mind, having watched too many movies, read too many books, had too many fanciful notions about the inherent goodness of the human race. I’d spent my time around kindergarteners, letting the purity of their innocence sink in to remind me that everyone had been a child once, that everyone deserved a chance at redemption.
Not Knox.
“You shouldn’t be up.”
His cold tone slithered against my clammy skin, cooling it. Caressing it.
“You shouldn’t be telling me what to do,” I told his chest.
It was a nice chest. He was wearing yet another of his high-quality, outdoor shirts. Black. Long sleeves again. It hit me that I’d never seen his arms exposed, even on the overly warm days we’d been having. He always donned black, long-sleeved shirts. Though he never showed that he was uncomfortably hot. It made sense since he was cold as ice.
“You need to go back and sit down.” As usual, his voice told me he was unencumbered by my snark.
Why would he be? He was used to far more than snark.
I was forever reminded that I didn’t have the tools to go up against him.
“Again, I’m not doing what you tell me to,” I snapped, folding my arms across my chest and glaring at his defined pecs.
My fingertips itched with the need to rip at it, pull his skin apart, make him bleed.
“I’ll carry you back there if I need to.” The threat was barely audible yet uttered in an ironclad tone.
Finally, I found the courage to glare at him in the eyes. The expression on his face trapped the air in my windpipe. It was as blank as his tone… at first glance. But I could’ve sworn there was something different about the way he was looking at me.
I couldn’t put my finger on what it was, though. The slight flaring of the nostrils, the tenseness of his shoulders, the way his vein pulsated in his neck.
Did it speak of fury?
Or something else?
“You try to lay a finger on me, I’ll claw your face off,” I promised. “Mark that pretty skin of yours.”
I used pretty on purpose. Men like him—toxic, alpha types—would see pretty as a direct affront to their masculinity.