Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 104165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104165 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I inhale in shock, pulling back from him.
“Now get on the floor, dog.”
My limbs are already moving before I’ve consciously decided to do what he’s asking. Is it because I’m afraid of him? Of what he’ll do if I don’t obey?
Or because what I’m really afraid of is that he’s telling the truth?
All I’ve wanted since I woke up is to know who I am.
What if this awful dungeon is where I can find the answers I’m searching for? I knew they might not be pretty. I knew there was a reason I’m afraid of the dark. Is it because my father is the man he’s describing? What the fuck was my life?
“Good girl,” he breathes out, laying a hand gently but with light pressure on my head. Petting me. This time I don’t yank away.
The carpet is soft underneath my hands and knees, but I’m shaking. I might have been through a lot in the past two months, but so far, I’ve mostly clung to my dignity.
“I own you now, pet. And now I’m going to take you for a walk.”
He removes my collar from the ceiling chain and attaches it to a leash. I breathe out hard. So much for the dignity.
“That’s a good dog,” he praises with such warmth in his voice as he pets my hair, it creates conflicting feelings in my chest. Of course it’s condescending and degrading to be called a dog. But also… um… uh… there’s also this stupid warmth that floods my chest at his words. I’m so confused by it, I don’t know what to do except crawl forwards when he urges me to.
“That’s my good pet,” he continues to praise. “What a good, good girl. Such a good girl.”
The praise floods me with bizarre endorphins. It’s absolutely ridiculous. I’m instantly furious at myself.
Is this just a normal captive’s reaction to the situation? Knowing I’m safest when I just go along with what he asks of me?
Which still feels wrong in all kinds of ways. I should be fighting or scheming for ways to figure out the keypad code. Yeah, I figured that one out when I watched him more closely as he went back up the elevator last time. No key. Keypad. If I follow his lead, can I get close enough to watch him when he pushes the numbers?
“That’s right, good girl,” he praises. “Here we are. Go potty and you’ll get a treat.”
My mouth drops open. Potty? Is he fucking serious?
I look up to where he’s brought me.
It’s not a toilet, at least not in the traditional way. But immediately I recognize it as the kind of toilet they sometimes have in Eastern Europe—just a porcelain hole in the floor. Meant for squatting. It’s another clue, at least. I must’ve traveled in Europe to know that.
But he’s still got me on a fucking leash and he’s taking me on a walk to go fucking potty.
At the same time, because I know how to use the hole from some memory I can’t directly access, I squat appropriately and lift my flimsy nightie. My underwear are still gone from wherever Domhnall tossed them earlier in the dungeon bedroom. I can’t say it’s inhumane because people all across the world use toilets like this, and the porcelain appears immaculately clean.
The part where Domhnall stands there and watches, however…
“Could you please turn your back?” I ask hotly, feeling my cheeks go red.
Domhnall just lifts one eyebrow, but he does do a half-turn so he’s faced away.
I relieve my bladder with a rush of relief. And there’s toilet paper attached to the wall, thank god.
After I’m finished, Domhnall squats down and rubs sanitizer on my hands with his. It feels oddly intimate, but then, what about this strange situation doesn’t? It’s wrong that the mixed-up feelings from earlier tonight are getting all scrambled with now trying to see the gorgeous man in front of me as dangerous. My body’s still attracted to him even when I know I should be trying to scratch his eyes out every chance I get. Not that it would help me get the elevator code.
Do I feel this sense of connection between us because he’s right and I do actually know him? Or once, did I?
“That’s my good girl,” he whispers. “Now for your treat. Come, pet.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“How remiss of me not to show you your watering bowl. I thought you might’ve found it on your own by now. It’s underneath the foot of your bed.”
A watering bowl. Of course. I roll my eyes. I swear, if this man considers his dick a doggy treat, I don’t care what answers he might have about my identity—I’ll remind him just how sharp my incisors can be.
He leads me back into the dungeon room and reattaches my collar to the ceiling chain, then points out the watering bowl. Shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it, I reach out with my hands to scoop up some water and bring it to my lips.