Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130761 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 654(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
And then I heard his laugh, his deep appreciation for my pain. Before his hand wrapped around my neck as his entire fist slipped from within me. The reprieve of being empty lasted only seconds, until he thrust his manhood inside me. And he was even rougher than before. Slamming into me while robbing me of my breath, squeezing at my throat. I scratched him. I clawed, but he only growled louder, hardened more. Until at last he spilled himself within me, collapsing on top of me with a long thunderous groan.
In the aftermath, I had stared at the ceiling, silent tears swimming in my eyes as I let the potion flood me and whisk me away from this hell.
I liked being taken away.
I rarely left this room, this bed. I didn’t know how long I had been here. I saw no one but Meister, mostly. Sometimes he would take me outside to walk around this . . . this . . . whatever this place was. Sometimes he would allow me to feel the sun on my face, to smell the fresh air, when he deemed I had earned it. But that was rare. I always disappointed him; he always hurt me. On those precious days spent in the sun, I would occasionally see some men, but they would never speak to me.
I saw no other females.
I was alone.
Just me and Meister.
At the sound of the lock turning in my door, I tensed, eyes wide, waiting for him to come through. My arm itched, and my legs shifted restlessly on the wet mattress. The chain attached to my wrist pulled tight as my arms twitched with excitement. My blood raced in my veins and my pulse hammered in anticipation of what Meister would be bringing me.
He would have the potion that made me forget.
I smiled.
Then he was inside the room, as big and domineering as ever with his thick-set neck and shaved head. He wore jeans and a white tank. His heavily tattooed arms bulged with muscles. His blue eyes locked on me, and as it did every time I saw him, fear infused me and glued me to the spot.
“Phebe,” Meister said softly. My eyes never left him as he moved around my bed before stopping at the foot. He reached out, and his finger circled softly on my ankle. The insatiable heat that was burning up my body suddenly morphed into ice at his touch. And then his fingers traced up my calf and upward along my inner thigh until they stopped at the entrance of my core.
I never once took my attention off his eyes. They flared at the sight of the blood that had pooled between my legs. My breath caught in my chest when his fingers slipped along my folds. I wanted to cry out at the rawness of the pain I felt—the after-effects of last night. But I kept it locked inside, only to lose control and retch when Meister brought his bloodied fingers to his mouth and licked his tongue along the wet tips.
I rolled to the side, to the bucket he kept beside me, and heaved dry retches as my body vainly attempted to vomit. Nothing came up. Instead, my body yearned for the potion. It yearned for the liquid that would take away the bad and usher in only the good. I felt the bed dip beside me. Meister pulled my long, sticky hair from my overheated face.
“Shh . . .” he crooned lovingly. He ran his hand down my spine and traced his finger between the crack of my behind. I moaned, feeling sick, lost, the searing heat of the craving rushing through my veins.
But he didn’t stop. Meister never stopped, no matter how much I tried to protest. He took. He took and took and took.
He pulled me up and laid me down flat on the bed. My head swam as I tried to focus. It took several seconds for my eyesight to clear and for the room to swim back into view.
Meister was holding my chained arm out toward him. My wrist rested on his lap, and he ghosted his fingers up and down my upturned limb. My skin was paler than I remembered it ever being; it was peppered with red marks, some bruised and scabbing over, some fresh and weeping.
“Is this what you want, meine Liebchen?” Meister said, his voice as soft as a whisper. I had no idea what he called me, but he was always gentle when he spoke these words to me.
Almost loving.
Every time he did, he nearly tricked me into thinking he actually cared.
I squeezed my eyes shut as I nodded. My veins almost burst with need. They felt as though they were reaching from my skin, searching for the rush they craved, the liquid that was a balm on my tortured soul.