Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 444(@200wpm)___ 355(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
And he says he knows me. I know a thing about him, too. Maybe not as much as I wish I knew—otherwise, I would have stayed away from him—but enough to know what he's bluffing.
Even the sight of the pitiful little bed makes me yearn for rest. Much like my freedom, I don't feel like that's something I can enjoy right now. I'm too afraid to sleep since anything could happen. What if he sneaks in here and does something to me? I’d put nothing past him, especially now that I know about his twisted version of our relationship. He takes pride in embarrassing me, humiliating and scaring me.
What if I could strip the bed and tie the sheets together? Would that give me enough to escape? I look out the window, and once again, I try to open it. No luck. I could break it, sure, and there would be plenty of room to get through. I look down again, then look at the sheets. I don't know if they’d be long enough, even tied together. I don't even know if I have the upper body strength to lower myself, either. And I sure as hell can't scale the wall like Spider-Man. “Goddammit.” I smack the glass with my open palm and shed a hot, frustrated tear that wants to turn into a deluge.
Maybe I do need to get some rest, after all. Take care of myself. I can't let my mind unravel. I have to stay sharp if I'm going to fight him.
Naturally, this line of thinking leads me to the bathroom attached to what's basically my cell. I flip on the lights this time and take a look around. Should I be surprised to find towels and soap and shampoo on the counter? Along with them is a pair of soft pants and an equally soft shirt, both of which are in my size. How long has he been planning this?
My fingers curl around the fabric, my body trembling. All this time, he's been planning for this. And I was so oblivious.
I don't want to give him what he wants. I don't want to use these things he's left for me. On the other hand, I'm a mess. Filthy, sweaty, my own smell disgusts me. I could stay this way in hopes of keeping him off me, but I get the feeling he wouldn’t care either way. Or he'd forced me to bathe with him, which is an even more disgusting idea.
No matter what he thinks, I'm doing this because I want to. That's what I tell myself as I run a hot bath and strip off my dirty clothes. I gather the soap and other toiletries and leave them on the edge of the tub, then lower myself into the water. Instantly my muscles start to loosen. Everything but the tension in my chest, that is. That's not going anywhere.
I dunk my head a few times first, rubbing my fingers over my scalp to loosen any dirt or oil. It doesn't take long to shampoo, and I stick my head under the running faucet to rinse my hair. Settling back again, I pick up a washcloth and a bottle of fragrant soap. I'll be able to think better when I'm clean and dressed in fresh clothes. I'm already more relaxed, too, which can only be a good sign.
That relaxation lasts roughly as long as it takes me to blink an eye since the door leading from the bedroom opens before quickly closing again.
I cross my arms over my chest, drawing my knees up close to the rest of my body. Footfalls echo in the mostly empty space just as Christian appears in the doorway. The water suddenly feels much colder.
He doesn't say a word. His only communication is a glance at the counter before returning his attention to me. He's glad I took his suggestion and used what he left for me. It's probably confirmation in his sick mind that he knows best.
“Where did you go?” I ask. “Why can't you tell me anything? Why am I locked in here?”
The only sound coming from him is that of his breathing. It's not the cool air on my wet skin that makes me tremble. No matter what he says, even if it's something filthy and depraved, it's better than his silence. Not knowing what's coming next.
He crosses the room, his eyes raking over me. A part of his lower lip disappears beneath his teeth, and now I know exactly what he has on his mind. Yet instead of stripping and getting into the tub or demanding I stand and show myself to him, he lowers himself to one knee beside me. The washcloth floats on the surface of the water where I dropped it. He picks it up, soaps it, and begins rubbing it over my shoulder, moving it slowly down my arm.