Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134531 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 673(@200wpm)___ 538(@250wpm)___ 448(@300wpm)
How had I not noticed we were parked? That we’d pulled off the highway? Sinking so deep into myself was not a luxury I could afford. Not with Preston. I had to be alert. On guard.
I had to obey. Shrink back into the mold he’d made for me.
Already, the edges cut into my skin, drawing blood.
“You have to understand what I’ve been going through these past months,” he said when he had my attention, his tone no longer as harsh.
“You have to understand what I’ve had to tell people,” he continued. “The lies I’ve had to tell my parents.” He took his hands from the careful ten and two position to swirl his wedding ring. His fury thrummed through my bones, despite his even expression, his tender tone. “The lies I had to tell our daughter,” he gritted out.
My eyes slid to his hands which were back on the steering wheel, at ten and two. His knuckles were white.
The mention of Violet turned my stomach. Icy fingers of dread clutched my heart. My own hands were fisted on my thighs as I forced myself not to throw up in the car. Preston would not appreciate me making that kind of mess.
“Everyone has been worried about you,” he murmured. His eyes trailed down my body, mouth pursed in distaste. “And they had a right to be. This little…break from reality can be explained, though.” He took a long sigh. “It can be fixed.” His eyes found mine once more. “You can be fixed. Some diet and exercise, a trip to the salon. Yes, it can be fixed.” I wasn’t sure whether he was talking to me or himself, going through the list of things that needed to be done in order to turn me back into the Stepford Wife he’d created.
“I can forgive you,” he declared. “We will go back to our life. We will have another baby. Everything will go back to how it was.”
My nails cut into the insides of my palms. I didn’t feel the pain, even though I felt the stickiness of the blood I’d drawn.
My throat swelled up, my lungs burning to the point where I started seeing black dots in my vision.
“Now, I’m tired,” he said evenly. “Because I spent hours driving here. Days, actually. Because I’ve had months of sleepless nights, worrying about you.”
His hand landed on my thigh.
My skin burned from his touch, but I didn’t react. Couldn’t. I was paralyzed by his words.
“But I don’t have to worry anymore.” He was staring straight ahead. “Because I have you back. And I won’t let you leave me again.”
It was a threat. A death sentence.
“Now, you’re going to wait in the car while I get us a room.”
He squeezed my thigh harder.
The grip might’ve been designed to hurt me, but I couldn’t say for sure. I couldn’t feel anything.
His hand lingered there in silence for a few seconds more. Or maybe it was minutes. Hours.
Who knew?
The door slammed shut, and I realized that his hand was no longer on my thigh, that he had left me in the car alone.
This was it. My chance. To run. Who knew where. Maybe back to the motel in Garnett where I had my things. I had cash. Not much, but enough. I still had my wedding rings. Preston somehow hadn’t noticed they weren’t on my fingers. How long had we been driving for? How long would it take me to walk?
It didn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. I should’ve got out of the car and ran. Crawled, if need be.
But I didn’t move a muscle. Not for minutes. Hours. Lifetimes. Not until Preston got back in the car and directed us to the hotel room.
He had trained me well.
I expected a blow the second the hotel room door closed. I was braced for it. The soft footfalls of his eight-hundred-dollar sneakers against the hotel carpet echoed in my ears, my body taut, tensed. Preston’s eyes were intent on me, his expression carefully blank. There was a low ringing in my ears as I watched him move closer.
I could feel the punch already. The crush of his knuckles against the soft flesh of my stomach. Those expensive sneakers kicking my ribs once I was down on the floor. I could see every moment of it.
But no impact came.
Instead, one of his hands settled on my hip, and the other brushed my cheekbone.
I flinched at his touch, disgusted by him, his smooth hands, his expensive cologne.
Preston’s eyes darkened at my flinch, and my teeth sank into my lip, readying for the consequences of such a flinch.
But still, no impact came.
“You let another man touch you,” he whispered, and his fingers pressed into my hip. “Touch what was mine.” His hand moved so his thumb brushed my bottom lip. “But it’s okay. I just need to take it back.”