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Screaming into a pillow until my lungs explode sounds like a fantastic idea.
There is absolutely no telling how long I have been their captive. Nor how long I’ve been back in this architecturally designed jail cell masquerading as a bedroom. He said a day, but I don’t trust anything from that man’s mouth.
After the altercation in the kitchen, wolf boy followed behind me every step of the way to make sure I returned to this room. As he closed the door this time, a distinct thud of a lock turning echoed after me.
His energy is terrifying in a hypnotic kind of way. Like I imagine a flame must appear to a moth floating through the night air on fragile wings. There’s no evading the knowledge that even just a fraction of a moment spent in his presence could incinerate me.
As I sit here in a crumpled heap on the floor beside the bed, I swallow the bitter pill of knowing I really am their captive. A stupid girl who allowed her pussy to make a decision that ruined everything.
But then again, even if Thorne hadn’t gone to the lengths of betraying my trust as he did, these are the type of men who take what they want and never ask for permission. Nor do they seek forgiveness, for that matter. There wasn’t anything I could have done to prevent the inevitable.
Thanks to the cocktail of drugs—which are probably still swimming in my bloodstream—I have no idea where I am. My only clue is that the weather here feels similar to Noire House, and I would put money on the fact that this location is within driving distance since they are involved with the Anguis.
The den housing my father’s shameful empire, hidden within their secretive ranks.
I don’t know how they fit into it all, but the reality is I am far, far from my apartment and my tattoo studio. Heat pricks behind my eyes at the intrusive thought, and I rapidly blink away the sensation.
There is no point wasting tears.
I got out once; I’ll do it again. Even if it kills me, like it did my mother.
The days run together in a blur.
After the first night, Raven stood over me in all his predatory glory until I showered, threatening to strip me naked and hose me down outside if I refused to comply with his orders.
Clothes? Well, I’ve been given an assortment of what must be their belongings to wear. Everything is huge on me and smells like them, which I hate.
I still have no footwear. Not even socks.
Despite the gray, cold gloom outside, the house is permanently warm. I’m comfortable walking around in bare feet and an oversized t-shirt the majority of the time. They’ve given me some pairs of boxers to wear, but no underwear. I’m also not sure where I’m at in my cycle, but I’d finished my period a day or so before Thorne walked into my tattoo studio. They’d better be prepared to get me some supplies when it comes time, or else they’re not going to like the mess I leave all over their multimillion-dollar interior decor.
There’s nothing to do here except watch the forest outside. I lose hours lying on the floor, watching the morning slip silently into twilight through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. Birds flit around, and deer occasionally creep past with cautious eyes and twitchy ears.
I don’t see another soul.
The other two men haven’t reappeared in however many days it has been since I made it as far as the kitchen.
Only my murderous jailor has interacted with me ever since.
As if I’ve summoned his black presence, the lock on my door clicks, and he enters the room. No knocking, no formalities. Just lets himself in as and when he pleases. Dressed in what must be his requisite wardrobe of black on black—the optimal color for hiding blood.
I refuse to acknowledge the fact he’s got a freshly purpled bruise beneath one eye and a cut on the bridge of his already slightly crooked nose. By any luck, it’s been broken again and hurts like a bitch.
He pauses inside the doorway, taking in the sight of the untouched trays of food I’ve stacked over there. At least my captors have been humane enough to provide me with water, even if I can’t eat anything they offer as part of my daily rations of bread and pasta dishes.
By this stage, I’m more than a little woozy with hunger. My stomach has been gnawing at itself, not having eaten anything since I was taken. Not that I’m intentionally on a hunger strike; I just can’t eat any of what they’ve given me.
On top of being drugged and kidnapped, the last thing I need is to be weakening myself further. I’ll have no fucking way of escaping if I’m poisoning myself with every bite.
Even the coffee is off-limits, since I’m certain it will be regular milk they’ve used to give it that creamy color. Who would have thought having food allergies would add to the likelihood of my imminent death at the hands of these monsters.
His heavy footsteps cross the room to where I’m lying cocooned in my blanket in front of the window. “I don’t give a fuck if you die a skeleton in here, but orders are that you eat. So fucking eat.” Tattooed fingers cross my vision, and he shoves a new plate with a buttered bread roll in front of my face.
The smell is incredible. Warm and rich and fresh from an oven.
But that innocent-looking plate is toxic to my body.
So I turn my head away and do my best to ignore the riot going on in my stomach.
