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What I need is better control over my body. What I need is to stop getting aroused every time he hurts me or forces me. Because that’s fucked. It’s completely suicidal. Nate has enough advantages. I can’t give him more ammunition to make me bend to his will.
I take a deep breath, holding it in my lungs as I search the mirror for the strong woman I know I can be. My shoulders shrink when I huff, so I try again.
How many times have I had to get back up when I was down? How many times did I keep walking after people tried to break my legs? I am not weak. My body knows that like it knows how to breathe. It’s instinctual, ingrained in my very soul.
Another breath. Another block. Finally, I watch my face harden, my expression fortifying. The brightness in my eyes dims. Finally, I look like Kayla King, queen of the North Shore.
I’m so out of place in a white marble bathroom lined with gold. Gold taps, gold shower head, gold handles. Pure, angelic white countertop. I belong in my half-burned house. I belong in the dilapidated streets of my broken town.
And I’ll fight with everything I have to leave the gilded cage Nathan White is trying to put me in.
I square my shoulders, tighten the towel around my chest, and walk back into the bedroom. The bastard left a white satin robe on the bed, so I purposely go to the walk-in closet and grab a pair of underwear, a bra, a large t-shirt, and some sweats. I discovered all the clothes the morning he left. A closet full of outfits my size. Apart from the sexy underwear I’m sure he made a point of picking, there’s a bit of everything. Clothes I’m happy to wear. But there’s also a section I don’t want to look at. A section of dresses and suits the first lady would own. Types of clothes I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing.
I’m grateful for the thong when I put it on, knowing I couldn’t stand anything touching the wound on my ass cheek right now. It’s still throbbing like hell, and I’m glad it’s nowhere I can see.
Fucking asshole.
Marking me like fucking cattle.
I’m going to ruin his life. I’m going to bury him so deep, even the worms won’t be able to reach his corpse.
I don’t care to brush or dry my hair. I put on what looks like running shoes. The expensive kind that would make me want to put them in a glass box rather than go on an actual run with them.
Just for the sake of it, I open the window and throw out the see-through satin robe. I look down, not for the first time since I’ve been here. The first thing I checked when he left was if I could jump out should he ever take that fucking chain off. The answer was no. We’re too high and there’s nothing to hold on to, nothing to catch my fall. Just a twenty-foot drop because rich people’s mansions are dumb like that. They love their high ceilings on the first floor.
For a second, as I watch the robe get caught in the late summer breeze and land farther down, I imagine my broken body on the ground. What’s better? Marriage with Nate or a painful death?
With a huff, I step back. Neither. I’m going to find a way out. My girls are waiting for me on the outside. They need me, and I won’t give up. Every single fight I put up will be for them.
Nate isn’t smarter than me, he’s just been planning this for longer. We have to leave the house at some point to go to the town hall. I will be gone before we marry. That’s a promise.
Never again will he chain me, mark me, hurt me.
Never again will he bring me pleasure.
I stop by the kitchen before I go to his office. I look at his set of knives, blades held by a magnet strip on the wall. Taking the smaller one, I put it in the band of my underwear. Then I grab the biggest one in my right hand.
Time to have a discussion with my dear fiancé.
When I cross the foyer again, I hear a toilet flushing. Shit. His guard. I hurry toward his office, not knocking before I walk in.
Nate is at his desk, sitting back, relaxed. His gaze is glued to his phone as he types. Eyes blinking slowly, his face stays as passive as ever. He’s got his glasses on. Thick black rims framing his beautiful eyes. He looks like a handsome geek with his sandy blond hair brushed back, a soft strand falling at the corner of his glasses.
“Sit down.” He doesn’t even look up, calmly finishing his text.
I don’t. Before he can see me, I pinch the knife by the blade, pulling my arm back. I take a gulp of air, block, and throw, exhaling sharply.
He grunts. That’s all he does.
The phone clatters to the ground, and his hand shoots to his shoulder, where his white shirt is now colored a deep red. His surprised stare digs into me, but I don’t waste any time. I sprint toward him, sliding across his desk and landing on him. His chair tumbles back, and we both fall to the floor. He takes the hit, air freezing in his lungs as his mouth drops open. Leaving the large blade in his shoulder, I reach into my sweats, seizing the small knife and holding it to his throat.
I’m straddling his stomach. Since we’re still on the chair, his thighs are stuck between my back and the seat, now perpendicular to the floor. The first thing he does is kick the chair from under us so he can lie flat on the floor. I slide lower, sitting on his hips. It gives me a better grip on him.
“You want to mark me, Nate?” I hiss in his face. “I’ll mark you back.”
He blinks up at me, and a smile spreads on his lips. “That hurt, little sunflower.”
He can’t move his left arm, the pain in his shoulder probably too intense. But his right hand snatches my wrist, holding the knife closer against his skin, pressing, dragging red liquid to the surface. He bucks his hips, pushing into my core.
