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It makes me feel incredibly guilty that my body is drawn to him, that when he is inside me, I forget what we are to each other and where we are. I crave his touch, even though admitting it makes me hate myself a little bit. He’s my captor, the man who paid a million dollars to fuck me. However, he wants. I’m not supposed to want him.
Except I do. When he’s inside of me, he’s a different person, and I forget about all the shitty things he’s said and done. It gives me hope that maybe everything he’s said is a lie, that there is a kinder person beneath the grumpy, angry, violent exterior he shows to others.
Nothing has changed in our nightly routine. He ties my hands together, securing them in front of me, and tucks me into his side each night, wrapping an arm over me that resembles a thick steel band. Even if my hands weren’t tied, it would be a huge risk to try to escape his hold.
Each night I fall asleep, I feel a little more guilty for nuzzling into his chest and inhaling his scent, but he holds me in his arms, encouraging me.
I do everything he asks of me, cleaning the kitchen after meals and helping with the laundry. I don’t get to go anywhere in the house alone, but at least he doesn’t tie me to the bed and only come and see me when he wants to fuck me.
Staring into my cup of tea, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. He sits at the small kitchen table, working on his laptop. It’s ridiculous how normal he makes this all feel.
It’s as if we’re a real-life couple without technically being one, minus the fact he paid a million dollars for me.Somehow, I need him to trust me enough to take me to his place because I don’t think I’ll find what I’m looking for here. This isn’t even his house. Ugh. Somehow, I need to make him trust me enough to take me to his home.
He needs to think that I’m under his spell, willing to do anything he wants. I tap my fingers idly against the counter. I’m not sure how many days have passed since the auction, but this is taking longer than expected. How can I speed up the process? I don’t have the time it would take to convince him that everything is good, that I’m worthy of his trust.
I need to get into contact with them now. To let them know I’m still alive and need more time. How I’m going to do that is beyond me. I haven’t seen a phone inside this house, and Markus’s cell has a six-number code on it. All I have is their phone number, which they made me memorize while they held me in that awful cell.
Markus looks up from the laptop and right at me, and my heart clenches in my chest. I feel guilty all of a sudden and for no reason. I haven’t done anything. Yet.
I know what has to be done, but doing so will ruin everything. We’ve got into a pleasant rhythm with no fighting, and I almost feel bad doing something, knowing that I’m tossing all that effort out the window. Everything seems normal, and I’m going to destroy it all, but I have no other choice. I have to make that call soon.
“Bring me a glass of water,” Markus orders, his deep voice startling me.
I jump at the sound, and the tea in my hand sloshes out the side of the cup and onto the counter. Damnit. I’m basically giving myself away here.
Deep breaths.
Swallowing down my anxiety, I go to the cupboard, get out a glass, and fill it with water. I squeeze the glass hard, trying to stop my hand from trembling as I walk over to the table and hand him the cup.
He takes it and blinks slowly, watching me. His fingers graze mine, and I shiver at the contact.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” I blurt out.
“Okay…” his gaze narrows, “then go.”
I scurry across the living space and into the bathroom. I don’t even have to go pee, but I need to get away. I need a breather, even if it’s just for a moment.
I take a few minutes to collect myself before I exit and return to the kitchen.
“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting weird,” Markus points out, having my nerves right back where they were ten minutes ago.
“I just don’t feel well,” I lie, “I think I’m about to get my period.”
Markus makes a weird face as if periods are the last thing he wants to talk about. Typical guy. At least he seems to believe me.
“Are you ready to go to bed?”
