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“W-what?” I stammer.
“Do you like pot roast?” he asks. “Just an innocent question.”
I nod, barely able to speak with his fingers digging into my skin possessively.
That didn’t feel like just an innocent question.
“Good.” He releases me. “I’ll make it tomorrow.”
He sits down across the table and grabs something. Pouring it into his coffee, he stirs loudly.
“It’s right in front of you. Go ahead.”
I touch the cup carefully to make sure I don’t burn my hands while finding the handle. Then I bring it to my mouth and take a sip.
“No sugar? Milk?”
“I prefer it black,” I reply, licking my lips from the aftertaste. God, it’s been so long since I last tasted coffee. It’s so good; it makes goose bumps scatter on my skin, and I actually want to moan. But I manage to stop myself before it rolls out of my mouth.
Still, I can hear him smile.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just like watching you enjoy things.”
“Strange,” I reply.
“How so?”
“Well, for one, you’re keeping me a prisoner in your home. And two, I find that hard to believe.”
It’s quiet for some time before he responds. “I’m sorry, Syrena. I can’t let you go.”
“Why?” I ask, putting down my cup.
“What would you do if you were free? Go to the police to tell them about me.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Right.” He takes a sip. “Who are you trying to convince?”
“I don’t even know where we are. How could I ever lead them to you? I only know your first name,” I reply.
“I’m not that stupid, Syrena.” He scoots his chair back and gets up. The closer he walks, the more I lean back. He places one hand on the back of my chair and one on the table. “I’ve seen how you move around. Learning your surroundings and getting your bearings is like a snap of the finger, isn’t it? You feel … you touch.”
He places a hand on my shoulder and slides it down my arm. “You already know the exact layout of my home. I’m sure you could trace your way back too.” He squeezes softly. A threat. “So don’t lie to me … please.”
I jerk free of his grip and scoot my chair back as far away from him as possible, before getting up and walking back toward the room he’s been keeping me in all this time.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m tired.”
“We aren’t done talking.”
“I am.”
He growls. “Sit. Down.”
“Make me,” I hiss as I stampede toward the door.
Right as he stomps behind me, I slam the door shut in his face. I don’t care if he comes in or not. He can’t do anything to me that someone hasn’t already tried. He can’t take away anything I value.
He can see right through me, and I hate it.
I hate that I have nothing to persuade him with … except for my body.
Guess I will have to sell my soul.
Accompanying Song: “Twisted” by Missio
Chase
My hand hovers over the door handle, but I can’t bring myself to enter. As much as I want to scream and make her do everything I want, I can’t. It isn’t fucking right.
Instead, I slam the wall with a fist so hard it makes my knuckles bleed.
I sink to the floor and gaze at my bloodied hand, wondering if I can ever make this right again. If I can ever be anything less than … bad.
I promised myself that I’d do this. That she would be the one. But she’s making it so hard for me.
“Fuck!” I slam the wall again, this time with a flat hand, just to let my frustrations out.
However, it only makes them worse.
The longer I sit here steaming in my own rage, the more I want to lash out.
I have to get out. Have to get away from her. Now. Before I do something I’ll forever regret.
So I get up, grab my coat, and run out the door, slamming it shut behind me.
With my cell phone in my hand, I make my way to my car and dial Brandon’s number.
“I’m doing it now,” I say when he picks up. “Give me an address and a name.”
“Okay … Hold on.” While he’s looking, I get in the car and buckle up. “I’ve texted you the info. Want me to come with?”
“No. I need to do this alone.”
“Fine by me,” he replies. “How’s the girl?”
“Great.”
I hang up the phone before he can say anything more about her. I know how he feels about it, but I don’t fucking care whether he agrees. He knows how much this means to me, and I’m sticking with it.
I throw my phone in the passenger seat and hit the gas, chasing the roads.
I drive just below the speed limit, never going through a red light. I hate breaking the rules, but what I hate more are rule breakers. And I will never, ever become one. Just because I’m twisted doesn’t mean I’m evil.
