Page 16 of Fatal Fantasy

When you don’t sleep, eat, or fucking feel like a human being, nine days is a long time to dream about rescue.

At this point, I find myself imagining things as if I were a Princess, waiting for the knights in shining armor to save me, even though I always swore I never needed saving.

My father has reduced me to a little girl who lives in the mindset of fairytales, a place where I’ll be saved from the dreadful reality I’ve been forced into, but even in my head, a savior swooping in to save the day seems unlikely.

I’m back to my old coping mechanisms, daydreaming about all the ways to finish the job, and I’ll never allow myself to feel hopeful again, fully succumbing to the ideas in my mind that allow me to find the silver lining in every cycle of days I’m forced to live.

Admittedly, I was going to kill myself that day, jump from the fucking roof of the building and end my misery, but Tyson brought me something I wish I could return: optimism.

Too many days have passed, and I’ve spent all twenty-four hours during each of them wondering if my father found him first, or if he changed his mind, determining that I’m not worth saving after all.

I missed my first opportunity, but I promise, the next time I see my final exit, I’m taking it, no matter who shows up or tries to breathe fresh life back into my numb, hollowed body.

“More fucking effort. Jesus Christ, it’s like getting a blowjob from a corpse.” Vincent yanks at my hair, pulling from the roots as he shoves my face into his crotch, and I stick my tongue out, offering the smallest semblance of compliance I can muster.

Even thinking about death while sucking him off brings no comfort, especially since everything I’ve ever imagined while wrapping my lips around his cock never brings me a sliver of joy.

“That’s it, little lady. Fucking swallow like the perfect cock sucker you are,” he grunts, the jerky thrusts showing he’s almost finished, and I squeeze my eyes shut, begging for the payoff so I can spit his seed down the drain and go back to fantasizing about my own demise.

“You’re going to make the perfect little wife, Carter. You’re already so fucking sweet.” He slaps both of my cheeks as I swallow around him, the salty seed spewing into my mouth as I remind myself not to gag, knowing how much he hates that, and the bruised cheek I got last time I behaved in a way he didn’t like.

Instead, I pretend to swallow, flexing my throat until he’s satisfied, but running off to the bathroom attached to our office and immediately spitting his disgusting juices right down the sink.

After a few minutes, the door opens and slams shut behind me, and I brace for impact, thinking that Vincent saw through my ruse, prepared for the beating he’s about to lay down.

Thankfully, with our very public wedding coming in less than two weeks, he’ll avoid any place on my skin that would leave visible bruises.

“Found you, my little traitor,” a voice says, and I try to spin around, to put a face to that sound, but before I can move, a gloved hand wraps around my nose and mouth.

Attempting to fight back, I use what little strength is left in my body, but it’s useless, and eventually, I just give up, allowing whoever it is to snatch me up without an issue.

As my eyes flutter shut, only one thought runs through my mind, like a decimated record on repeat.

Take me, do whatever you please with my still-breathing corpse, but at the end of it all I only have one request: just fucking kill me.

I can feel, but I can’t see.

My arms are pinned up, like my body is tethered to a cross, but I pretend to be asleep, allowing my legs to be spread, accepting the fact that I’ll likely be hurt in the process of whatever is happening.

I can smell, but I can’t see.

The place reeks of mold, like water settling in a space where it’ll never fully dry, and I’m immediately transported back to the basement, fully accepting that my father is probably behind this imprisonment.

I can hear, but I can’t see.

I’m not the only person in this room, the air feeling heavier as I inhale a sharp breath, and the footsteps surround me like a shark circling its prey.

Although I’m not alone, and the presence around me is threatening, something in me doesn’t feel afraid, my body not thinking we’re in danger.

As hard as I try, my vision won’t come back, and I realize there’s fabric covering my eyes, a memory sweeping me under as I come to terms with my predicament.

The blindfold isn’t itchy, it resembles a soft hug, just like the satin ones Tyson used on me when we’d play a little rough.

“Tyson? Jasper?” I call out, hoping I’m right, because using those names and being wrong would almost certainly result in a serious punishment.

In my bones, I know I’m right, and even though it’s been months since I last saw him, Jasper is here somewhere. I can sense him, even smell the blood-thirsty demon that lives inside him, and I know that particular phenomenon he’s feeling is a direct result of finally finding me.

For the first time, I’m his victim, and I can feel the tension in the air as he attempts to stuff it down just enough to be able to handle me without slitting my throat too soon.