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“None of your business.”
He lets out a sigh. “This is gonna be a long three days.”
_____
Over the past three days, I’ve gone from angry to hurt to hopeless, then cycled right back through the emotions.
Three days ago, I thought I had a boyfriend who loved and respected me. Now, not only am I annoyed that I thought he was a decent guy, but the fact that said asshole is my only hope of getting out of here does not fill me with confidence.
The closer we get to the three-day deadline, the more the walls seem to close in on me, the dark shadow of fate lingering in my periphery.
“What’s the flag for?” Caleb shouts at the TV. The irritating ruckus of a football game has been blaring, nonstop, all day. “Come on, Saban. Get your guys together. Shit.”
A commercial comes on, and he gets out of his chair to stretch. “You want something to eat?”
I’ve turned down his offers of food because I refuse to eat their food like a “good little prisoner.” “No, I don’t want to eat. I want to go home.”
“Whatever. I’ll just bring you something back in case you change your mind,” he says on his way out.
Seconds after he closes the door behind him, a key slides into the lock, and the latch clicks. Funny how I’ve gotten used to this over the course of three days. Like being locked in a room is almost normal.
I turn off the TV, enjoying a few moments of blissful silence as I glance beyond the burglar bars on the window. Woods line the winding drive, and, as Jude so delightfully pointed out, there isn’t a neighbor in sight. My focus moves back to the bars on the window. In truth, it's the only thing that indicates this is anything other than an ordinary house with normal people living inside it. I don’t know what I expected a criminal’s house to look like, but it wasn’t polished hardwoods, crown molding, and crystal chandeliers.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when the lock turns. Caleb walks in, carrying a plate with two sandwiches. My stomach grumbles at the sight of food.
“You sure you’re not gonna eat?” His tone suggests I should really rethink that decision, but I’m not going to.
“No, thank you.”
Movement in the doorway catches my attention. Jude grabs onto the doorframe above his head, the hem of his T-shirt lifting just enough to expose a deep-cut V that disappears under the waist of his jeans. “I think you meant to say that you were gonna eat,”
I push to my feet and meet what I’m coming to realize is a permanently pissed-off expression on his face. “I’m not hungry.”
“Wrong fucking answer.” His arms drop to his side, and he steps into the room, taking a sandwich from Caleb’s plate before closing the space between us. “Let me clarify for you. You’re gonna eat.”
I swear every single thing about Jude riles me. He has the finesse of a bull and the charm of a rabid dog. Of course, he scares me, but it’s that fact that makes me determined not to cower from the brute. I square my shoulders in an attempt to make my short frame taller in the wake of his massive presence. “You can’t make me eat.”
“I can make you do anything I fucking want.” He holds up the squashed sandwich, a pleased smirk settling on his brutally pretty face. “Eat the damn sandwich before I shove it down your throat, woman.”
“Fuck y—” The rest of my insult is lost when ham and cheese and stale bread are forced inside my mouth.
“Fucking chew and swallow,” he says. The patronizing tone of his voice makes me livid.
I talk myself down from spitting the food in his face, and instead, I chew, but I make sure to scowl at him.
Jude glances at his brother, annoyance obvious in the slight furrow on his brow. “You have to make her eat.”
“What do you want me to do? I’m not gonna force feed her.” Unlike his dickhead brother. Whose attention is now back on me. One of Jude’s dark brows lifts as he takes my balled fist, opens it, and drops the remaining sandwich in my palm.
“Don’t make me have to deal with you myself, Victoria.” My name rolls off his full lips the way I imagine he whispers dirty promises in a woman’s ear, and my stomach tightens. What the hell is wrong with me? “I’d really hate to mark that pretty skin of yours again.” The rough pad of his thumb sweeps over my jaw, his dark gaze tearing right into my soul. It’s a clear threat, and my pulse races in response, but it’s not from fear. His touch feels like a brand, and when he drops his hand, I miss it. And if the infuriating smirk on his lips is anything to go by, he knows it.
