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The moment it kicks in, all your brain is attuned to is the need to appease it. To fucking survive.
The game I prayed to never play again is back, and this time, I can’t drop out of the Witness Protection Program or forge a new identity.
I’m stuck in a gilded cage, and if I stay here for more, my fate will be just like that of Alicia’s.
That’s the only thought my brain is able to conjure up. That if I don’t get out of here, I’ll die.
I spend the long dawn and early morning hours searching around the room for a way out.
My phone isn’t here; I lost it somewhere. The landline is busy, which means Jonathan must’ve suspended it. I left my laptop in the car, so that’s out.
Every now and then, I spy on the buff blokes through the window in case they change position and I get a chance to escape.
They don’t. Both remain standing there as statues.
Not that I expected less from Jonathan’s level of control freak.
Around eight in the morning, I’m in my wardrobe, searching for something, a modern device or anything I can use to call for help.
The door opens and I startle, my injured knee hitting the wood panel. I wince, using my other leg to stand upright and bending the hurt one.
Jonathan waltzes inside, carrying a tray of food and wearing his impeccable suit as if this is an ordinary morning.
I can’t help feeling relief at how his shirt is clean, not smudged with blood like earlier. It hides most of the scratches, but there’s a long one that peeks from the edge of his collar.
I swallow at the view. It’s reddened compared to when I last saw it. Not that I should be sorry. He’s the one keeping me against my will.
“You haven’t slept.” He places the tray on my makeup console, flips over the coffee table I used to block the door during my failed escape, then slides the plate across it.
“Do you have a camera in here, or something?” I study the corners of the room because I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.
“Not currently, no. But that’s a good idea.”
Damn it, there I go putting ideas in his messed up head. I bite my tongue to stop from spouting nonsense. That will only give him the upper hand more than he already has.
“Sit down.” He motions at the sofa with a tilt of his arrogant nose. “Eat.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to shove the food down your throat, is that it?”
“I want you to let me go.”
“Are you going to sit the fuck down and eat, or will I have to do it?”
I jut my chin and realise my mistake too late. Jonathan reaches me in a few long strides and throws me over his shoulder as if I’m a sack of potatoes. A squeal rips from me as my world tips upside down, my hair falling to his thigh-level. Blood rushes to my head from this position, and I hit his back over and over, ignoring how my palms sting.
“Stop that or it’ll reopen your wounds.”
“Then let me go.” I hit him some more.
Slap.
I freeze as fire erupts in my arse. My thighs clench, and I can feel the wetness coating my knickers.
Shit. Fuck. No.
This can’t be happening. Why the hell am I still turned on by this? I shouldn’t be. He…he’s going to hurt me, to kill me. Like he did with my sister.
