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“Zamira!”I’m jolted awake by a deep voice.
“No. No. Don’t touch me!” I scream out, sitting up and frantically looking around. The bare room, black sheets, and pile of clothes remind me of where I am.
I’m in the room Theon put me in, not with Tommy.
Tommy is dead.
I killed him.
I take a long, deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart.
“You were screaming. It was annoying the hell out of me.” Ace’s voice causes me to flinch.
Jackass.
Fuck, when did he get in here?
That’s all Ace says as he pulls back the blanket beside me.
“Nightmare,” is the only word I can get out as I nervously look down at my sweaty hands, wringing together in my lap.
One that I had to live through for four years.
Deep breaths. In and out.
Tommy can’t hurt me anymore.
“Was it me that got you that worked up?” he asks. I laugh, finally starting to calm down.
Of course Ace Lennox thinks everything is about him.
“Your big ego wishes, but it might surprise you that there are people out there worse than you.”
He chuckles, pulling my attention to him.Holy shit.He’s standing on the other side of the bed with his wet blond curls clinging to his forehead. The sun is peeking on the horizon, but the light shines in from the window, reflecting off the perfect lines of his muscles. This is the first time I’ve seen him shirtless and it does not disappoint. My eyes fall to the delicious V that runs down into his black pajama pants, adding an enticing edge to his overall hot persona.
Unlike Blais and Theon, Ace’s body is not covered in swirls of ink. While I like tattoos, there’s something about his undecorated skin that’s so mesmerizing.
This man is an unhinged, controlling psycho, but he has the body of a god.
They all do.
“There’s nothing or no one worse than me, temptress. You’ll see,” he taunts, sliding under the blanket.
What is he doing? Is he sleeping in here with me?
Lying on his back, he closes his eyes. He looks calm, not like someone worried I’m about to attack him. It’s obvious he still doesn’t see me as a threat. My entire body stiffens the closer his gets to me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Sleeping—well, I’m trying to, but there’s an annoying little voice in my ear that won’t shut up,” he grunts.
“That’s probably your conscience trying to tell you it’s wrong to hold me captive, torture me, and try to kill me,” I murmur.
He smirks with his eyes still closed. “I don’t have one of those. Plus, it’s fun thinking of new ways to torture you.”
Is that what this is? A new way to torture me. It’s probably some sort of psychological punishment he’s come up with.
Move me to a more comfortable room, make me feel like I’m safe, and then what? I’ll talk?
