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She slumps in her chair, her disappointment endearing. Does she really think I’m going to let her get away that easily?Tsk, tsk, tsk...seems like doll face is underestimating me. And who I am.
Her eyes cautiously go to mine and I’m wondering when exactly she’s planning to use that knife. It thrills me to think that she’s going to try to fight me, struggle against me. I’ll accept anything as long as I get to have her touching me. Even if it means accepting her fists.
Leaning back against the sink, I cross my arms, my eyes automatically going to her mouth and I feel an aggressive stirring in my body. Such a seductive, firm little mouth she’s got. And I know her lips are going to be so fucking healing the moment they come down on mine. My body is longing for her, eager for us to merge.
When we come together there won’t be any pain anymore. We need each other. Even though she might not know it yet and even though she might not give up and give in as fast as I would have preferred. Tilting my head to the side, I rasp,
“I want to get to know you.” In my life, I roughly only care for a handful of people and the rest I don’t give two fucks about. But Daphne...she’s got the top spot.
She recoils like she wasn’t expecting that, like she doesn’t expect me to know how to be civil. Then her eyes narrow in anger.
“But Idon’twant to talk to you.”
Anger fires in me as well. Twice as hard but I hide it and keep my voice under control.
“You should. Victims, who form a relationship with their captors, increase their chances of being set free.”
Her mouth drops in shock, her eyes widening and I feel like a fucking villain. I shouldn’t have said that. In my eyes she’s not a victim, in my eyes she is simply mine but I said it because I want her to talk to me. I don’t want her to go hide in a closet or give me the silent treatment.
I simply want her togive. And I want totake.
Not that she seems keen on letting me take anything. She looks down at her lap before looking up again and there’s a measured and self-possessed glimmer to her eyes, like she’s doing everything she can to stay in control of herself.
“I work at a bank,” she blurts but I already knew that. I saw her on TV, saw the news report about the robbery. She gave an interview, shaking like a leaf, pale as a sheet in the face and she could barely speak. The reporter even had to cut the interview short because of it.
It infuriated me seeing her like that and I don’t easily lose my temper but it made me thrash the whole living room.
A rage I’ve never known before came over me. In my opinion humans can’t break but that...seeing her like that, broke me. And now I’ve brought her here to pick up the pieces. Whether she does it fast, slowly, graciously or on her knees is up to her.
“I like my job,” she continues, “I like helping the clients but my true passion is making candles.”
I raise my brows in question. Candles? Not what I would have guessed.
She looks down. “I only make them with natural wax, sometimes I add dyes and usually I play around with the scents. And then I give them little names. I named my latest oneReminiscence. It smelled like a backstreet after rain and sheets fresh from the dryer.”
Reminiscence.I like that word.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I nod at her to go on because I want to squeeze everything that I can out of her. Want to know everything about her and the more she tells me the more will she trust me.
Pinching her lips she murmurs, “And I love my coworkers since we’re more like friends and my parents are...okay.” Her mouth closes before she opens it again. “But I’ve always felt like something is missing, like there’s something that should be there, should be with me but isn’t.”
I know the feeling.
“How about you?” she asks carefully, willing to get personal and she really must want me to let her go. “Do you sometimes feel like something is missing?”
“Not anymore,” I answer in all honesty and she looks at me in surprise. Clearing my throat I turn around and I catch her reflection in the window above the sink and she’s looking down again. Probably looking at that little weapon of hers.
When she uses it, I will be ready and I can’t wait to put my hands on her. Hold her down, watch her face turn red and see her eyes turn wild and defiant.
Usually people who are insolent annoy and bore me, but with her it’s different. With her there are no rules because everything is allowed.
“I...uh, I have a question,” she says in a low voice and I turn around. I don’t do it particularly forcefully but she still winces.
“Yeah?” I say gruffly and she blushes but tries to do her best to disguise it because she doesn’t like to blush in front of me.
“What’s wrong with the windows?” she asks and she sounds like she’s not sure she should be asking me about this. “Why won’t they break?”
She’s tried then? And I recollect hearing a bang earlier in the day. She must’ve panicked. A little crack in her orderly façade.
