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I considered the room once more.
Sometime during my capture, the storm must’ve stopped. It was still dark outside, the stars breaking through the monotony of blackness. The room itself had peach colored walls, a warm and inviting color that clashed greatly with the dark carpeting.
Whore Bag had gone all out for this wedding. Twinkling lights were wrapped around the two pillars creating the hallway’s arch. I’m pretty sure I saw posters of Ryan Gosling taped to the wall, though my position hindered my ability to see clearly.
No wedding could be complete without the inclusion of Mr. Gosling.
I wondered if he was still alive.
The world would be a sad place without that beautiful human being.
I was pulled from my thoughts by a grunt, followed immediately by an onslaught of curse words. All male.
My body immediately tensed at the masculine voice, and my hands clenched into fists, despite the bindings. I knew that I wouldn’t stand a chance, but the movement helped relax and calm me. It gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, I could get out of this situation. Alive, preferably, and in one piece. I wasn’t greedy, though. If fate felt like I had to lose a hand to survive this shest, then I would be more than willing to cut it off.
Whore Bag stormed back into the room, hand curled around a dark, thin fabric.
A leash, a tiny voice in my head told me.
Why would she have a leash?
That question was immediately answered when the the “groom” came into view.
His short hair was slicked back, and he wore a tuxedo that seemed two sizes too big. Even with his dark skin, I could see the gashes and cuts on his face. A particularly jagged welt slashed across his temple, the puffiness of the edges and the red shadow hinting that it would leave behind a nasty scar. His arm hung crookedly by his side.
His eyes flickered towards me, wide with panic, and I felt my own instinctively tearing up.
Whore Bag pulled on the leash, and he staggered further inside. The movement propelled him off his feet.
I would never forget the anguished cry he made as he landed on his broken arm.
I no longer pitied the psycho bitch. I hated her. The intensity of my emotions blew me away.
“Shall the wedding begin?” she asked sweetly, seemingly oblivious to her “fiancé” lying in a heap by her feet. Or maybe she just preferred him in that position.
I glared at her.
“You bitch,” I hissed. I wanted a reaction from her. I wanted her to direct her anger at me instead of him. It was torture to see him so broken, so vulnerable. He tried to hide it, but I could see the tears falling down his cheeks. I could see the horror, self-pity, and disgust, all masked behind an apathetic exterior.
What did she do to you?I questioned silently. I tried to convey it with my eyes, but he didn’t look up.
No, Ryder was merely a shell of the man I remembered.
