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I focus on the backlit body of a man as he nears the bed, and I run through the ways I can react to his presence. Some men want a woman that will obey, someone they can manipulate and groom to be who they think they need. These are the best kinds because freedoms are earned which means the ability to kill them or escape.
“How are you feeling?”
Every muscle in my tired, exhausted body locks up.
The voice is familiar, and I just know it has to be another fucking dream.
I try to reach for him, but the ropes on my wrists prevent it. The thought of him is painful, but the need, the desire for this to be real, hurts the most.
Hope that I realize is false washes over me before I can even consider how to shove it back down. Sadness leaks from my eyes as I turn my head away from him. Mistaking him for someone he isn’t is so fucking dangerous.
“Lauren? I asked you a fucking question.”
I shake my head, sobs bubbling out of my throat. Hope is such a cruel fucking thing.
“Look at me when I speak to you.” A rough hand grabs me by the jaw, forcing my face in his direction.
I know I should keep my eyes closed, but instinct has me facing my attacker.
He doesn’t fade away. Angel doesn’t disappear, doesn’t transform into a monster.
“Angel?” I swallow down another sob. “How?”
I try to shake my head, but his punishing grip on my chin prevents it. He’s forcing me to see that it’s him.
Anger swarms around me before settling so deep inside those hidden parts of me, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to dig them out.
“Fucking untie me,” I demand. “Right fucking now.”
His laughter is somehow both welcome and the cruelest thing I’ve ever heard.
I struggle against my restraints, the burn of the ropes on my skin, sweeping down my arms like wildfire.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t reach for the ropes.
I expect him to walk out when he releases my face, but he doesn’t budge from the edge of the bed.
“Why am I hooked up to an IV?”
His focus is on the skin on my shoulder, not my face, when he speaks.
“I’ve kept you sedated.”
My breaths are ragged as I try to understand exactly what he’s explaining, but it’s difficult. Whatever is in my system isn’t allowing me to think in a straight line.
“How long?”
“Ten days,” he replies, like it’s not a big deal to keep a woman tied down for a week and a half.
He’s given me more information than I think he realizes, but I’ve been in this situation before. I know exactly what it means.
The IV ensures hydration, meaning I’ve been pissing this bed the entire time. I can only hope my fucking bowels have shut down due to the narcotics those other fuckers were pumping into me, but it won’t stay that way forever.
He’s been taking care of me because I can easily tell I’m not lying here in my own fucking filth.
This enrages me more than anything else.
I don’t want to be fucking cared for.
