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Maybe it was the sandwich or the water he’s been giving me, but I still feel drugged.
I’m exhausted. Every muscle aches. I have a headache that just won’t go away.
I refuse to think of the possibility that I was hurt more than I thought while in captivity.
Maybe there’s something seriously wrong?
I’ve never been one to imagine things as being worse than they are. I’m a critical thinker, someone who takes shit at face value.
But thoughts of disease and cancer have somehow seeped into my head.
When I wake, not only are my arms still tied, the strain in them causing enough pain to make me consider begging for mercy, but now my legs are tied.
I roll my eyes over my body as best I can. I do this every time I wake up, assessing for more damage.
I’ve come up empty since I’ve found myself here with him, but then my eyes land on a small incision on the inside of my bicep. I immediately know what it means, and my blood fucking boils.
I’m once again starfished and naked on this huge bed, and Angel is nowhere to be seen.
I don’t even hear the man in another part of the house.
Tears seep from my eyes, my mind thinking of all possible catastrophes. Did he leave me here to wither away and die? Is he cruel enough for something like that?
I try to convince myself that he isn’t, but I know better. The man is vindictive, just as broken as I am. The only difference is that I’ve tried to use my own pain to help others. Angel will only ever be about himself. I’m tied to this bed because I’m a toy to him, one he will eventually get tired of. I’ll be discarded, and even though I’d like to deny it, I know I’ll never be the same.
I hate change, hate that I’ll once again have to adapt the way I do things.
As I struggle against my restraints, I hate Angel more than ever.
“Let me go!” I scream, my eyes locking on the camera in the corner.
He’s watching me. I fucking know he is. The man didn’t even try to hide it. He doesn’t disguise the camera at all.
It feels more invasive than what he does to my body.
I want to cry and stew in my pity, but I refuse, knowing now that he can see me. It’s a spotlight on my vulnerability, and I’ve always tried to keep that to myself.
It doesn’t take long for my screaming to transition into begging for relief.
The longer I stay tied to this bed, the longer it’s going to take to bounce back. I could tell when he helped me to the bathroom that my muscles had already lost so much power. I could hardly stand on my own. It’s another reason to hate him.
“Did you need something?” he asks after opening the bedroom door.
He’s chill, his demeanor bored as if he’s unimpressed at seeing me struggle so fruitlessly against the ropes.
“Let me go,” I hiss, trying to hide my wince when I pull the rope too hard and it cuts through my skin. “I’m going to have permanent fucking scars from this shit.”
His eyes run over my body, locking on the blood dripping down my arm.
“You don’t want a lifelong reminder of the time we spent together?”
I freeze, my body responding to that statement in a way that would surely get me locked in a padded cell if I were to ever describe it out loud, but then I notice the way his eyes drift to my lower belly.
A slow smile spreads across his face as he inches forward. My pulse kicks up and my nipples harden. My anger is real, but so is my arousal.
“You cut out my fucking birth control?” I hiss.
He shrugs. “You’re mine to do with as I please.”
