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God.
I have to steel myself against this.
You’ve overcome worse than this,I tell myself.
This won’t last forever.
If he was going to kill you, he’d have done it already.
Would he, though? I remember him telling me that those who commit the worst crimes deserve to be punished before they die.
My heart beats so fast I feel nauseous. Is that why I’m here, then? So he can kill me?
If you were anyone else, we’d have killed you already.
I thought he meant they’d spared me because they knew me. Or maybe even because I’m a woman. Now, however, I’m rethinking this. Maybe he meant they needed to punish and torture mebeforethey killed me?
He could kill me and dispose of me, and no one would even try to stop him.
I look at him in a new light.
I look at those strong, powerful hands that have been over every inch of my body. Masterful, sexy, manly hands that know exactly what I like.
Hands that have pulled triggers to kill, beaten human flesh, wielded knives to cut through skin and sinew.
Another wave of nausea roils through me.
“Now,” he says, turning to face me with a length of rope. “Let’s pick up the conversation. Where were we?”
“I have to use the bathroom,” I blurt out.
He rolls his eyes and a corner of his lips quirks sardonically. “Nice try.”
“No! I’m going to be sick,” I say, covering my mouth before I vomit all over his shoes.
“Jesus,” he mutters, before he jerks his head. “Go!”
I barely make it to the bathroom before I vomit the entire contents of my stomach. My cheeks flame in humiliation. I hate that I’ve done this. When I’m finally exhausted and done, I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth and hope he doesn’t get suspicious.
I rinse my mouth over and over until he yells, “Get out here. You’re done now.”
I glance at myself in the mirror and wince. My eyes are watery and bloodshot. My cheeks look hollow. My skin is pallid and pale and a little clammy, like moist dough.Ugh.
I wonder idly if they have paper bags under the sink. I’d like one to put over my head, please.
I turn around and startle at the sight of him standing in the doorway.
“You done?”
“For now,” I snap. God, I hate him.
“Good. Strip. If you’re not completely naked and those clothes in that basket behind the door by the time this timer goes off, I’ll whip you as a prelude. Clear?”
My heart skips a beat. Will he be able to tell? Is it too soon? God, I hope I get nauseous again and this timedon’tmake it to the bathroom.
I bare my teeth at the bastard as I yank my top off. “Crystal.”
I hold his gaze while I rip my clothes off in angry, rapid movements. If he’s trying to humiliate me, this is the wrong tactic. I’ve been a hired prostitute at a brothel and a slave at a sex club. I’ve long since lost any shame in being naked.
