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My muscles stiffen, my lips drawing back from my teeth in a wide grimace of pure fear. My fingers are in my hair, and then my nails are in my scalp, digging, digging—
Until they find bone.
I pluck down my arms, stare at the blood. Then I slowly drag my fingertips down the white bodice of my dress, leaving behind a smear of bright red on the pristine fabric.
That makes me smile…until I remember what Peter would do to me whenever I made a mess. Then my lips tremble and my heart gives a hard thudagainst my ribs.
Shit.
Shit!
I grab the corner of the sheet and spit on it, trying to clean the already-dried streaks of blood. I’m still wiping furiously at the marks when the door to my tiny little pink room opens.
A man steps inside, and it’s as if the light in the room grows dim.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I’m paralyzed by the sudden, sure knowledge that this man is going to kill me. Not immediately, of course, but once he’s had his fun with me.
He smiles, a soft light touching his crinkled blue eyes. “Welcome home, Dolly.”
Air leaves my lungs in a panicked huff. My legs draw up as if to protect me from this ominous figure who could have been cut and pasted from a Top 40 Under 40 article. But that smile is just a touch too wide, his eyes too bright.
“Please,” I bleat, frightened tears gathering in my eyes. “Please don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
My jaw is shaking so hard, I can barely form the words. “Hurt me. Kill me. Please…j-just let me go.” My fingers wrap around the front of the collar again. It’s as if his presence has made it tighter. I’m struggling to breathe, struggling to keep myself from slipping away and leaving an empty shell for him to play with.
The man cocks his head at me as he takes a slow step deeper into the room. He has dark brown hair, immaculately styled. He’s in his late forties to early fifties, and incredibly handsome with his tanned skin, chiseled jaw, wide mouth. There’s a crease where the side of his mouth often pulls up into a smirk. It’s obvious he cares about his appearance—from his perfectly moisturized skin to his manicured nails.
Perhaps a little too perfect, like Patrick Bateman in Psycho. “It’s okay, Dolly. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I’m surprised at how loud and harsh my laugh is. Does he think I’m a five-year-old without a shred of logic in my head? So naive he can say whatever the hell he wants, and I’ll believe him?
“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” I spit out.
As much as I’d like to believe him, this isn’t my first rodeo. I’ve locked away most of my time with Peter Monroe, but the one thing I do remember is that there wasalwayspain. Physical, mental, emotional. I have scar tissue seven layers deep, and this man can’t say anything to convince me that he’s not a fucking creep, just like Peter was.
I tug at the ridiculous white dress. “You don’t dress someone like a fucking flower girl, lock them in a pink room, paint their goddamn nails, andnothurt them!”
“Careful, Dolly,” he says slowly. “If you swear again, I’ll have to punish you.”
“My name is Charlotte!” I yell, furious at myself for wanting to wilt under the fear throbbing through my veins. I know what he’s trying to do. It’s all about control. He dresses me, controls me, gives me a new name.
I won’t let him.
Iwon’tfucking let him.
But I’m not going to get anywhere if I keep resisting him, either. If he’s anything like Peter, then he’ll come through on his promises of punishment, which is just a nice word for horrendous torture. While I’m in here, in this pink room, while I’mDolly, there won’t be pain. There won’t be abuse. It’s when this man decides he’s not playing nice anymore…that’s when I’m well and truly fucked. Hopefully, by then, Charlotte won’t be here anymore.
I became obsessed with understanding why I’d been so broken. Disassociation. Detachment. Depersonalization. All fancy ways of saying I was a coward.
Not again.
Notever.
It took me seven days to escape Peter’s Toy Box. Every extra day of torture and abuse I suffered, that was on me, not him. If I hadn’t been so fucking spineless and scared and pathetic, I could have gotten out there way sooner.
I need a plan, and I need one fast. Thankfully, that rabbit hole I fell down was deep. I didn’t just figure out why I behaved the way I did. I learned a ton about Peter, and all the deranged creeps like him. Since Monroe was never charged, no psychological profile had been created for him…but he wasn’t the first man in the world to lock up a girl for his own sick pleasure.
