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“Where are we?” I ask, knowing he won’t say.
Seamus chuckles. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
I’ve heard that saying before, but I never actually believed the person saying it, meant it.
Definitely believe Seamus though.
I decide to change the subject.
“What do you mean, I’ve changed?”
“You used to be so—agreeable.” He smiles, and I remember thinking how sweet he looked when he did that.
Now all I can think is how sinister his expression is.
“I’ve made you some soup,” he says before I can say anything else. He steers me into the kitchen, where I see the small pot on the stove, golden liquid within. “Chicken noodle.”
The scent wafting from the open pot has my stomach growling. “Smells good.”
“It should be ready.” His gaze finds mine. “Can I let you go and trust that you won’t run away from me?”
I’m conscious of the door being so close to where we’re standing, and I wonder what happened to that gun he had with him earlier. “I won’t,” I say. “But I do need to use the bathroom.”
“Wait until after you eat.”
The fact that he’s feeding me soup actually has me needing to go even worse. The thought of consuming all that liquid maybe, on my already burdened bladder?
“I really need to go now,” I tell him, pushing past the humiliation of talking about bodily functions.
Thank God I’m not on my period. Talk about a mess.
He studies me for a moment. “I want to trust you won’t do anything.”
I lift my hands out toward him. “I can’t use the bathroom without you untying my hands.”
“I could assist you.”
Absolutely not. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
His expression darkens. “I really don’t care what you think.”
Swallowing hard, I go quiet, pressing my thighs together. There is no way I can eat soup right now. If he doesn’t let me go to the bathroom soon, I’m going to pee my pants.
A ragged exhale leaves him and he shakes his head. “Fine. I’ll untie you.”
Relief floods me and I watch as he unravels the rope from my wrists. The moment it drops to the floor, I’m shaking my hands out. Rotating my wrists and stretching my fingers.
Yet again he grabs hold of my arm and practically drags me over to the bathroom.
“I’ll be at the door the entire time,” he tells me as he shoves me into the tiny room. “Hurry up.”
My gaze meets his in the mirror’s reflection. “Aren’t you going to shut the door?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No.”
Asshole.
With a sigh I go to the toilet, relieved when he turns his back to me just as I’m about to pull down my sweats. Once I’ve handled my business, I wash my hands, glancing in the mirror to examine my face. There are little flakes of black beneath my eyes thanks to me crying off most of my mascara earlier but otherwise, I look fine. Hair is a little mussed.
