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When her lungs pinched and burned for air, she broke through the surface and gasped for breath. She needed to think. Even Achilles had a weak spot.
She caught glimpses of Christian’s vulnerability earlier, pretty sure she could use that to her advantage. Maybe she could stab him or something if it came down to it. How far was she willing to go for her escape?
The jerk took her against her will and drugged her. That should kill any soft feelings. He was an asshole and now her enemy. She needed to work past her pacifist nature and do whatever it took to get out of there.
Sure, she couldn’t eat anything with a face and always hit the brakes for turtles and birds, but she could stab a man. Last night—which felt like last month—he’d stabbed her. Hadn’t he?
Her hand examined her neck, once again finding no evidence of the assault. Where had the blood come from? The skin wasn’t even tender but she flinched as unwanted memories rushed at her. Then she thought about earlier when she’d…
Her stomach turned and knotted. What exactly had she done?
Her mouth watered and her stomach swilled, pushing the contents up. With nowhere to puke, she rushed to stand from the tub and covered her mouth.
Don’t think about it. It was just kissing.
But she knew it was more. She’d tasted him. Not his kiss. Not the sweat on his skin. She’d tasted him. Metallic and warm, sharp like a penny.
Her stomach revolted and she shivered.
Keep it the fuck down… Shutting her eyes, she forced her insides to calm as she repeatedly swallowed. Spiking only when intrusive thoughts slipped past her guard.
Blood…
It was blood…
Her shoulders jerked as she fought her reflexes. It’s over! Chair. Fireplace. Bed. Window. Bed. Christian’s body. Bed. Blood…
The nausea faded and something else took hold. Something darker and deeper. A strong hunger that had nothing to do with food. Her cravings shifted into something altogether distracting as images flashed through her mind.
Bed. Bodies entwined. Lips. Teeth. Hands. Christian. Christian’s throat…
She slipped back into the water with a shiver, her hands clenched at her ears as she tried to stop the visions from assaulting her. Muscled flesh. Tongues. Sweat. Fingers. Mouths. Breasts. Blood…
Ignoring the intrusive thoughts, she sloshed the cool water over her thighs with pruned fingers. He was probably waiting at the door. The longer she stayed the more confused she felt. She needed to leave—tonight.
Maybe she could reason with him. Maybe she could convince him to let her go if she cooperated and pretended to like him. She could play it off as if their relationship could work. It wouldn’t, of course, on account of all the drugging and kidnapping red flags, but she could lie.
If she planned to escape, she needed to learn her surroundings and form a plan. She couldn’t let her fear paralyze her. No more wasting time.
With a sigh, she stood. Water rushed from her skin as she wrapped herself in the towel. Glaring at the rag of a dress he’d offered her before, she decided to find some pants. And shoes if she planned to make it more than a mile.
The door stood ajar and unlocked. She smirked, glad she’d broken the knob, but then her brow furrowed. More inexplicable memories came to mind, namely her superhuman strength.
When he’d locked her in the room she’d torn it apart, denting the walls and throwing furniture with the ease of tossing a whiffle ball. Her strength must have been triggered by an adrenaline rush linked to fear and rage, sort of like when moms lift cars to save a child.
Padding softly to the door, she searched the hall. Nada. Was she finally alone?
Quietly, she slipped back into the room and searched the spilled drawers. Lifting a freshly laundered white chemise and a pair of pillowcase underwear she scowled.
Commando it is.
The next drawer contained shirts and pants. The pants were loose, but she found suspenders and they did the trick. A thick-bristled brush sat next to the pitcher of water on the washstand. Perching on the edge of the bed, she brushed her damp hair.
“Delilah?” She flinched when he knocked at the door.
There was no need to respond as he let himself into the room. She glared, grateful she already dressed. He too had washed up. His dark, damp hair slicked back behind his ears and his face appeared freshly cleaned. Narrowing her eyes, she scowled at him. So pretty, so unfair, so completely psychotic.
“Did you not see the gown—”
“Yeah, I’m not wearing that.”
His lips pressed together. “I’m working on getting more clothing for you so you have options, but it takes time to stitch them.”
She planned to be gone by then.
“There are straight pins in the box on the dresser for your hair. That will have to do until I locate a bonnet.” He retrieved the small wooden box. Opening it up, he showed her several shiny, sharp pins.
