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I don’t really know how to feel right now.
We’re headed back to the home I fled from only eight hours ago.
A place that, when I’d left, I was prepared to never see again.
But now… Now, I’m just willingly going back.
Is this insanity?
Or is it me making the best of my situation?
Or is it some blend of Stockholm Syndrome and the desire to belong to a man like King?
If I try to look at my situation from the outside, if I was reading this story in the news, I’d be screaming at myself to run and to never look back.
But I’m not on the outside and this isn’t just some story. It’s real. And the more I try to piece it apart to make sense of it, the more I end up with the same question.
What am I really losing?
And it’s not as simple as it seems.
Of course, the obvious big one isfreedom.
I was kidnapped and forced into marriage. There’s no two ways about that.
But, when he’s not being a complete piece of shit, King has treated me well.
I lost my house, but then I got a better one. Plus a huge private studio.
And the studio isn’t about the money. I didn’t ask him to do it. I didn’t give him a list of things that would be in my dream painter’s life. He did it all on his own. Yes, he found my art by digging into my personal life, but my career isn’t private. And he didn’t just hand me a credit card. And…
The world needs your art.
When the urge to cry hits me again, I let my head drop back against the seat and close my eyes.
Ethical dilemmas shouldn’t be dealt with on an empty stomach.
Tuning out King and Nero, as they discuss stuff I’m not paying attention to, I decide to rest as we make our way to the airport. Though how they plan on getting me through TSA without an ID––since King never gave me my wallet back either––I have no idea.
* * *
“Uh, no.”I shake my head. “I’m not getting in that death-trap.” I point at the little airplane.
“It’s not a death-trap,” Nero mutters as he moves past us and up the stairs.
But I’m ignoring him, because I still don’t like him, so I turn to King. “You can’t be serious. I thought we were going to therealairport.”
Back in his suit and looking obnoxiously good standing next to me in my pajamas, King lifts a brow. “TSA kinda frowns upon guns in your carry-on.”
I throw my hands up. “That’s ayouproblem.”
“It’s anusproblem, Honey. Now get on the plane.”
I push against his hand on my back when he tries to guide me to the stairs. “Can’t we just drive? I drove.”
“Don’t remind me,” he growls next to my ear.
“I said I was sorry,” I try for a reasoning tone. “Can’t we just––”
