Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 379(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“No, baby, I don’t,” Tigran whispers.
“He said, ‘Sorry, kid, but I owe your dad money. We’ll come to an agreement soon, and you’ll be back home, don’t you worry.’ Then he left me there for a really long time.”
I stop talking. Dad says the man had me for three days, but it felt like years. Every second crawled past. The basement was cold and smelled like mold. I was alone most of the time, curled up under the blanket. I screamed and screamed until my throat went hoarse, and nobody came to help.
“The scar,” Tigran says. His voice trembles with restrained emotion. “What happened?”
“He came downstairs one night a little drunk. He had a phone and a knife. His hands were shaking, and he kept apologizing, but he didn’t stop, even when I begged. He grabbed my hair and sliced down my face as I cried and tried to fight him off. Then he took a picture.” My voice breaks, and I have to stop. I don’t know why, but it wasn’t even the agony of the sliced face that really gets me now.
It’s the humiliation. The photograph. The way he so callously took it and sent it along to my father.
“What happened after that?” Tigran prompts.
“Nothing much. He fed me once or twice. Gave me some water. Then one morning, he came down, unlocked the cage, and let me leave. He said everything was fixed. He told me to run and don’t look back. Leaving that house was horrible. I kept thinking he was going to run after me and shoot me in the back. But the second my feet hit pavement, I ran and ran until I couldn’t anymore. Some nice old man found me outside a 7-Eleven, called the police, and that’s how I ended up back home. And I never left the house again for twelve long years.”
Tigran pulls me closer. His arms wrap around my body. I feel those three days in that cage again, but they don’t overwhelm me like they used to.
I can’t remember the last time I told that story without sobbing my eyes out.
It’s still a rotten hole inside me. The scar’s a constant reminder of what that psycho did to me. My captivity broke me, and I’ll never forgive the monster.
“What happened to him?” Tigran asks gently.
“I don’t know,” I admit, shaking my head against him. “Dad said he took care of it and I didn’t need to worry. I never talked to the cops after that first time. It’s like the whole thing just disappeared. He was just some desperate guy who lost too many bets.”
Tigran mumbles something harsh in Armenian and hugs me tighter. We stay like that for a while, and the nasty sting that usually follows reliving that nightmare never quite happens. Instead, I feel safe and warm in my husband’s arms, and even though the scar won’t ever fade and I’ll always carry the damage that bastard did to me, I’m starting to think it doesn’t always have to define me.
“All right, we’ll stay on the couch for a while,” Tigran finally says, kissing my neck gently. Then the hammering starts in the other room again, louder this time, and he grins at me. “But those windows will be replaced.” He tilts my chin toward him and kisses me gently. “And you will stay right here with me until it’s finished.”
Chapter 23
Dasha/Tigran
Dasha
I lean on Tigran’s arm as he sweeps me up the front steps of an enormous suburban mansion.
“This place is…” I trail off, genuinely at a loss for words.
“Gaudy,” Tigran says with a deep frown.
“I was going to say really big, but that works too.” I laugh lightly, honestly surprised at the beauty of this place. “Your brother lives here?”
“I grew up here.” Tigran’s frown deepens the closer we get to the front door. “I have a lot of memories in this place. Some fond, most not so much.”
“I’m having a really hard time picturing you growing up in a mansion.” I pause and lean away from him. “Were you a spoiled rich boy?”
He snorts and nudges me with his elbow. “Hardly.”
“I don’t know.” I gesture at the mansion. “You grew up here.”
“We were definitely rich,” he concedes with a tight smile that quickly fades. “But we were far from spoiled.”
I want to interrogate that since it’s so clearly laced with a lot of baggage and trauma, but I don’t get the chance.
Because the door opens, and a little kid comes teetering out, wearing nothing but a pair of pajama bottoms like a maniac.
“TIGGIE!” the little boy screams, flailing his arms as he barely keeps himself upright. Tigran has to lunge forward to keep the kid from faceplanting right there on the concrete. “Tiggie, Tiggie, Tiggie!” the boy says, squirming and laughing as Tigran lifts him up and blows a raspberry on his bare belly.