Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
But not quite yet. I have to finally pry my eyes away from him to find the lock. I turn it slowly, holding my breath, my gaze darting back and forth between it and the man I’m seconds away from escaping. So close.
Finally, with the lock disengaged, I have to go for it. I turn the knob and ease the door open just far enough to slide through.
And that’s all it takes. I’m free. Standing on the front step, fresh air hits my face, stirring the shirt around my thighs. For one brief, beautiful moment, I’m invincible. Nothing can touch me. I did the thing that scared me the most, and I lived through it.
What a shame my feet leave the step a split second later. A scream rips from my throat but is cut off by a hand clamping over my mouth. “Fucking bitch,” Enzo snarls, carrying me back into the house while I kick my feet as an attack, even though it doesn’t help. Right now, nothing will help.
Disappointment rushes through me. I was so close. Now he’s going to kill me for sure. He hauls me upstairs to the bedroom—each step up the stairs brings me closer to what has to be certain death. I claw and scratch at his hands and arms, but it does me no good. I might as well not fight him at all. As soon as we enter the room, he tosses me onto the bed in a screaming heap.
“I’m sorry! Please, don’t hurt me!” I know it’s no use, that I might as well be talking to myself, but it pours out of me all at once.
He doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m speaking, instead tearing the shirt open right down the middle. For one horrifying moment, I know this is it. He’s not just going to kill me; he’s going to rape me first. When he starts stripping the shirt from me, I fight with all I have, but all he does is grab my wrists and wrap the shirt around them before using it to tie me to the headboard.
“Please, please! I just want to go home! That’s all, just let me go!” I sob, twisting and squirming with my arms over my head. It’s no use. He’s tied me tight, and every tug only makes the knot that much more impossible to loosen.
Instead of acknowledging a word I’m screaming, he climbs onto the bed, straddling me before bending down until his face fills my field of vision. The stench of whiskey is thick enough to choke me. “You can never leave well enough alone, can you?” he demands. His eyes, god, they’re so dark and empty. Evil.
“I just want to go home. Why don’t you get that?” I whimper, praying maybe he can see how truthful I’m being.
“And if your father would act like a man and come to the table to do business, you could go home.” My father again. It’s too late now to tell him that man is not my father. I’m dead, plain and simple. It seems like no matter what I do, I’m going to end up losing my life. I can’t bring myself to pull the trigger—no pun intended. Besides, I don’t even know if he would believe me if I finally confessed.
“But that’s fine,” he continues, pressing his body against mine. And despite the fear rippling through me, it feels good, which only throws my brain into worse confusion than before. I don’t know if I’m writhing and bucking my hips in a vain attempt to throw him off me or because I want more of me touching more of him. Am I really this far gone?
His fingers trail along my jaw, then my throat. He touches me like I’m a rare jewel, like I’m fragile, and I tense up in preparation for what I know is coming. We’ve played this game before, and even though I’m terrified, heat blooms in my core, too. It’s like my body is determined to betray me.
Strange enough, he doesn’t grab my throat. Instead, his fingers trail down my chest, between my breasts, and over my rapidly beating heart. I look up at him, wondering where this is going, and all I see is the face of a man determined to get revenge.
We stare at one another before he breaks the silence. “I’ll use you to make it happen,” he announces in a deceptively soft voice. “And when I do, he’s going to regret ever fucking with what’s mine.”
14
ENZO
“Remember what I told you.” It’s difficult to rein in my amusement at the way she struggles. “The more you fight, the more I like it.”
“You’re fucking sick,” she spits out. Little does she know how that turns me on, as well. The white-hot hatred is now rolling off her in waves, threatening to drown both of us in its depths.