Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 115400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115400 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Throwing the blankets back, I trudge out of bed and across the room to my private bathroom before closing and locking the door behind me. Turning to the vanity, I face my disheveled reflection and barely recognize myself. My hair is a mess, there are deep circles under my eyes, and despite only being gone from my home for three or four days, I look as though I’ve lost weight.
The body harness still decorating my skin makes me feel dirty. Wanting to put this bullshit behind me, I grip the thick leather and yank it off my body, loosening it to speed up the process. It’s not easy, and the complicated straps quickly send me into a blind panic. I need to get it off and burn the fucker. I need to be free of what it represents, but I don’t think I’ll ever be free again.
This Romanian jailer is never going to let me go. I’m never going to be blessed with a life of my own. I will be at his beck and call until he decides I have nothing left to offer. When that day comes, all I can hope for is a bullet between my eyes to end this life of misery.
Forcing myself to take slow, calming breaths, I focus on one strap at a time until the leather harness and thong are discarded in a messy heap on the bathroom floor. Finally able to breathe just a little easier, I walk into the oversized shower. I step to the side as I turn on the taps, then hold my hand out under the stream of water, waiting for it to warm.
After scrubbing my hair and washing the filth from my body, I tip my head back under the cascading water and let the soothing warmth wash over me. I have to get used to this. I have to somehow find the beauty in this world. Otherwise, I’m going to live my life in misery, and that’s simply unacceptable. I have to learn to embrace these changes, but it’s going to take time and a shitload of patience—patience I simply don’t have.
Stepping out of the shower, I quickly dry off before wrapping my towel firmly around my body and running a brush through my hair. Glancing down at the filthy harness, I let out a heavy sigh. What the hell am I supposed to wear? There’s no way I’m putting that thing back on. I’d die before sinking that low again. Hell, the second I can, I’ll be burning it to a crisp.
Wandering back out to my room, I step up to my closet and open the door with a gasp. It’s fully stocked with clothes, but how?
Walking deeper into the closet, I scan over the variety of items. Sun dresses, formal dresses, night dresses. There are leggings, jeggings, and jeans. Workout clothes, bras, and underwear. Full briefs right down to tiny G-strings. Every single item of clothing a girl could need for every possible occasion has been catered, and all the tags say they’re in my size. But the biggest question is, when the hell was all this done?
He really did put something in my water. I would have known if someone was delivering a truckload of clothes into my room. It’s not a quick job. They’re all organized and hung on expensive-looking hangers. This took someone hours.
I wonder if Mr. Romanian Jailer will shrug it off or be honest if I ask. Is he the type to be ashamed of his twisted actions, or will he own it?
Shit. I suppose it doesn’t really matter now. I’m his to do with as he pleases. The only light in this darkness is the knowledge he wouldn’t have personally hand-delivered these clothes to my room and spent time sorting and folding them into my drawers. No, he would have had one of his hired helpers take care of that, and all I can hope is that it was the little old lady who I’d thought was his housekeeper.
In the grand scheme of things, having clothes to wear is minuscule in comparison to the fact I’ve been trafficked and sold, so I try not to dwell on it. I suppose my owner likes his prisoners well-fed, well-dressed, and squeaky clean. Maybe the dirty, starving sex doll in the basement isn’t his thing after all.
Going for comfort, I find a pair of high-waisted workout shorts and a matching crop before scanning through the array of shoes. Grabbing a pair of white sneakers, I hastily put them on and pull my hair into a messy bun.
Survival 101 kicks in, and after my Romanian jailer promised I’d have free rein of this property, I leave my room, determined to explore every inch of this place to find out where I can hide, and where I can run if need be. My hand hovers on my door handle and nerves spike deep in my gut. The second I step out of my room, I’m opening myself up to his world. Allowing myself to be ridiculed and used at his will. But if I don’t leave this room or take this opportunity to learn and memorize my surroundings, I’m setting myself up to fail.