Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77841 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
“Everyone,” he answers. From the way his throat swallows, from the way he watches me, it makes me wonder if he’s talking about me as well.
Chapter 17
Liam
Part of me wants to give her a little freedom. That’s the disillusioned part of my mind. That’s the part of me that thinks a switch will flip in her head, making her want to be here, rather than being my captive. It’s a crazy thought. As long as she’s here, she’ll always be my prisoner.
Sane people don’t wake up over a week after being captured, and just decide that this is where they want to be. If I believed in talk therapy rather than killing people to solve my problems, I would have made an appointment right after sleeping in the bed with her for the first time. That’s when the real insanity started.
Even after a week, I don’t feel right. I’m not sleeping any better at night because I know it’s only a matter of time before all of this comes crashing down around me. I’m gonna have to leave here, eventually. Despite my need to keep her trapped in this house, it’s not something I could do myself.
My skin is itchy with the need to get out, to hurt people, to take my anger and frustration of this entire situation out on someone else, because I would never hurt her. As much as I want to prove a point, as much as I want to show her that discarding people is dangerous, I don’t think I could ever bring myself to do it.
As time slowly drags by, I realize it never would have happened in the first place. I’m surprised I’ve let it get this far. I don’t know if it’s an ingrained part of me or what, but I’ve never been the type of man that could hurt a woman. Maybe it was what I witnessed as a young child in foster care. Maybe it was the sad eyes of the foster mothers after their husbands yelled at them or hit them and called them worthless. Maybe it was the threats I heard whispered in the dark of night when she had the nerve to ask where he’d been. Maybe it was the screaming and the begging, the pleading to be let go.
When I was a prisoner in South America, maybe it was the pleas and cries for help or maybe it was the begging for death that made me not want to be that person. Maybe… maybe it’s just her. That would be an easier explanation. That would help explain why I lie beside her every single night and listen to her breathing as she sleeps. She has no problem getting rest despite the way she tortures me in the darkness with every breath she takes.
Each morning, I make breakfast for the two of us and then I watch her shower. I fight the urge to detach myself as the memories of the last five days force themselves to the front of my mind. Five days ago, I gave her a test. I followed her into the bathroom, commanded her to pleasure herself. I just watched, not once touching the straining erection jutting from my hips.
The next day, the second she climbed under the stream of water, my hand found my cock, stroking it, teasing it, touching it the way I wish she would. I was floored when she did the same. My mouth was literally hanging open, when unprompted she ran those slender fingers over her body to the apex of her thighs. I stroked faster. Her fingers worked harder. I slowed down. She looked annoyed but she slowed down too.
That’s what it’s been like the last four days. If I have to tell her to touch herself, I don’t reward her with the sight of watching me do it. She’s learned that if she initiates it, I’m going to follow through right along with her. I roll over in the bed with a groan, trying to shove those thoughts aside but I’m long past seeing reason or coming up with a way for all of this to end that’s beneficial to both of us.
My balls ache with need for her. It’s all I can focus on—that sting of pain in my nuts that demands its own form of relief. I know better than to try to fight it. It only leads to misery.
I climb out of the bed and slowly make my way to her side. She only stirs a little when I flip on the bedside lamp. “Raya,” I snap. Realizing a little too late that I didn’t say her name loud enough to wake her, I repeat it louder this time. She jolts in her sleep but doesn’t open her eyes. I pull the corner of the blanket down, exposing her shoulder. With more attitude than she’s ever given me, she jerks it back up and grumbles something about needing a day off.