Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104127 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
I feel sick to my stomach.
The need to flee is so intense that my legs bounce in anticipation. Except that’s not possible.
I’m trapped.
What do I do?
Taking a deep, calming breath, I try to rein myself in, but it doesn’t stop the sweat that has broken out across my brow.
I cross my hands over my chest and try to ground myself. Try to stop the impending panic attack.
Inhaling, I hear the melody in my head. The one that calms me.
My fingers move.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I need to be rational.
Maybe he’ll let me out if I play the game right.
Concentrating on the vibration of the beat, I feel my pulse slow, and my nerves come back under control. Music has always been a way I’ve dealt with stress in the past. Stress typically associated with Roman. How unfair that his actions are still causing me havoc.
Once I’m completely calm, I slip into strategy mode.
I need to get outside to get a better lay of the land.
The only way to do that is to get out of this room. I jump up from the floor and step toward the door, banging my fist against the wooden barrier just hard enough to get someone’s attention.
“Hello!” I holler. “Anyone out there? I have questions.”
When no one answers, I try again. “Please…I want to talk,” I beg, and the sound of my pitiful pleading pisses me off. “Open the damn door.”
I hit the wood with my palm, and pain ricochets from the move. It’s too sturdy. Much thicker than the crappy ones in my apartment. It might as well be steel. Yet another reminder of where I am.
I slink back down to the floor in a pool of pathetic.
Damn, that hurt. Everything hurts.
My life is one giant mess.
I look at my hands. The insides and knuckles are both red from my attempted assault on the door. I’m lucky I didn’t break the skin. I’ll probably bruise, though. And for what? No one has answered. I’m still stuck in this room.
I slump against the door, ready to give up and accept defeat, when something occurs to me. Just because he didn’t answer doesn’t mean he can’t hear me.
I tilt my head up and look straight at the smoke detector.
Here goes nothing.
“I know you can hear me.” My gaze is heavy on the camera. At least, I hope that’s what it is. Otherwise, I’m losing my mind. I shake that thought off and continue. “I need answers about my brother.”
I inhale deeply before pushing the oxygen out of my mouth. “I’m ready to talk,” I promise. “I’ll be calm. I just need to know why he would want me protected.”
My hand lifts, and I run it through my unruly hair. I probably look like a wild animal after my fight with the door. Feeling self-conscious, I give the strands a tug, further irritating me.
I’m frustrated. A part of me wants to crawl into bed and hope that when I wake up, all of this is just a bad dream. Unfortunately, I know it’s not.
“We didn’t have a relationship,” I admit, dropping my hands to my sides and lowering my head until my chin almost rests against my chest. “You really don’t need to protect me. I’ve been taking care of myself since I was fourteen.”
That truth washes away the anger and frustration and allows sadness to creep in. I’ve been on my own for so long. I’ve fought my own battles and demons, and today isn’t any different.
Except it is.
I’m at the mercy of monsters, and I don’t even understand the full extent of it.
I lift my head to lay it against the door and close my eyes. Exhausted from the day.
Exhausted by life.
8
GIDEON
Sasha is an interesting creature.
As graceful as she appears, she’s got quite the temper.
Granted, I’d be just as furious if the roles were reversed.
She’s fascinating to watch.
I keep waiting for her to break down, but as the minutes pass, she doesn’t. Her strength doesn’t diminish with time. If anything, I can see that she’s resilient even from the black-and-white image on my phone. She’s plotting.
It’s not that she’s doing anything out of the ordinary. But as I track her movements on the screen and watch her mannerisms, I just know. I’ve watched men do it a million times while locked behind doors thicker than that one.
The way her slender shoulders tense. The way she looks up at the camera. It’s in her eyes as they dart around the room. Not haphazardly but calculating.
Does she know?
I don’t have to wait long for that answer. A laugh escapes me when she talks to the camera. Directly at the camera.
The volume was turned off, so I didn’t have to hear her screeching. But now I fix that, wanting to hear what she has to say.
Before, she was getting the lay of the land, but she knows it can only go so far locked in this room. She’s playing the game and beginning the questioning phase. By engaging me, she thinks she’ll glean more information that can help her run.