Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
His lips finally let go with a loud pop.
He moves his mouth to my ear. “Submit,” he growls low. “Accept your place on your knees at my feet.”
My whole body goes tense at his words and I jerk back, my gaze shooting to his. In the lamplight, his eyes flash a brilliant blue-green.
He seems momentarily startled by the eye-contact. Or by the probably mutinous look on my features. And then his face lights up and I see the second of his rare grins.
“I knew I chose right with you. The finest mares have fire. They don’t break easy.” He pulls me to him so that my entire body is flush against his. I can clearly feel how hard he is. “But, honey,” he whispers, again right in my ear, “they always break for me.”
And then he lets me go.
“Blankets.” I can only stand there, a little stunned as he walks over to the basket. “A gallon of water. A small bit of broth.”
He levels his gaze on me. “That’s all you’ll get until you submit.”
Then he leaves, taking the lamp with him and leaving me in the suffocating darkness.
Ten
I last three days in the shed.
It’s the late afternoon rainstorm on the third day that does me in. It starts raining so hard that there’s nowhere to stand in the shed without standing in a puddle. And, oh yeah, the rain brings the moldy, mildew smell to an all new high. Along with the residual smell of pig stank.
I myself am fairly ripe by this point, too. I finally gave up and slept on the hay bale last night, but with the rain soaking everything, it would mean tonight I’d have to sleep either on a wet bale of hay or freeze by curling up on the concrete floor in one of the puddles.
And this is all without taking the bathroom situation into consideration. Or rather, the lack there of.
Because when a girl’s gotta go, she’s gotta go. Nothing you can do about it. Naturally, Xavier neglected to provide even a bucket.
So, while shivering in the corner, arms clutched to my chest, teeth chattering so badly the clacking is giving me a headache, and squirming back and forth because I really have to pee but the idea of heading over to what I’ve dubbed the ‘bathroom corner’ of the shed has me depressed beyond words, a question comes to me.
What was it that I was so hot and bothered about that led to all this?
I think it was something about being worried about losing my dignity if I let Xavier feed me by hand?
I look down at my grimy skin and the dark smears of questionable origin I found this morning on my once sky-blue dress after I pulled one of the dog/pig beds over myself as a blanket last night when I got cold.
Cause I’m doing so awesome in the dignity department right now.
Not to mention, God, I thought the hours passed slowly when I could wander the house and read book after book?
Ha.
Hahahahahaha.
Try sitting in a 12x10 square cage for sixty hours straight.
There’s nothing to do but strain to listen for any little sound.
I heard horses, I think? That makes sense since Xavier keeps using horse metaphors. Maybe he trains them? Or boards them?
Mainly there’s just the unending drone of crickets that kept me awake all night last night. During the day, there’s nothing to look at but peek through the one crack by the door. Then there’s the bug and mosquito swatting to look forward to when the sun goes down.
Have I mentioned how much I hate nature?
There are only so many times you can think out elaborate revenge murder fantasies in exquisite detail before even they start to lose their luster.
Thankfully, the lack of food makes me sleepy so I nap a lot.
Which worked well enough when the sun was out, but now that I’m soaked through and stinking so much I can barely stand to be in my own presence? Yeah, not so much.
Staring out at the rain-drenched landscape, it hits me what an absolute fucking idiot I’ve been. It’s Hostage Basics 101.
I just have to pretend to go along with what the lunatic wants. I only need to make it look like I’m submitting. He doesn’t have to know that in my head I’m secretly whispering fuck you fuck you fuck you every time I eat the food he’s hand-feeding me.
Then bam, I can be comfortable while I get through this whole thing. Get pregnant. Pop out a kid. Get back to my old life.
Maybe that sounds harsh. But you have to understand, I’m not the maternal type. I never was. Blame it on my mom who always referred to me as her 18-year shackle. She couldn’t tell the story enough times about what a difficult baby I was and how by the time I was two months old, she’d already made the appointment to get her tubes tied.