Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78044 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 390(@200wpm)___ 312(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
It makes me sick to think of it. Of how much suffering my brothers caused before their too easy deaths.
Cristiano’s family stood in the way, though. No flesh trade. Their one rule.
But greed won out. Greed fueled by years of hate.
I thought the Grigori family was wiped out but that’s clearly not the case. I remember the other man in that cell. The casual one. Brothers. Two survivors. Have they been in hiding all this time?
After shampooing three times and scrubbing my skin raw, I switch off the water and look around. I locate a stack of towels on a shelf and reach out to grab one, twisting my hair into it. I take a second one to wrap around myself. I look down at the pile of the wedding dress and underthings. Blood even managed to get on my bra.
I step around them and walk back into the bedroom. Clothes. I need clothes. But the first thing I see in the bedroom is a tray of food on the table. My stomach growls at the sight. I don’t remember the last time I ate. Days ago. I went on a hunger strike before the wedding. It was the only thing I could control.
Walking toward it, I see it’s a sandwich with fresh mozzarella, tomatoes and basil on still-warm ciabatta. There’s a small salad beside it and even a slice of chocolate cake. I pick up the bottle of water and drain half of it, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand before taking a bite of the sandwich. It’s good. I shove another bite into my mouth, then another before forcing myself to set it down. If I eat too fast, I’ll throw up. I make myself chew before swallowing as I walk into the closet.
Cristiano’s closet smells nice. Like leather and man, a scent I’d picked up off him earlier. Something I hadn’t registered I’d done. It’s not an overpowering amount of it like my uncle likes to wear. Even smelling just a hint of Uncle’s cologne has the effect of making me want to puke.
The closet is huge and lined with more suits than even my father owned. I marvel at how precisely everything is in its place. He or his housekeeper must be a little OCD.
In one of the drawers on the middle island I find a pair of gray sweats and a sweatshirt, the only things that I can come close to fitting into. I drop the towel and put the pants on. I have to roll the waistband over three times and even then, I still have to fold up the legs. But they still keep sliding down so I choose one of his ties and use it like a belt around my waist. His actual belts will be too big. The sweatshirt hits the middle of my thighs, but I’m very aware of not having anything on underneath.
While I’m here I search through the drawers to see if there’s anything I can use as a weapon, if I need to.
I chuckle to myself at the thought.
If I need to.
I will need to. He’s told me what he plans to do. Is that really the only reason my brother and I are alive? And is Noah truly alive? Or did he just say that to appease me? To ensure I wouldn’t fight too hard when he lays his hands on me?
Shit.
No. I can’t think about that. He’s alive. I have to believe that.
I return to the bathroom and pull the towel off my head. Rummaging through his drawers I find a brush. I meet my reflection and peer closer, shifting my gaze to the right to see the bruise high on my cheekbone where the skin is cut. Probably happened on the floor of the cell. I’m surprised I’m not more badly hurt although my head aches.
Setting the brush down, I open the medicine cabinet and locate a bottle of Aspirin. I’m about to swallow some when I notice it’s expired. By about ten years.
I look at the few other containers and notice they’re all old too. Almost like no one has opened this cabinet in a decade. That seems strange. I close the door deciding against the expired aspirin and work the brush through my hair wondering about that oddity but not lingering overly long.
When I’m finished, I squeeze as much moisture as I can out of my hair and braid it. I hate having the length of it wet down my back. Twisting the braid, I tuck the end into itself to hold it in place and return to the bedroom. I eat the rest of the sandwich as I survey the space.
I wonder if Noah’s had any food. He eats like a machine these days. Losing my appetite at the thought, I wipe my hands on the cloth napkin. I pick up the bottle of whiskey, only half-full, and turn it to read the label. A bittersweet memory momentarily overwhelms me. It’s the same brand my father used to drink. I’d forgotten. Strange how you don’t realize you’ve forgotten something until you’re reminded of it again.