Total pages in book: 38
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35499 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 177(@200wpm)___ 142(@250wpm)___ 118(@300wpm)
Something is better than nothing when nothing is all you have left.
The door opens with such deliberate slowness that I can count the seconds between the first creak and the full swing.
One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousand.
Like he's savoring my captivity.
Marcus steps inside carrying a pastry box, his smile stretched too wide across his face. When he angles the box onto the bedside table, I can see cherry pie with a perfect lattice crust through the clear plastic window.
"Look who's awake," he says, voice lilting like I'm a child. "I brought my sweetness something sweet."
He's wearing fresh clothes—pressed khakis with a knife-edge crease down the front, blue button-down rolled precisely to mid-forearm. His hair is combed with that perfect political part, not a strand out of place. Meanwhile, I'm filthy with sweat and worse things I don't want to name.
"You must be starving, honey-dove." He's never called me that before. Not once in two years. Where is this all coming from? Did he just… lose his damn mind?
"Time for dessert." Then he winks at me, like he's implying that dessert is something more than cherry pie. "The doctor said you'd be hungry once the sedatives wore off."
Doctor? What doctor?
"I been more rigid with you than I should’ve been—but the fight in you, Savannah." He draws in a breath through his teeth. "It was unexpected." He puts up a hand. "Not entirely unattractive, though. I like your fight. Oh," he chides. "Don't look so worried, sugar plum. You needn’t worry about anything. The world is humming along just fine without you. I’ve made sure of it."
What the hell does that even mean? I feel like he’s hinting at things unsaid. Words that exist between invisible lines.
"I haven't slept in days, just watching over you." His smile never reaches his eyes. They remain flat and calculating, like he's gauging my reactions for a focus group.
"Days?" The word scrapes out of my throat.
"Three, to be exact." He tilts his head. "The healing process takes time. Especially when it's all up in your head."
Three days. My God. I've been here three days. I've missed time. Holy fuck, that's an understatement.
Legion feels impossibly far away now. Whatever Cash did to him—it's probably over. He could be—
I can't finish the thought.
My eyes drift to the pie Marcus is serving up for me. That's when I see the embossed Ashby Ranch logo on the side. That means someone from the main house provided this pie. Someone made this pie, packaged it up, and handed it to my kidnapper.
How many people are in on this? Cash, certainly. Wyatt too. Not Colt—he would never. But Aunt Ruth? The kitchen staff? The ranch hands I've known since childhood?
The betrayal cuts deeper than the zip ties.
All those people who smiled at me, who called me "Miss Savannah" with what I thought was affection—they must hate me.
They must truly hate me to allow this.
To help make it happen.
"Everyone's been so worried about you," Marcus continues, cutting into the pie with a plastic fork. "But I told them you just need time to remember who you really are." He sits on the edge of the bed, his hip pressing against my thigh like a brand. I can't move away. The restraints see to that. "Open wide," he says.
I part my lips and accept the cherry pie without resisting. The longer I stay calm and compliant, the longer I have to come up with a plan. I swallow mechanically, staring at the ceiling beam directly above us.
"You know, when I first realized how deep his hold on you was, I did some research." Marcus hovers a fresh forkful of pie near my lips. "Trauma bonding. Captive identification. It's actually quite common in cases like yours. Naturally, after all those years of manipulation, the detoxification process will take time," he continues. "But the specialist I called from Denver says the symptoms will fade. You'll stop craving his presence once the chemical dependency breaks."
Chemical dependency. Like Legion is some kind of narcotic flowing through my veins, a poison that needs to be purged from my system. Like what we share is a sickness rather than something that's kept me breathing for sixteen years. Marcus speaks about him with clinical detachment, as if describing a particularly aggressive virus that's infected his prize possession.
The fork presses against my closed lips, cherry filling drips slowly onto my chin. Marcus doesn't seem to notice or care, his eyes distant and crazy, just like his mind.
Pretend, the voice in my head says.
Pretend, Savannah. You cannot reason with this man. You need to do everything he says. Give him every reaction he's looking for.
Pretend, even if it kills you.
These last few words are like whispers in a nightmare.
I open my mouth, wrap my lips around the fork, pull the pie off as Marcus withdraws. "Mmmm," I hum. "It's really good, Marcus. Thank you so much for thinking of me. For going all the way back to the ranch to retrieve this special dessert."