Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91402 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
“Take the bag off,” I said. “I’m going to be sick.”
“No, you’re not.” Juric called my bluff. “You’ll figure out a way to not throw up in my car.”
I was nauseated, that much was true, from either the drugs or the situation. Most likely a combination of both. I took in a deep breath, clearing some of the fog from my head.
Thoughts returned to me layer by layer. He must have some plan for me, to use me as leverage or revenge. All I could hope was that Jason would take my sister and run as Ethan had said. Hope that they wouldn’t squander this opportunity I’d given them in a foolish attempt to save me.
We’d all end up dead in the process.
I was as good as dead, anyway. There was no point in them dying as well.
But I’d go out fighting. It wasn’t in my nature to give up. This was what had caused the rift with my sister seven years ago, when our mother decided to give up on her battle with cancer, and Laurel let her. It came to an ugly head right after the funeral when I was fall-down drunk, a bitter orphan. Crying didn’t help. It didn’t give me the release I craved.
Instead, I’d unloaded everything on my sister in a blistering speech of hate and anger and lies that had driven the only remaining member of my family away.
“You should know,” I said, the fire in my throat making the words burn, “I have a temper. Consider this your warning.”
“Okay, thanks for the heads-up.”
The car stopped only a minute later. He leaned over me and, even with the bag over my head, I could tell he was much too close. His cold hand closed on my wrist, and I flinched at the contact.
“I’m just undoing the handcuffs.”
My breath quickened at the opportunity, but before I knew it, he’d unlatched one cuff only to redo it when it was free from the door handle. His hands stopped mine as I attempted to pull off the hood.
“I’ll tell you when that can come off.”
His door opened, then shut, and a few seconds later mine opened.
“Wait,” he said as I moved to get out of the car. I didn’t have any shoes on, and the ground was wet and cold beneath my bare feet. His fingers closed around my ankle and put one of my shoes on, followed by the other.
This gesture was deliberately controlling.
“Stand up.”
He grasped my elbow and guided me forward. His skin on mine made me want to scream. The thought crossed my mind to do it, but if he was marching me shackled with a bag over my head, I doubted there was anyone around to hear it. Or anyone who would be willing to help me.
No, I’d bide my time. I could be patient and strike at the right moment, which was not now. The cold air from outside went away, and then a door shut behind me.
His hand was gone from my elbow. “Take, I don’t know, twelve steps forward.”
Instinct took over. “No.”
“I don’t like that word. Twelve steps, now.”
Patience. I followed cautiously, counting in my head until I reached twelve.
“One more,” he ordered, and I obeyed. “Turn right. There’s a doorknob in front of you.” My hands searched and then closed around it. “Go inside and you can take your hood off.”
I did so eagerly, and stepped into the room—
Screaming, I tumbled down carpeted stairs, bumping painfully into a wooden railing, knocking my head on one of the steps, and everything briefly went red. My body came to rest at the base of the stairs, and for a moment I simply lay there. Aching and filled with fury. Nothing seemed broken, but everything was bruised.
His voice rang out from above. “I said you could take the hood off.”
I whipped it off to see him standing at the top of the staircase with a smug smile, causing me to spring to my feet and bolt up the steps.
He slammed the door shut in my face, and there was a clunk like he’d dropped a huge bar into place. I pounded my fists against the door, screaming and kicking the metal.
“Let me know when your temper tantrum is over, and we’ll talk,” he said from the other side.
I curled my fingers into tight fists, closed my eyes, and forced myself to stop. You have to be smart. I was expending too much energy, which I sensed I’d need. I turned, clung to the railing, and limped painfully down the stairs.
My new prison was utilitarian. A full-sized bed fit under the stairs. No other furniture. There were no outlets, no lamps, no windows. The only source of light came from a bare bulb in the ceiling. Nothing on the white walls.
There were clothes folded neatly at the foot of the bed. I sat down beside them then shoved them to the floor. I took my torturous heels off and wanted to cry, to scream . . . I needed release. Better yet, I needed to do something.