Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107766 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
He pulled her shorts down, and she let out a terror-filled wail, clenching her legs together and drawing herself against the wall. OhGodohGodohGod. “Please, no!” she cried.
“Give me your thigh, J-Josie,” he gritted. “The more you m-move, the more this will hurt.”
My thigh? “What?” Her breaths came out in harsh pants, her mind a red haze of fear. Her thigh. He was going to use that knife on her thigh. It was better than what she’d first thought he was going to do and so, though she couldn’t stop the wracking shudders moving through her, she stretched out her leg, offering him her thigh.
“Smart girl,” he crooned, a note of sarcasm in his voice.
He brought the knife to her thigh and pressed. Josie tipped her head back against the wall and screamed as he dragged it over her skin. The blade felt like fire, and she could feel her blood flowing from the wounds. Her screams turned to shrieks as it went on and on and on, horror ratcheting through her. When it stopped, she was shuddering, her thigh throbbing, throat raw, eyes swollen from crying.
Marshall wiped the blade on a napkin and then dropped both back in his bag. He cleaned her wound, Josie gritting her teeth as he poured alcohol over it, and then bandaged it up. “Casus belli,” he said, and she heard his mouth move into a smile. She looked at him blearily. “D-do you know what that means, Josie?”
She shook her head. Her thigh felt numb now. She was still trying to process that he’d cut words into her skin. And she hadn’t fought. She’d let him. But it was easier that way, wasn’t it?
“It assigns b-blame. It will be a reminder to both of us of what you are. When I b-begin forgetting, all I need to do is look at what’s written on your s-skin.”
“Like the cigarettes,” she murmured. It’d been easier not to fight then too. It was over more quickly that way, she’d learned. She felt sleepy. So incredibly tired. Or was she going to pass out? Maybe she’d lost more blood than she’d thought. Maybe she wouldn’t starve to death after all.
“The cigarettes?” Marshall asked, confusion in his tone, something else she couldn’t name. A…stillness. Don’t think of him as Marshall. You might slip and say it out loud.
“Mm,” she hummed, her eyes shutting. “My mother used to burn me with her cigarettes. Mark me.” Blame me. Had that been a reminder too? Yes, of course. Her mother did it when she was drunk. Josie didn’t even think she remembered it later. She never said a word.
“Where?” Marshall demanded.
“My lower back,” Josie said, cracking her eyes open. His face was close. He was peering at her. He moved suddenly, pushing her forward and yanking up her tank top. She let out a surprised yelp, her chains clinking against each other as he maneuvered her. She looked over her shoulder at him, and he was staring at her lower back where several round, pink burns marred her skin. It was why she never wore a bikini, why she preferred having sex in a dimly lit room. She hadn’t thought about those scars in a long time, other than to make sure no one else saw them and asked her what they were.
Marshall lowered her tank, stepped around her, gathered the things he’d brought, and left the room, the click of the lock echoing ominously. Josie closed her eyes, but the burning pain in her thigh kept her from the escape of sleep. Casus belli…casus belli. Is it true? Josie wondered miserably. Am I to blame?
Chapter Eight
Josie used the wooden clothespin to pin the sheet to the line, wind lifting the heavy wet fabric and setting it back down with a soft thwap. Fresh air and the scent of clean laundry met Josie’s nose. A new dryer was on her second-tier list of things to buy for the bed and breakfast, but she had to admit there was a distinct pleasure in fresh line-dried—
A large shadow loomed behind the material, and she sucked in a breath, taking a step back as her heart thundered. Oh please, God, no. A hand reached around the white fabric, moving it aside as Josie’s muscles tensed in preparation for flight. “Sorry, Josie, Ms. Stratton, ah…”
A man in dark gray pants and a white button-down shirt stepped through the flapping material. “Cincinnati Police, ma’am.” He seemed to note the fear on her face, the way her body was held rigid, and he halted, unclipping something from his belt and holding it out in front of him. Her eyes darted to it. A badge. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction, and she released a breath, realizing she was holding a wet piece of something clutched to her chest and that the wetness was seeping through her shirt. She tossed it in the laundry basket sitting on the grass and wiped her damp palms down her hips. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to startle you. I, ah”—he pointed back over his shoulder—“I knocked on the door, but no one answered.”