Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“You will,” he said firmly.
“No.” I shook my head frantically. “I can’t.”
“You will.”
“I’ll tell them who I—”
“I swear to God,” he hissed, cutting me off as he strained so hard at his bindings his wrists and hands turned purple. “Don’t you say one fuckin’ word. Not one fuckin’ word, Rose.”
“But maybe—”
“I’d rather die than let them put one fuckin’ finger on you.” He said, his face losing all expression. “Do you understand me? Is that what you want?”
“Don’t say that.”
“I will do whatever it fuckin’ takes to keep you safe,” he ground out. “Anything.”
“You’d leave me alone with them?” I asked, my heart beating loud in my ears.
“I’d take the fuckers with me,” he replied flatly. “One of us has to get out of here, and if I have to choose, it’ll be you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and shuddered, everything inside me going still.
“She needs you.”
“She needs a mother,” he argued roughly.
“It’s only a matter of time,” I whispered, finally saying out loud what we’d both been thinking for days. “You know it’s coming.” I opened my eyes and stared into his. “It doesn’t matter if I keep my mouth shut.”
His head fell back as he slumped against the chair in defeat. We both knew that eventually, they’d get tired of trying to get information from him and they’d realize that I was a much better target.
Staring at his throat, I remembered all the times I’d peppered kisses there. I wasn’t a super affectionate person, I never had been, but I couldn’t seem to help it with him. I wanted to touch him all the time. I’d spent hours drawing patterns on any piece of his skin I could reach. I’d run my fingertips across his eyelashes when he was sleeping, and rubbed my nose against the soft skin of his ear when we were lying together in bed.
“Get up,” he said suddenly, glancing at the doorway.
“What?” I whispered dumbly.
“Up, baby. Quiet, yeah?”
I stared at him in confusion, but I still awkwardly pushed myself to my feet, using the hands taped behind my back as leverage against the wall.
“How much give you have around your ankles?” he asked quietly, watching as I shuffled my feet a little.
“Not much,” I whispered. I moved toward him, but froze when he shook his head.
“Pool table,” he said, tilting his head toward it. “Quiet as you can, baby.”
I glanced over and my stomach rolled as I realized what he wanted me to do. At the edge of the table was the bloody pair of garden shears that our captor had tossed as he left. They weren’t pliers. I swallowed against the vomit rising in the back of my throat. They were heavy duty, curved scissors.
Holding my breath, I pressed one foot forward an inch, then the other, trying not to lose my balance. As I got more confident, I moved a little faster and that’s when I tripped, landing hard on my knees. I held back a groan as I panted through the pain.
I rocked back and forth a couple of times, trying to generate enough momentum that I could stand again, but it was no use. Refusing to give up, I shuffled forward on my knees. I was thankful that he was silent as I huffed and struggled. One small word of encouragement and I would’ve completely lost it.
It took forever to get to the table, and when I reached it, I dropped my head against the wide leg. Then I turned onto my hip and used every ounce of energy I had left to grip the table as I pushed myself to standing.
I stared in horror at the skin and blood coating the shears.
How was I supposed to pick them up?
Something thumped upstairs and I jerked.
“Turn around and lean your ass against the table,” came the quiet words from behind me. “Then reach back and grab ’em.”
I nodded and straightened my shoulders, looking away from the gore as I turned and did what he said. The shears were slick and I almost dropped them as I stepped away from the table.
“Now what?” I asked, my heart racing.
“Come to me.”
I sagged in relief. I hadn’t touched him in so long, and the ten feet between his chair and my place against the wall had seemed further and further away the longer we were separated. I hated him a little, for making me stay where they’d shoved me—but I loved him for it, too. He was so determined to keep me safe that he hadn’t let me take the chance of being caught where I wasn’t supposed to be, even though both of us had suffered for it.
Careful not to trip, I made my way toward him, everything inside me growing warmer and warmer as I got close to him. I refused to let the moment be ruined by how much worse his wounds looked up close, not when I’d begun to think that I would die in that basement without ever feeling him again.