Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 126522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
This is where I’ll die, haunted and stalked by the grim reapers.
I break.
Heavy sobs tear from my chest as tears sail down my face at the speed of light, relentless as they fall and stain the black silk gown of my captors’ dead mother. My head falls to my knees as I wrap my arms around my body, desperate to find even the smallest bit of comfort.
And just when the exhaustion of the past few days creeps up to claim me, the soft drip, drip, drip begins to sail through my small torture chamber, getting louder and louder with every drip.
White noise joins the incessant drips and I press my hands against my ears to block it out, only with every passing minute, the relentless sound gets louder and more infuriating. Doors begin slamming as strange white lights flash through the dungeon, blinding me like a bolt of lightning through the dark night.
The sound drills against my head as my eyes burn with the blinding lights, and I finally get a true understanding of the term ‘play’ that Marcus had alluded to. The boys don’t intend to play with my body, they want to play with my mind, and fuck, they’re not holding back.
I tear the silk gown off my body and wrap the material around my head, pulling it tight over my ears and eyes and doing my best to block all of my senses. This is only the beginning. My gut tells me that it’s just going to get worse from here.
I crash down onto the hard bed and pull the blanket right up over me, cocooning myself under it and riding out the storm the only way I know how.
6
The heavy metal door drags along the old stone flooring of my torture chamber, breaking through the haunting silence of the night. My head shoots up off my pillow, my eyes wide as my heart races with fear.
It’s the middle of the night and I can’t see a damn thing. It’s pitch-black, not even the dull glow of moonlight shines through my stupid little window. I’m on my own with absolutely no advantages in my corner.
The door keeps dragging, inch by inch, the sound getting louder by the second. I scurry around on my hard bed, ignoring the searing pain from my fall down the stairs and pressing my back right up against the brick wall. My arms pull around my legs and I feel the soft silk from that ridiculous dress laying across my small bed. It would have only been a few hours ago that I’d wrapped it tightly around my head to block out the white noise and infuriating dripping, but that seems so far away now, so insignificant and trivial compared to the thought of one of these psychos slipping into my room in the dead of night.
I keep as far away from the door as possible, willing myself to become a small ball at the end of my bed, hoping that whoever is walking into my little dungeon is just as blind as I am in here. If he tries to grab me, I’ll at least be in a position to dart away, but the brothers are too fast, too skilled. I’ll never get away, no matter how hard I try.
The loud, rapid thumping of my pulse sounds in my ears and I strain to hear over it. My senses are dulled. My vision is gone, and all I have is my hearing to keep myself alive, and right now, apart from the sound of the door dragging on the stone and the thumping inside my ears, I hear nothing. Not a single footfall, not the familiar rustling of clothes as someone moves throughout the room, not even the sound of their discreet breathing.
It’s not possible. No one is that quiet, not even when they’re trying to be. Every time I pace the room, stones shift beneath my feet. The grinding sound of loose concrete is unmistakable, yet my cell is strangely quiet despite the open door.
There has to be someone in here.
I can feel it. Their bullshit grace period is over. No more leniency, no more getting away with shit. Their rules have been set and explained and now their fucked-up, twisted little games have begun. Hell, the night of torturous white noise and relentless dripping is proof of that.
But which one is it? My chest sinks at the thought of it being Marcus. He’s sick in the fucking head. From what I’ve learned of him so far, he’ll brutally take whatever the fuck he wants from me without a second thought. I knew he was bad, but seeing him at the dinner table so void of humanity only proves just how far gone he truly is. If it’s him walking through this door, I don’t stand a fucking chance.