Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89228 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 446(@200wpm)___ 357(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Because he knew she didn't have the balls to leave the house.
Well, fuck him. He was possessive and controlling, and she couldn't mistake that for care or concern. Everything he did was calculated, and all she had to combat him with were her wits and courage.
Courage?
Right. With a long inhale, she dug deep, pulling it from somewhere, certainly not from her hammering heart or queasy stomach. Then she shimmied out from beneath his arm. When her hair caught in his fingers, she bit down on her lip, her pulse thundering in her ears.
He didn't stir.
Slowly, breathlessly, she unwound the strands from his grip and slipped to the floor. Peeking over the edge of the mattress, she watched his breathing for a long, agonizing minute. Then she glared at the clutter. Don't pick it up.
With the grace of a queen balancing in six-inch heels, she tiptoed around the mess, stopped to remove a casual halter dress from one of her bags on the floor, and gave her aquarium a longing look. Come on, Amber. You can't take it with you.
She hugged the dress to her chest and dashed down the stairs on silent toes. In the bathroom, she pulled on the knee-length halter, ran a brush through her hair, and scoured the cabinet. Lotions, soaps, toothbrushes, and tampons filled the drawers, but no makeup.
She gripped the edge of the counter. He'd grabbed all these things from her house but not the one thing she needed to escape. How could she go outside without her cosmetic armor?
A skitter of panic seized her muscles as her reflection glared back in the mirror. Pallid skin, dark shadows beneath dull eyes, and lips twisted with disgust. She couldn't let anyone see her like that.
Excuses. She didn't need to look her beauty pageant best. She just needed a goddamned backbone. What kind of captive dolled herself up before making her great escape?
The stalling, crazy kind. God, she really annoyed herself sometimes.
She crept through the stillness of the house, the windows closed up, and the loft looming above like a watchtower. Was he watching her? Not a flicker in the soft lamp light on his nightstand.
Releasing a thready exhale, she moved to the kitchen. No cell phones or phone jacks. No knives or scissors in the drawers or on the butcher block. Not that she could've found a goddamned thing in the junk overflowing from every cobwebbed cranny. People really lived like this? Thankfully, Brent had been tidy, though thinking on it, she'd stayed on his heels, fixing everything he'd touched. And hadn't cleanliness been a point of contention between her father and OCD mother, one of the many reasons he'd left?
She opened the silverware drawer, at least the semblance of one. It also held oily screws, toothpicks, and pencils. She grabbed a fork and held it up.
What was she going to do with that? Hell, what would she do with a knife? Wasn't that something an escapee would carry while running for her life?
Until she had a meltdown, stumbled over her feet, and stabbed herself.
She abandoned the weapon idea and considered the cluttered drawer. She could put a really good dent in this while he slept. She'd start with the utensils and realign them in their appropriate sections. First, she'd have to find the sections, remove the crumbs, scrub the bottom, and—
Shit, she was doing it again. She was supposed to be escaping. As she continued to mentally clean and organize the drawer, she backed away from it and took the final steps to the mudroom.
Inside were two solid doors. One leading out back, and the other? A garage and maybe a getaway car?
Gripping her knuckles, she popped through the joints, working herself into a frenzy of indecision. Fuck, she hadn't driven in two years. And wouldn't he hear the garage doors go up?
She approached the back door and stopped a foot away. When her toes curled, she looked down in shock. She wasn't wearing shoes. Brilliant, Amber. No makeup, no jewelry, her hair unwashed and uncurled, she wasn't even close to being put together. Then there was the fact she had no clue what she'd do if she actually made it off the porch and encountered another person. Would she ask for help?
If she didn't face plant in a full-on breakdown, she'd spazz out over her appearance and run in the opposite direction, as pointless as that would be. But where would she go? She didn’t even know where she was. Could she go home? He'd track her down, of that she was certain.
Assuming he was still asleep, she'd have a head start. She touched the knob, gripping it with a sweaty hand as her nerves flared tremors down her spine.
God, she'd rather be sleeping with him, nuzzled up against his hard body, soaking in his warmth. She could stay...