Total pages in book: 195
Estimated words: 185573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 928(@200wpm)___ 742(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 185573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 928(@200wpm)___ 742(@250wpm)___ 619(@300wpm)
Whatever the case may be, I know two things for certain. He’s delusional, and I need to find a way out. I glance around the rec room and take in my surroundings. A pool table sits in one corner next to an unstocked bar. And on the opposite side are a couple of arcade games and some vintage slot machines. There isn’t much that could be used as a weapon between that and the seating unless you count the heavy floor lamps that are a full foot taller than me.
The dark space has gray walls and polished wood floors. It looks expensive and admittedly comfortable. It’s not exactly a dungeon, but there aren’t any windows in here, so there’s that. The house is obviously newer, and I’m wondering how he can afford a place like this. The whole situation is odd, and the longer I sit here waiting for his return, the more claustrophobic I become.
Is he going to keep me in here?
My fingers cling to the edge of the towel wrapped around my body as it occurs to me that he never grabbed my things from the back of the truck. It might not be much, but those belongings are all I have.
A door slams somewhere in the house, and a minute later, I can hear the echo of his motorcycle boots as he stomps toward the rec room like an overlord from hell. When he appears in the doorway, it gives me the opportunity to take him in, noting details I didn’t have a chance to catch before. He’s wearing low-slung jeans, a black tee shirt, and a leather vest. He’s jacked as all get-out, and he definitely has to be well over six feet tall. He’s intimidating for obvious reasons, but if I’m being honest… his face isn’t a chore to look at. It’s not just okay. He’s hot. As in, he could pick up almost any woman he wanted. His jaw-length light brown hair is wild like the models I’ve seen stretched across billboards. But I suspect his is from riding a motorcycle rather than being intentionally styled that way. His stubbled jaw and penetrating hazel eyes scream the kind of trouble mothers warn their daughters about. Yet I have a feeling those same warning bells are like catnip to the women who cross his path. He could probably just toss them a smile, and they’d come more than willingly. So why the hell did he choose me, of all people, to bring back to his house?
“Eat.” He slaps a paper plate with a sandwich and some fruit onto the table next to me, and my mouth salivates at the possibilities.
How long has it been since we had chips for dinner? I don’t even know what time it is. As much as he hates me, there’s a good chance this food may be poisoned, but I’m so hungry, it would be worth the risk to die with a full belly.
I sit down and forget he even exists as I bring the sandwich to my lips. But one sniff of the peanut butter has me nearly gagging. When I look up, he’s watching me with a dark expression, like he already has plans to punish me if I don’t eat it. He doesn’t know I’m one of those rare people who seems to hate the stuff, which is just another indication he has me confused with someone else.
“Well?” He arches a brow at me, irritated.
My baser survival instincts have already made the decision for me. Even if the sandwich isn’t appealing, it will quell my perpetual hunger. I can’t turn down food when I don’t know when or if I’ll get another meal.
I close my eyes and sink my teeth into the bread, chewing and forcibly swallowing. Some water would go a long way in choking this down, but he didn’t bring me any. It takes me what feels like an hour to eat the sandwich, and he watches the entire time, his eyes growing stormier by the second. When I’m finished, I set the plate aside and wait for him to speak. But he doesn’t.
“When will I be able to see Eden again?” I ask.
“Go get dressed.” He tosses me a tote bag with some clothes inside. When I pull them out to look at them, I frown.
It’s a pair of leggings and a tee shirt, and while they are nice and clean, they obviously belong to somebody else.
“Where are my things?” I protest.
“Birdie lent you those until we can get you something else. For now, it will have to do.”
I don’t want to wear someone else’s clothes, especially not the woman who helped bring me here. But I suspect I won’t win that battle, and some clothes are better than none. I won’t waste my time fighting about things I can’t change because it doesn’t matter what he thinks. I’m getting out of here. I just have to bide my time until I can figure out how.