Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
If we want out of here, we have to do it ourselves.
But how?
I’m handcuffed and gagged, for fuck’s sake.
I attempt to shift my body to alleviate the ache in my lower back but only manage to send more pain shooting through my tressed up arms. A grunt of frustration whistles out of my nostrils.
Gemma’s sudden scream has me tensing. From my position on the floor, I can’t twist around to see her. Is he raping her? I yank on my bindings hard enough both metal and plastic cut into my flesh. Breaths heave in and out of my nose heavily as my eyes water.
I have to save her.
I can’t.
Footsteps make their way over to me and then Owen is towering above me. He’s no longer in his suit but now dons regular clothes. If I had my hands free, I’d tackle him, grip his neck, and squeeze the fucking life out of him.
If only.
He squats down in front of me and grins. “We both know you’re not good enough for my Gemma.” He pats the top of my head in a condescending way that makes my blood boil. “She’s quite literally a gem and you’re nothing but a waste of air.”
If I were free, I could take this old man. There’s nothing special about him. He’s not big and muscular like Dax or Dempsey. He’s just old and fucking crazy.
“I’m about to work on my garden,” Owen says jovially. “Your rotting corpse will make for perfect compost.”
He’s going to kill me.
Fuck.
Tears of frustration, rage, and utter fear burn hot down my cheeks. Owen touches my wet cheek before wiping the tear off on his jeans as though I’m diseased.
How will he kill me?
As though he can hear my thoughts, he smirks. “A gun will be too loud. I have neighbors nearby and I can’t risk it.”
Gemma shouts at Owen, filth flying out of her mouth, and then quickly turns on her charm to beg. She’s begging for me. For my life. Trading anything he wants from her to let me live. Sex, submission, her own life. My heart aches to be with her.
“I said hush, sweetheart,” Owen chides. His eyes meet mine. “It’s unfortunate, but I’ll need to gag her as well.”
He disappears again. Then her shrieks are silenced as he does as promised. Her sobs are my undoing, breaking my heart shard by shard. I’m useless to help her—to help us.
I want my dads.
I want me and Gemma to wake up and this have all been a stupid nightmare.
“Yes, where were we?” Owen asks as he walks back over to me. “Ahh, I remember. I was explaining my kill method.” He laughs as though this shit is funny. “A knife would be too messy. Again, I’ve contemplated this a lot. Exactly how I’d end your short life.”
Groaning and grunting, I struggle against my bindings, wondering if I can swing my leg up to kick him in his face. He must sense my plan because he sidesteps me and walks up the stairs and out of the cellar without another word. Minutes later, he returns with a shovel.
“This, Mr. Sheridan,” Owen says, thrusting the shovel toward me, “is how it ends. Not messy but still destructive.” He cocks his head to the side. “I wonder how many bones I can break before you succumb to internal bleeding.”
Gemma’s sobbing grows hysterical and I ache to see her. Life is shitty. I go my entire life hurting over this girl, tormented by her existence, only to fall in love with her. Not like or smitten or whatever the fuck kids these days say. No, I love her. Deeply. I had plans for us. Long-term plans. Kids, house, dog, the whole nine yards.
Now it’s being stolen from me.
Owen rests his chin on the top of the shovel, watching me with narrowed eyes. A chill skitters through me. His eyes are vacant and I sense no trepidation whatsoever. He’ll kill me without a second thought.
Then what?
Then he’ll spend hours, days, months, years torturing my beautiful girl. He’ll rape her in captivity until she’s a husk of her vibrant, beautiful self. Then he’ll get bored. Probably kill her too. Maybe find a new obsession and repeat the process all over again because he never got caught.
This can’t happen.
I have to stop it.
“For your sake,” Owen says, straightening his spine. “I hope this goes fast for you. I can’t imagine, even with the drugs still in your system, that it’ll feel too good.”
His features twist into something malevolent and vile—straight from a horror movie. He swings the shovel up in the air, the metal blade cracking against the ceiling before he drives it down toward me. All I can do is tense as the flat side of the shovel smacks against my ribs.
Pain explodes in my abdomen as I howl through my gag. The world in front of me blurs with my tears. Owen grunts as he swings the shovel back up above his head. This time, I manage to block with my foot. Another blast of pain assaults me, this time in my ankle. I black out, only to be awoken from another whack right smack in the gut. It knocks the breath out of me and I gasp desperately for oxygen. My bladder, unable to hold any longer through all the pain, releases.