Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 65433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 327(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 218(@300wpm)
“Shit,” a man mutters. I know the voice, but I keep my eyes sealed shut as the chair is abruptly righted. Pins and needles prick my arm making it sting as blood begins to circulate. All the while, I keep my head down so I don’t see those photos.
“Vittoria,” the voice says.
I shake my head. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, princess.” I say it again, realizing what it is I’m muttering, the words I’m repeating in an endless, mad loop.
Princess. I was my dad’s princess. And then this happened to me. A basement. Me in a cage. Me on a mattress. The cage was better. They didn’t touch me when I was locked in that cage. I remember the smell of it. Of them. Old sweat. Cigarettes. Beer. Fear.
No. That last one was my smell, the fear. They should bottle it. It’s an aphrodisiac to some men.
I can still feel their hands on me now. Mouths kissing me. Them inside me.
“Vittoria,” the voice says again. There’s an urgency in his tone, and this time, he’s crouching down in front of me, slapping my face lightly. Amadeo slapped me that night in the basement. Was I muttering the same words then, too?
He was inside me when I took his gun. Moving. Grunting. Taking what I didn’t give.
His body felt so heavy on top of me that I almost couldn’t breathe. He was still inside me even after he wasn’t moving anymore. When he wasn’t breathing anymore. I don’t think the splatter on the walls was his, though. It was the other one. The one watching, recording my rape on his phone. Something to jerk off to later, I guess. There was no later for him, though. And I smashed that phone against the wall until it lay in so many pieces no one would ever be able to see what was on it.
“Fuck, Vittoria!”
I blink and look at the man crouching down in front of me, his head coming into focus and then blurring out again. Dark eyes, almost black. Dark blond hair. His beard is growing, and it’s grayer than it was. Although it’s been a while since I’ve seen his beard because he’s always clean-shaven.
“Snap out of it,” he says, taking my face with both hands and making me look at him. “We have to get out of here.”
“What doesn’t kill you,” I start, then stop because suddenly I can’t remember what comes next.
“Christ. Focus. We need to get the hell out of here. Do you fucking hear me?” Lucien asks. “Where’s Emma?”
Emma? Why is he asking about Emma?
“Emma?” I call for her, looking around the basement, trying to blur the images in my periphery. “Emma?” I try again.
“She’s not down here,” he says irritably. “Where is she?” He unlocks one of the cuffs around my ankles.
I blink, focusing on the top of his head. Has he seen the pictures? Does he know what I did? How can he look so calm?
“Do you see them?” I ask in a voice I don’t recognize.
He looks up at me like I’m fucking crazy. “See who?”
I shake my head. “The pictures. On the walls.” My voice breaks.
“What pictures?”
“There. On the walls?” I won’t look at them, but I gesture with my head.
He looks over, then back at me, and shakes his head. “Jesus. You’re fucking losing it. Where’s Emma?”
Slowly, I look up. Are they even real? But there they are.
“Vittoria. Fuck. Stop fighting. I can’t get these off if you keep moving.”
I force a breath in. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. They didn’t kill me. I killed them. I’m strong, right?
“Where’s Emma, Vittoria?” he asks for the hundredth time.
“Emma.” I think as he works on the second ankle. “Hiding. She’s hiding. She’s safe.” I remember.
“She’s not safe,” he says, and I see how his hair which is usually so well maintained has thinned, how a bald spot is forming. Does he even know he’s going bald? I look down at his hands as he unlocks the cuff around my ankle, and I’m hit with a flash of memory. But this one is different than the others. This one isn’t gone in an instant like the blinking of those lights. This one, it sticks. The image of hands, mine and his. But last time, they weren’t taking the cuffs off. They were putting them on. The ring was there, on the same finger, looking out of place then. Looking out of place now.
I watch his hands work. Clipped nails. Manicured fingers. But I see the dirt under his fingernails.
He moves to the back of the chair to unlock my wrists. “Move,” he says, sounding irritated. “We need to go.” When I don’t move, he pulls me to my feet. My legs feel too wobbly, and my arm is dead weight. I cradle it and follow Lucien to the stairs.