Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82199 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“I am thinking about them. Tonight everything changes.”
“But—”
“Fuck’s sake, Wes!”
I didn’t have time for this shit. Wes was lucky. Thanks to his torture-cabin out here in the woods, he was one step closer to freedom. The others were still in there. Hurting.
“Fucking go, Wes! Now! The others will find you.”
I ran before he could throw other complications in my face.
Complications like how the hell he was going to go anywhere in his condition.
He couldn’t walk unassisted for long.
Some bastard had gone too far in his blood play last month and not provided aftercare. The wounds on Wes’s leg were infected. He was starting to smell bad. Even if he got out of this place, he would probably die.
I ran harder, smearing the guard’s blood on my trousers. I’d have to wash away his death before reporting to serve. I had to hide what I’d done, for just a little longer.
Storymaker would never see me coming. Would never believe that his toy of almost nine years would break his conditioning.
His guests.
His empire.
They were all about to come crashing down, bled dry by my hand, slaughtered by a broken slave.
I choked and fell forward, snatching my hair with a groan.
Christ.
I could smell Wes’s sickness. I could feel the slipperiness of blood. I could hear the screams as I—
Stop!
Rocking, I dropped my arms to wrap around myself. My fingers found roughed areas of dried mud, followed the silvery tracks of old scars, pressed hard muscles and strong bones that hinted I was still alive.
Still here even if I was alone.
But...I’m not alone.
Shit.
Wrenching my head up, I locked eyes with her.
She’d twisted in her seat, her lips parted, her face a picture of worry. We didn’t say a word as I calmed my breathing, sat up tall, and acted as if I hadn’t just been suffocated by shitty memories that refused to die.
Memories that had no business tormenting me while I was awake.
“Are...are you okay?” she whispered. “You sounded as if something skewered you.”
Something did.
Lots of things, actually.
Toys and instruments. Knives and sadistic apparatus.
Glowering at her, I ignored her concern and shoved aside a bag full of female socks, underwear, and other toiletry items that I’d been rifling through before my minor relapse.
My hands trembled and sickness still swirled, but at least the walls in my head were back in place. Plus, I had an entire car-load of distraction to investigate.
Tearing my attention off her, hating that she’d seen me slip, I spied a clear plastic box full of colorful packets.
Is that—
I fell on the box.
It is!
The creak of a seat sounded as Gemma turned to kneel instead of twist, watching me far too closely as I popped the latches and dragged the stash toward me.
Food.
Packaged food.
Holy shit, chocolate!
Hunger hit me like a cannonball, and I dived my fingers into the treasure, pulling out Snickers bars, M&Ms, Dairy Milk, Caramello, and every other Cadbury confectionery there was.
Choosing a plain bar of Dairy Milk, I tore at the purple wrapper and moaned the instant cocoa and sugar hit my tongue.
Good God, how had I survived so many years without sweets?
I looked up after my third massive bite, catching her eyes as she watched me with disdain, annoyance, and a tiny shred of curiosity. “Those are my emergency rations you’re wolfing down.”
“And they taste fucking brilliant.”
She sniffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, then by all means, please...help yourself.”
I narrowed my eyes, not liking her tone. “You ate my food. Fair’s fair.”
“Only difference is, my food has flavor.”
“Least my food comes straight from the ground. This is probably full of preservatives.”
“So stop eating it.”
I took another giant bite. “Can’t.”
Rolling her eyes, she let our little domestic fade before asking reluctantly, “I take it you haven’t had dessert in a while?” Her reluctance came from the same place my own questions did.
Asking me things meant she’d get to know me. She’d probably start to feel pity and sympathy. Already, snippets of compassion glowed beneath her anger at my entrapment.
Right now, she was justified in hating me.
I was the villain.
I liked that role. I’d earned that title.
So why did her reluctance to know me make my heart kick? Why could I read her as well as she seemed to read me?
Chewing slowly, I shoved those thoughts away. This girl was a trickster. A trespasser and I would not fall into whatever new trap she’d set.
“Well?” She huffed. “How long since you’ve had sugar?”
Finishing the chocolate, I swallowed before answering, “Not for seven years or so.”
Her forehead furrowed. “So, you’re telling the truth that you haven’t seen anyone in over a decade?”
I licked my lips and reached for a bottle of water, desperately thirsty now that I’d quenched a sugar-craving I hadn’t even known I had. Once I’d drunk my fill, I replied, “Eleven years or so. I don’t exactly remember.”