Total pages in book: 216
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206530 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 826(@250wpm)___ 688(@300wpm)
Damn him. I smack against his muscled back as he heads for the stairs. “Let me down! You fucking bastard, put me down this second!”
“Language.” He gives my ass a sharp smack.
I make an outraged noise and kick out. He wraps one of his huge arms like a band across my thighs, holding me in place.
“Let me down!” I scream again.
Down the stairs we go and damn him, it’s so scary I have to grab hold of his hips. Once we get to the bottom floor, though, I go back to smacking at him. “Let me go!”
When we go through the kitchen and he kicks open the back door, my breath catches—it’s the first time I’ve been outside since I got here. But then I go back to hitting and kicking out considering what limited space I have with him holding my legs down. “Let me go, you crazy bastard! Put me down!”
He ignores it all and keeps going forward.
“You want down? Fine.” The next second, I’m flying through the air and landing with an oof on a smelly bale of hay. I roll sideways and topple to the ground, then scramble to my knees and finally to my feet, looking around to get my bearings.
I’m in a 12x10 foot shed. The only light comes from the open doorway and cracks in the ceiling. But I can see enough—and smell enough—to know an animal must have lived in here at some point. What looks to be a couple of dog beds are set up in the corner and the whole place stinks.
“Why did you bring m—?” But I barely get the words out before Xavier cuts me off.
“Last owner used to keep a couple pigs in here.” He’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an easy smirk on his face. “Kept ‘em as pets but didn’t like them destroying the house. I inherited them along with the property. Problem was, they kept getting out. So I reinforced the walls last year.” He knocks on the wall and it does indeed sound solid. Then he glances upwards at the ceiling where several shafts of sunlight come beaming down from above. “Kept meaning to get around to the roof but,” he shrugs, “I ended up just selling the pigs off.”
Son of a mother-fucking— If he thinks for one second that he’s going to leave me here in the goddamned pigpen of all places—
I rush toward him but he slips out the swinging door and shuts it in my face. Then I hear a heavy-duty padlock in place.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I scream at him through the surprisingly heavy wooden door. I rattle it but it doesn’t. I ram my shoulder against it but there’s still barely any give. I ram it again, even more furiously. “Let me the fuck outta here!”
“Language,” is his only reply.
“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” I shout at the top of my lungs, grabbing hold of the door handle and jiggling so hard the metal starts to cut into my fingers. I kick at it but that does little better. “Son of a bitch!”
I spin on my heel, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of watching me flounder with the stupid door for another second. But God. I look around and then clutch my head in my hands. He’s just locked me in a pig pin.
In a fucking cage.
I’ve been living in some sort of fantasyland the past few days. This is what this was all really leading to. A dude who locks women in sheds like animals.
“No more lies,” he says through the door, sounding firm but calm. “No more hiding.”
I squeeze my eyes shut against the low rasp of his voice.
“Order and discipline are all I ask.”
I’m not going to say a goddamn thing to that. That is, until I hear his footsteps walking away.
“Wait, you can’t just leave me like this!” I turn and call after him. I’m wearing just a light summer dress. Night is coming. Sure the shed is better than nothing, but is he really just going to—?
I peek through a crack between the door and the frame. Just in time to see his back as he nears the corner of the house.
“Son of a bitch!” I yell after him.
No reaction.
And then he’s gone.
I scream another long stream of expletives. Nothing but the noises of the wilderness answer back.
Nine
I’ve explored every inch of the small shed by the time night falls.
There’s a bale of hay that smells sour with mildew. More hay is scattered all over the ground, so there’s no real good place to sit. The dog beds—which I guess the pigs slept on?—are completely ruined. Like Xavier said, the roof is in obvious need of repair.
I pace back and forth for hours. He wasn’t lying about the walls either—they’re obviously new and durable. I tested each one, thinking I’d find a weakness somewhere and be able to kick through and escape. Don’t people get rushes of adrenaline in extreme situations, like when moms lift cars off of babies and shit? Where’s my magic adrenaline rush?