Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69524 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 348(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
He doesn’t feel a shred of remorse for what he’s done to me, for the countless violations that I can’t even begin to fathom.
“Paint,” he commands.
“No.”
He can’t make me. He could crush his fist around mine and force me to lift a brush to the waiting canvas, but he can’t compel me to create art. My tumultuous emotions are my own to purge through my paintings. That part of me will never belong to anyone else. Certainly not the man who’s betrayed me on a level I never thought possible.
“Abigail…” My name is a warning, but I refuse to heed it.
“I won’t do it. I won’t paint for you.”
His brows draw together, forbidding. “You can come in willingly, or I can put you here.” He points to the chair that’s set up in front of the easel, presumably for my comfort. “If you won’t do it for me, do it for yourself. You need this.”
“You don’t know what I need!” I fling the defiant words at him, losing my composure. “I need to get away from you. I need my freedom.”
“I’ve set you free,” he growls. “You just don’t want to listen.”
Rage curls my fists at my sides, and suddenly, I’m surging toward him.
“You want me to come to you like a trained pet?” I rail at him. “You think I’ll roll over and do what you say?”
The canvas is in my hands, and I hurl it at his beautiful face.
“Fuck you!”
He bats the canvas away at the last second, and it clatters to the parquet floor. His lips peel back from his teeth in an animal snarl, and he lunges for me.
A defiant scream tears from my chest, and I grab the table where the paints have been neatly arranged for me. It’s lightweight enough that I’m able to lift it, and I raise the delicate antique like an unwieldy bat. In a split second, I swing.
But he’s too fast. Too strong.
He lifts one corded arm just in time to stop the impact to his head. He barks out a rough shout as the table splinters against his shoulder, and I’m not sure if it’s a sound of pain or a predator’s warning.
I lunge for the easel, desperate for another weapon.
Arguing was futile. My rationality is gone. His insane refusals to listen to reason have driven me to a purely primal, enraged state.
I’m not sure if I’m fighting to get away from him, or if some savage part of me just wants to inflict a fraction of the damage he’s caused me. I want him to feel the pain that’s shredding my heart. I know now that he’s incapable of that kind of emotional agony, so I’ll wound him physically.
His arm loops around my waist just as my fingers brush the easel, and he drags me back before I can fully grasp it. He tackles me with his full weight, and we’re both falling.
At the last instant, he turns his body so that he catches the brunt of the impact with the hardwood floor.
I shriek and writhe in his arms, but he rolls on top of me, quickly pinning me so that I’m face-down beneath him. My hands scramble for purchase, and my palms slip in something wet.
I’ve fallen on the canvas that I threw at him, and several paint tubes have been squashed under us. Blue splatter becomes a sapphire smear under my hands as I continue to struggle like a wild thing.
“That’s it,” he rumbles at my ear. “Fight me like you’ve always wanted to. Like you really mean it.”
I scream again, a sound of pure fury. I’ve never meant anything more in my life than my desire to hurt him now.
His left hand is beside my scrabbling fingers, sliding in the paint so that his palm is coated in blue. His other fists in my hair, drawing my head back sharply to further restrict my struggles. Then he caresses my cheek, and the paint is warm on his broad palm. It slides over one side of my face, covering me from my brow to my jaw.
His grip on my hair shifts, forcibly tilting my head to the side and shoving me forward. My cheek presses against the canvas, marking it with my twisted expression of fear and impotent rage. I shriek and jerk in his cruel hold, but all I manage to do is spread more paint in manic swaths.
“I want an imprint of your pretty scream,” he says, voice rough with desire. “I’ll admire this masterpiece later. We both will.”
I can’t find the air to tell him that he’s insane. My lungs seize, and my chest draws tight enough to crush my heart.
My fists pound the canvas, sending sprays of blue droplets flying.
“This is what you’ve always wanted.” He says it like encouragement rather than a condemnation. “You want to know the difference between me and the men who violated you? Your body already knows. When they touched you, you shut down and surrendered. But with me, you fight back. You feel safe enough to challenge me because you know I won’t truly hurt you.”