Total pages in book: 168
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159420 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 797(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
“And God, Peyton,” Reverie continues, “he watches you like…”
“Like what?” I prod.
She looks me in the eyes, her face distressed. “Like he wants to… I don’t know, like he wants to eat you.”
I’d laugh if I could. If I hadn’t just lost my breath, my sense, for a few seconds. Not because it’s news to me but because it’s confirmation. Because that’s what I feel when he looks at me. Like I’m his next meal. The prey he wants to devour. And I know I shouldn’t let thrill race down my spine or get flutters in my belly at this, not after everything I know now, but I can’t help it. I can’t help how my body reacts to him.
Reverie swallows. “It’s scary.”
Yes, exactly. But also, so lovely.
I ignore my crazy brain, though, and nod to agree with her. “It doesn’t matter.”
She inches closer to me. “But, Pey, I think you need to be careful. I feel like he wants something, and—”
“Hey, it’s okay,” I say soothingly, even though there’s no soothing me. “We’re not going to be here that long anyway so there’s no need for you to worry.”
“But—”
This time she stops speaking because we both see Haven approaching us and it’s not the time to discuss our captivity. But Reverie is right. I do think he wants something from me. Something more than payback and the land. Only I don’t know what and I need to find out. Which is why all throughout the party, while chatting with Haven or getting more drinks, I look for an opportunity. To leave. So I can dig into things. Or more specifically, him. He knows everything about me, doesn’t he? It’s time I found out everything about him.
It’s time I stalk my stalker back.
It takes me twenty minutes to reach the barn I was looking for.
I hope it’s the right one. I’m not very good at directions, but I made sure when Haven gave them to me to remember as many details as possible. For the record, she didn’t know she was giving me “directions”; she thought we were simply making casual conversation.
The barn I’m looking at sits just by the woods, almost nestled into the trees but not quite. As if it wants to stay hidden but still close enough to be in touch with civilization. Kinda like the man who lives here. It has a door made of metal, largely rusted in places, with an old-fashioned latch. There’s also a metal chain attached to it with a large padlock that I’m sure is used to lock up but by some miracle is hanging open.
Perfect.
Without further ado, I push at the heavy door and slip inside, entering my stalker’s territory. It’s huge—like everything about him—with two levels. And it’s threatening, again like him, because the upper level is shrouded in darkness. All I can see is a glass window up there with a view of the night sky, but nothing else. I’m not concerned about the upper level, though, because the lower level makes it seem like I’ve stumbled upon a treasure chest.
A lantern with a low flame hangs from a wooden post up ahead, lighting the space, and I walk farther in, my booted feet thudding against the cement floor. I come to a stop by the bed that looks even bigger than a king with wooden slats for a headboard, made up very neatly with sharp and precise corners. There’s a dresser by the adjacent wall, just under the window that the moonlight streams through, with a stack of clothes on it that are also neatly folded. A freestanding mirror is tucked away in a corner alongside a desk and a chair. The desk has books on it, and in the space of only a few minutes spent in his private domain, I’m not surprised to see that they’re neatly stacked as well.
He likes control then. He likes to keep things neat and tidy and organized. Not surprising.
Slowly, I spin around in a circle, focusing on other things. Things you wouldn’t find in a typical bedroom. Like his wall of… ropes. Just by his massive bed, he has a display of them. Three long rows of ropes, each hanging by a hook, each carefully wound in a coil. Before I know it, I’m crossing the room and running my fingers along each of them. They all feel different. Some rough; some soft. Some coarser than others. And for some reason, every time I find a soft one, I wonder if this is hemp. If this is the rope he bound me with, the one that didn’t leave any marks. Because it didn’t. My wrists look as smooth as ever. Not even a little redness. The only indication that he tied my hands is the tingling I get every now and then. I want to stand here and examine each and every one of these ropes. I want to tie my hands with them and see how they feel against my skin. Which is why I step back. Because what the fuck? Why would I want that? I absolutely do not want that.