Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
I pretended I hadn't found the phone where he'd locked it up.
I was smart enough not to use it at first. But then, when he left, I went right to work. He didn’t know I’ve been watching him. I saw where he put my phone. I watched as he put in the password, and I bided my time.
At first, my fingers hovered over the screen to text Marcus. You'd think someone being held captive would, at the first chance, contact people who could save them.
But… no.
Maybe Ashland's words have been getting in my head, and I can't get them out.
Marcus killed two women before you.
How would he be able to hide something like that? Ashland is either crazy, or…
I shake my head and sip the now-tepid coffee.
Then I texted Marcus anyway, despite every instinct telling me to wait, to think, to listen to the warning bells going off in my head. I texted him and told him where I was.
And now Marcus is on his way.
Now that my thumb isn't hovering over the send button anymore, now that it's done and I can't take it back, doubt creeps in cold and heavy.
What if Ashland was telling the truth?
Now I have to face Marcus, and I… I don't want to.
Shouldn't I be looking forward to seeing the man I'll be married to? Shouldn't I want to tell him the truth about everything?
Shouldn't I want to be… rescued by him?
But Marcus really isn’t the rescuing type—he’s the type who pays someone to do it for him.
All I can think about while I sit in this diner, tapping the vinyl tabletop with my finger, is whether or not Ashland's discovered that I left yet.
When the doorbell jingles, I look up, half expecting to see furious silver eyes zeroing in on me.
But no.
Ashland doesn't come.
He's your kidnapper, Bianca.
And Marcus is taking his sweet time.
“You've decided to come back,” his text said. “Where are you?”
I send him my location, then slip the phone into my jacket pocket. Will Ashland come after me again?
My hands are wrapped around the coffee. It doesn't taste as good as Ashland's.
My god. I can't think like this.
The phone in my pocket feels like a loaded gun, and my hands are trembling. Have I really fallen victim to full-blown Stockholm syndrome?
Every time the door opens, my heart races. I keep checking the parking lot through the windows, listening for the sound of Ashland's heavy footsteps.
But he doesn't come.
Why doesn't he chase me?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Can I get you something else to eat, love?”
The waitress stands with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to the side. She's seen this look—I know she has—the look of heartache.
“No, thank you.”
She shakes her head and pushes a few more creamers and sugars onto the table, as if that will help.
“Don't need to tell me anything,” she says. “I can see the way your eyes dart to the door, hoping someone will come after you.” She pauses. “For what it's worth, love, it won't always be this way. I promise.”
She reaches over and squeezes the top of my hand.
I bet a woman in a place like this has seen quite a lot. She truly believes I've been through a bad breakup or something.
Why do I feel like… she's not that far from the truth?
I should feel… free.
How am I both dreading and wanting Ashland to storm in, find me, and drag me back to that cabin?
The cognitive dissonance is making me lose my fucking mind.
I escaped. I made it out, and I'm no longer his captive. I texted Marcus just like I planned.
I'm crazy, and the only explanation is that he fucked with my mind.
No. No, I'm not crazy. I'm traumatized. There's a difference.
But wait—is there?
I stare at Marcus's contact photo. He looks handsome, put-together, normal. He doesn't look dangerous. He doesn't look threatening. He doesn't look like he could pull someone apart with his bare hands to protect me, like…
I can't think about this anymore. Every time I think of being with Marcus, I see Ashland. Ashland.
I shake my head violently and dial Marcus.
“Bianca.”
His voice is wrong. Cold. Distant. Perfunctory.
“Yes, it's—it's me.”
“Almost there. Where are you sitting?”
“It's a… small place. You'll see me straight away.”
He doesn't ask if I'm okay. He doesn't say, Thank god you're safe, or really, anything at all.
“Alright. Are you going to tell me why you left?”
I open my mouth to tell him the truth, but I can’t. Instead, what comes out is, “I'm sorry. I just needed some space.”
I don't know why I lie.
Maybe I don't want to see Marcus go after Ashland. Maybe I don't want a war on our hands, because that's exactly what it would be. Maybe I don't want to see Ashland get hurt.
I'm truly losing my mind.
“I've been worried sick,” he says, but it sounds like something rehearsed. “Your mother's been frantic.”