I still have no idea what they want with me, but the fact that they’ve done nothing yet terrifies me. Every time Earl comes into this room, he says the exact same thing to me: “You try to leave, you try to do anything to get outta here, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill yer family. I’ll rape your mother before I kill her.” After that, Earl will walk to the corner of the room, lean against the wall and just stare at me. And it’s the way he looks at me that gets to me. His eyes are completely cold and void of emotion, but when he looks at me, the way his eyes drag over my body while he adjusts his dick—there’s this sick gleam in his eyes. I know what he wants to do, and I know he’ll do it. I just don’t know when. Out of all the things that can be done to you, Iknowthat rape is the worst.
And you want to know why? Because you can overcome pain. Wounds of the flesh heal—but that sullied feeling that taints you once you’ve been used by a filthy man…that never washes off. When an act meant to express love and connection has been turned into one of hate and power and control—that changes you in ways not easily forgotten. Abuse cracks the mirror of self-perception, causing flaws in the way you view yourself and the way you accept how others view you. That sense of worthlessness, I can’t take it again. I cannot.
I’ve tried to think about what I could offer these bastards to let me go, but the thing that sucks the most is that I’m too educated about the criminal lifestyle because I’ve grown up in it. And the one thing I have learned, the one thing I am more certain of than death, is that until these men get what they want, I won’t get out of here. And even then—the chances are slim. They’ve never attempted to disguise themselves, which means they don’t think I’ll ever be a witness. Dead girls aren’t witnesses.
Clink. The subtle sound of that lock slides out of place, and I know the possibility of death is a very real thing. When the rusted hinges creak, my heart rate goes into overdrive.
I keep my gaze focused on my hands, waiting on Earl to drop a few bottles of water on the bed and walk to the side of the room to stare at me before he leaves.Please let him leave…
“Have you had a bath?” The deep, southern drawl drags my eyes away from my lap.
Max is standing in front of me, his stare locked on my face. Days of nothing but solitude and Earl have me nearly gasping at Max’s presence. His features are so much softer than Earl’s. And the only thought circling my head right now is that I want to touch him. I want to feel some form of human contact even though I realize how ridiculous it sounds to want to touch someone who is keeping you hostage.
Max steps closer, until he’s so close I can feel the heat from his body on my skin, and then he squats, resting his elbows on his knees. He looks up at me. His cologne smells so good. So clean. So familiar. I close my eyes and drag that scent deep into my lungs, pretending I’m not really here.
“Ava.” I open my eyes. “Would you like a bath?”
I nod, and he stands, holding his hand out to me. I take it. His palm is smooth, so soft and warm. Sohuman. That simple touch nearly breaks me. Tears build in my eyes. My vision blurs. My throat tightens.What is wrong with me?
“Now”—he tugs for me to face him—“you gotta promise me you won’t try to get away?”
I nod.
“Because if you do that,” he says. “I’ll have to hurt you. And I don’twantto hurt you, okay?” Another nod. “I’m gonna tie your arms up, not that I don’t trust you, understand, but I know the temptation once you see anything outside of this room may get the better of you.” I nod again because that’s all I can seem to do. Max reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a cord. “Cross your hands in front of you.” I do as told, and he goes to work, binding my wrists. “That doesn’t hurt, does it?” he asks, looking up from his bowed head.
Jesus, his eyes…
“No,” I whisper.
“All right then.” Taking me by my bound wrists, he leads me out through the doorway.
Through the basement we go, up the wooden steps, and into the kitchen. The late afternoon sun trickles in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the grimy linoleum floor. I glance around, looking for Earl or Bubba, but no one’s here.
“They’re gone,” Max says, like he knows what I’m thinking. The thought forces chill bumps over my skin.
There’s a door. It’s bolted. A window. A knife block on the counter… I take in every detail I can, attempting to make a blueprint of this place in the event I ever get a chance to run for it. Max’s grip on my arm tightens—again like he’s in my head.
The walls are stained, dust and trash litter each room we walk into. As he leads me through this disgusting house, my heart slams against my ribs because I have no idea what is actually about to happen to me. All I can hear are my labored breaths and Max’s work boots crossing the worn wooden floor of the foyer.
He guides me to the bottom of a stairwell elegantly twisting up the two-story foyer. “Watch your step, dear,” he says.
I keep my eyes trained on the steps, on the cream carpet in desperate need of a cleaning. Once at the top, Max turns me to the right and leads me into a large, outdated bathroom. There’s an old pedestal sink beneath a gold plated mirror. The wallpaper is cream with roses encaged by brown fleur-de-lis, and it’s peeling at the seams. Against the far wall is a claw-foot tub with a large, gray crack running the length of the edge.
Max locks the door with a key, twisting the metal knob to make sure it’s secure. His eyes lock with mine as he shoves the key deep inside his jean pocket, silently telling me to not even think about it. He nods toward the tub. “Go run the water.” And then he releases his hold on me.
I slowly walk toward the tub, my pulse hammering violently in my temples with each step. I swallow. The rope, although tied loosely around my wrists, digs into my injured skin when I twist the ornately engraved golden handles to the tub. There’s a loud knocking noise as water rushes through the pipes, and when it comes pouring out, it’s tinged with rust and smells awful.
“Just let it go for a minute. Pipes are old.”
The water runs clear after a minute or so. Once the dirty water drains out, I plug the tub and stand up, but don’t turn around. “Are you going to stay in here?” I ask.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
Turning, I glare at him. Part of me wants to cuss him out, but the stronger part of me knows better. My jaw tightens and I turn around to undress. I attempt to unfasten my jeans, but am only able to get them unbuttoned due to my bound wrists. Max walks up behind me, takes me by the shoulders, and spins me around. I don’t want to look at his face, so I focus on what’s right in front of me—his stubble-covered throat.
“I’m gonna undress you.” I watch his throat move as he swallows. “Not because I want to, understand?” he says quietly. “But because I can’t untie you.” He reaches to the bottom of my filthy shirt. My eyes drift up to his face. He is beautiful, not like any man you would normally see walking down the street. His face—that would stop any woman dead in her tracks. And how ironic is that? He is the perfect predator. Magnetic. A man like this will lure you in, and before you even realize it, he’ll have devoured you.
A grimace forms over his face as he stares at my bound hands. “Shirt’s bloody anyways.” With a quick flip of his wrists, the thin material shreds and drops to the floor. Next, he tugs the zipper to my jeans down. He bends as he works my pants over my hips, and as messed up as it sounds, there is something so gentle in the way he’s undressing me.
