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)
“No.”
“Can I—” Her voice breaks. “Can I do anything?”
I sigh and nod. “Of course. You can sleep. You can eat. You can read. I got you some books.” Her eyes widen. “You can watch your shows. I'll get you whatever you want to keep yourself busy for now, and I will let you outside, but you'll have to be with me. I'll buy groceries if you want to cook. I got a few things at the bookstore, and I’ll get you anything you want to occupy yourself.”
Damn near agonized over what to buy her. She loves to color and doodle in her free time, though she hasn't lately with finals and Crowning demanding her time. “You can do whatever you want, really, you just can't leave. Understand?”
She's quiet for a long moment. “Fine. I won't fight you for now because I'm starving,” she says petulantly. “And it's fucked up how much you know about me.” She sighs. “Did you say you have… bread and pasta?”
That's my girl. I stifle a smile because I really don't want to scare her.
“Aye.”
Then, softer, almost pleading, “Please, can I have your first name?”
I swallow hard. Will she recognize anything at all? If she hears the word McCarthy, I might lose every possible thread of credibility I have with her. Who knows what her mother’s told her about her father and our family?
I swallow hard. “You can call me Ashland.”
“Ashland,” she says in that absolutely perfect, beautiful voice. My heart aches. It's like hearing a note that only an angel can sing.
“Ashland.” I swallow hard, repeating my own damn name for reasons I don't understand. “Aye, lass.”
“Please, Ashland,” she whispers. “Take off the restraints.”
I want to give her everything she's ever fucking wanted on a goddamn platter.
“If I take them off, will you do what I say, like a good girl?”
She holds my gaze for a beat and swallows hard, then says the one thing that might make me lose the last shred of self-control I have.
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Seven
Bianca
I pride myself on staying calm in intense situations, but… I don't know if I can, not here, not now. I'm doing my best, but I feel frantic and flailing, like I need to break something or run.
But… how?
I take a deep breath and remind myself that staying calm is the only way I can stay safe. The only way I can escape.
Okay, alright.
So first off, I need to figure out where the hell I am and who the hell I'm with.
Ashland. I've never heard the name before.
He gestures to my wrists, still bound. “Let me.”
Hope rises in my chest. He's going to allow me this freedom. I flinch instinctively when he reaches for me, but there's nowhere to go. He steps closer, and his big, rough, tattooed fingers work the ties around my wrists with surprising gentleness.
When they fall away, I gasp at the rush of blood back into my hands. Before I can pull away, he catches my wrists, just firm enough to keep me still, his grip possessive in a way that sends an unwanted shiver down my spine. His rough, warm thumbs press into my palms, massaging circulation back into my fingers with slow, deliberate circles.
It feels too good. Too intimate.
“There now,” he murmurs, quieter in this small space, and I can feel his breath against my hair. He towers above me, his shoulders dwarfing mine, and the way he's bent over me, focused entirely on my wrists, feels almost like he's shielding me. Protecting me. “That's better, isn't it? Aye, that's a good lass.”
The praise does something to me I don't want to think about right now.
He frowns at the red marks on my wrists, his jaw tightening, and his thumbs continue their maddening circles. “Didn't mean to hurt you. Tried to secure you without leaving marks, but it seems I didn't do a very good job.”
“It's fine,” I say on instinct, and my voice comes out breathier than I intended.
Why am I trying to make him feel better about this situation?
It’s what I always do, isn’t it?
I yank my hands back the second he loosens his grip and cradle them against my chest. They're tingling, all pins and needles shooting up my arms, but that's not why I pulled away. I don't like how his touch was almost… reverent. How his rough hands on my skin made heat pool low in my belly. How I felt, for just a moment, like I could trust him‚ like I wanted to… lean into him.
I have to remember I'm a prisoner. I have to remember that he took me.
He watches me for a long moment, his gray eyes darkening, and I wonder if he can tell what his touch did to me. If he knows.
I take a look around me. This isn't exactly a dank basement with a concrete floor. No, this is actually kind of… nice.