“Just let me go, Jonathan!”
“That’s not how it works. You live here, and that includes abiding by my rules. That means, no jumping from the second fucking floor when you’re injured. In fact, even if you aren’t. That nonsense won’t happen again.”
The anger in his tone lands on my skin like whips. It’s even more painful than his clutch on my jaw.
He releases me and I suck in big gulps of air. It doesn’t last long as he pulls the first aid kit and undoes my palm bandages. I wince when the bloodied cloth is ripped off my skin. Despite his lethal expression, he’s not harsh about it, but the flesh is cut deeper than I anticipated.
“Were you even fucking thinking?” He examines my palms with disapproval as he soaks them with the disinfectant.
The sting makes me sink my teeth into the cushion of my bottom lip and I inhale through my nose until they’re finally clean. There are a few cuts positioned both diagonally and horizontally.
Jonathan wraps new bandages around the wounds and I stare at him from beneath my lashes, my body tightening for the next fight-or-flight mode.
I’ve had too many rushes of adrenaline for one day. I feel like I’m going to collapse from the force of them.
But it’s not like I can order my body to shut down. Survival has always been my natural gift.
After he’s finished with my palms, he checks my knee. Seeming satisfied with the bandage, he leaves it alone and pushes the box away. However, he remains looming over me like a threat, his brows still drawn together, and his expression is that of destruction.
It’s like when I first re-met him. When I didn’t trust him. Why the hell did I think I could trust him?
“What’s going on, Aurora?”
“Nothing.”
“You want to tell me you escaped to fucking Yorkshire, got attacked, pushed me away, then jumped by a rope made from sheets for nothing?”
Not finding anything to say, I purse my lips.
“I thought so,” he continues, his closeness doing shit to me I’m not supposed to feel right now. Why the hell do I keep inhaling him in?
And why on earth do I want to erase those scratch marks on his neck? He deserved them.
Right?
He grabs my jaw, nearly swallowing it in the palm of his hand. “Here’s how it’ll go, Aurora. You’ll tell me the truth, and I’ll decide how to deal with you afterwards.”
I clamp my mouth shut.
“Last chance.” His fingers dig into my cheeks. “You won’t like how I’ll react if you keep this tantrum up.”
“The only truth you need to know is that I hate you.”
“Wrong answer.” He releases me with a shove and I fall back on to my elbows.
My heart hammers at the dark promise in his voice, and I hold my breath, waiting for his next move.
Is he going to punish me?
Spank me?
I hate how my thighs throb at that thought. Screw that and screw him. I’m getting out of here the first chance I get.
It may take me a day or two, or however long it does, but it’s not like Jonathan will remain by my side for eternity.
He’s a workaholic. Come morning, I have no doubt he’ll piss off to screw more lives over. That will be my chance to escape.
Jonathan stands in front of my bed, his monster mask back on as he slips a hand in his pocket. “You’ll remain in this room until you talk.”
“W-what?”
“You’re the one who’ll choose if it’ll be hours, days, or weeks.” He tilts his head to the side. “Or even months.”
“You can’t lock me in. That’s kidnapping!”
“If that’s what you want to label it.” He turns to leave but stops and throws over his shoulder, “And don’t try to jump from the balcony again. I have my security surrounding the perimeter.”
“You can’t keep me here, Jonathan!”
“Then fucking talk.” His threatening tone slams into me and remains behind him as the door closes.
That’s when I hear it. The sound of my freedom being stripped away.
The sound of a lock.
Shit. Fuck.
I run to the door and test the doorknob, and sure enough, it’s locked.
After kicking it, I jog over to the balcony where the sheet rope is still hanging, and sure enough, two buff men dressed in black stand there.
My legs fail me, and I slip to a sitting position. Two realisations hit me at once.
One. I failed the only escape I could’ve had from here, because now that Jonathan knows of my intentions, he’ll make sure I never have the chance to repeat it.
Two. I have a weird sensation that I’m reliving Alicia’s fate all over again.
8
Aurora
I don’t sleep for the entire night.
I can’t.
It’s like I’ve been pushed back to eleven years ago, to those safe houses and in police custody. My body is scratched and my existence is humiliated.
Back then, I couldn’t sleep much, and now, it’s the same.
Survival is a bitch.
The moment it kicks in, all your brain is attuned to is the need to appease it. To fucking survive.
The game I prayed to never play again is back, and this time, I can’t drop out of the Witness Protection Program or forge a new identity.
I’m stuck in a gilded cage, and if I stay here for more, my fate will be just like that of Alicia’s.
That’s the only thought my brain is able to conjure up. That if I don’t get out of here, I’ll die.
I spend the long dawn and early morning hours searching around the room for a way out.
My phone isn’t here; I lost it somewhere. The landline is busy, which means Jonathan must’ve suspended it. I left my laptop in the car, so that’s out.
Every now and then, I spy on the buff blokes through the window in case they change position and I get a chance to escape.
They don’t. Both remain standing there as statues.
Not that I expected less from Jonathan’s level of control freak.
Around eight in the morning, I’m in my wardrobe, searching for something, a modern device or anything I can use to call for help.
The door opens and I startle, my injured knee hitting the wood panel. I wince, using my other leg to stand upright and bending the hurt one.
Jonathan waltzes inside, carrying a tray of food and wearing his impeccable suit as if this is an ordinary morning.
I can’t help feeling relief at how his shirt is clean, not smudged with blood like earlier. It hides most of the scratches, but there’s a long one that peeks from the edge of his collar.
I swallow at the view. It’s reddened compared to when I last saw it. Not that I should be sorry. He’s the one keeping me against my will.
“You haven’t slept.” He places the tray on my makeup console, flips over the coffee table I used to block the door during my failed escape, then slides the plate across it.
“Do you have a camera in here, or something?” I study the corners of the room because I wouldn’t be surprised if he does.
“Not currently, no. But that’s a good idea.”
Damn it, there I go putting ideas in his messed up head. I bite my tongue to stop from spouting nonsense. That will only give him the upper hand more than he already has.