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He uses the wet cloth to dab my inner thighs. My marked pussy. The cum and arousal dripping down my crack. He applies care and attention to every move.
I almost feel loved.
I would’ve too. But I’m not that delusional.
“Why bother?” I hiss.
Why bother when eventually you’ll murder me, chop me into pieces, and store me in the motherfucking fridge?
“Why?” Marcus tilts his head, dark eyes staring at me in question. “I won’t leave you in this mess without cleaning you up. What kind of monster do you think I am?”
I won’t be fooled.
I’m not loved.
I am not loved.
He’s obsessed with me. He’ll hurt me.
I…
“Please.”
Please what? What am I asking him?
Don’t leave me? Let me go? Stay? Get the fuck out?
Marcus examines me. His well-trained psychiatrist eyes try to make sense of what he sees in me.
There’s nothing there. Nothing to see. I don’t have one coherent thought floating in my head.
He’s not sticking around for me to figure it out, either.
Marcus turns away, pulls on his briefs, bends to pick up a pair of cotton pants and a T-shirt off the floor, and shrugs them on. In maddening silence, he takes his vibrators, then stands. Watches me.
“Good night,” he grunts, gathers his stuff, and leaves.
In the dark, when I’m alone, a thought that makes my skin crawl rises to my consciousness.
Would it have really been that terrible if I asked him to stay?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Leighton
Lying in this bed for minutes after Marcus walked out on me, trapped inside this room, I feel everything. The hurt and confusion. The constant need for him. The sick and fucked-up love.
Physically, I’m okay. The chafing in my wrists and ankles is bearable. My muscles aren’t strained despite being tied up. The lack of sleep doesn’t bother me either. Even my pussy isn’t as sore as I thought it’d be.
My mind is the problem. Not only am I still trying to reconcile the two sides of Marcus I now know. Now, this house is messing with my head.
It’s not just a place where people are supposed to live. It’s a prison. Given what Marcus said, he’s been planning to lock me up in here for years.
Except no one builds a prison with so much care and attention to detail. No one bothers making it look…cozy.
I cast my gaze around the dimly lit room for a second time since Marcus left me.
Two plush cream-colored armchairs in the corner of the room angled toward each other. Plaid red and white throw blankets are folded neatly on top of each one of them. Beneath the armchairs lies a shaggy, patterned rug. Between them, there’s an antique coffee table made of heavy wood.
