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No, no, I don’t.
“Ugh,” I groan when no book turns out to be the one to be my key to freedom.
My eyes snap open as my frustration overwhelms me, hard and infuriating. There’s no switch here. Nothing but books and books I assume are on the topics of psychiatry, hypnosis and—
“What?” I choke out.
The shelves are packed with architecture and art books. Expensive ones too. The ones I’ve been drooling over and promised myself I’ll buy as soon as I get my first paycheck.
They…they…oh, fuck. They were on my online wish list. I haven’t browsed through it in months to notice they’ve been deleted from it. And here they are.
My gaze roams on the shelves, from top to bottom. I’m pretty sure every one of them is here.
Annoying tears burn in the back of my eyes. He’s not letting me go. He’s been planning on keeping me here for God knows how long. Filling this prison with entertainment that’d last me a lifetime.
I won’t bang on the door and call him. I won’t thank him. Even though I want to. Even though I long to kiss him long and hard for it.
Not when I’m an emotional mess.
He’s calculated, and I can’t afford to be reckless.
To calm myself, I choose an urban architecture book and pull it off the shelf.
Another shocked “What?” slips past my lips.
I shouldn’t be surprised by Marcus’s crazy ways, but I am.
These are my photos he’s plastered to the wall behind the books.
One I don’t remember anyone taking. Equally intrigued and furious, I toss the precious book to the floor. Then another one. And another.
More photos plastered on every available space.
Me in a bikini. Me in a cute outfit walking up the Kingstons’ driveway. Here’s me sunbathing in my white bikini and large sunglasses. Me sitting around their dining room table, studying for the fall semester.
Rylan was next to me that day. She doesn’t appear in any of the photos.
Only me.
Squatting to the lowest shelf, I find the most disturbing photo of them all. I rip it off the wall, chipping the paint and not caring one fucking bit.
“What in the ever-loving fuck,” I hiss as I stare at my sleeping form.
He wasn’t exaggerating when he said he came on my face while I slept. Rylan’s not on the pillow at my side. I’m alone, defenseless, and my lips glisten.
Every rational bone in my body knows I shouldn’t be turned on by this. Had any other boy done this to me, Ry would’ve helped me kick his ass. Neither of us would’ve rested until his cock was sliced off and we had his balls in a blender.
I skim my fingers over the glossy picture. No one interested him but me. No other woman, no other patient, no one, and nothing else, period.
Heat blooms in my belly. My breath picks up.
I don’t recognize my own self. I’m torn. Hurting.
I’m flattered. I’m aroused.
Marcus is right. I’m just as fucked up in the head as he is.
He doesn’t want to call us psychos.
