Page 34 of Depraved

I pulled against the ropes that had me tied to the chair. My skin burned, and after a few violent tugs, I knew it was hopeless. I’d wear myself out trying to get free.

I let my head fall back. Why did he feel the need to tie me up when he could have simply locked the doors? Was he trying to prove a point? Trying to show me who was in control? Of course, he was. He wasn’t about to let a little ballerina girl challenge him. That was why he grabbed me, hurt me…touched me where no one ever had before.

That was the part that confused the fuck out of me. He was being nothing but a dick to me, evil and heartless, yet my body responded to his violent touch. It seemed I was still attracted to him in some twisted, warped kind of way. How was that even possible? The man scared me. He elicited the darkest kind of fear in me, but the second he grabbed me between my legs, desire sprouted from within that same fear and took me completely by surprise. If it was any other man, I would have been repulsed by the touch. But it wasn’t just any man. It was him, the man I had been infatuated with for years. It seemed my body didn’t care that he was a psychopath. Even my skin erupted into tiny bumps as desire ignited like a fire over thatched rooftops. Just from one touch. One hard and fierce touch, as if he was claiming it. Claiming me.

I moved my head side to side, my neck stiff and sore. The back of my scalp still burned where he had grabbed a fistful of hair. Funny how it only ached now, but when he did it, it ached somewhere else. Somewhere way more south, right there where his cruel touch cupped me. For those few seconds while starring into his eyes, I wasn’t a captive. I wasn’t leverage to whatever game he was playing. I was a woman—or as Red would say, a masochist.

Everything was wrong.

“I see you’re still where I left you.”

I lolled my head down, annoyed by his sarcasm.

He pulled the rope out of my mouth and down over my chin.

I spat out some rope thread. “Yeah. I had so many fucking options but decided to sit right here and not move.”

“Smart decision.”

I looked up as Granite placed a bowl and a beer on the bedside table. “You forgot something.”

He gave me a questioning glance.

“You forgot the feeding tube.” My finger tapped on the armrest, and even with the unamused look on his face, I refused to break eye contact.

After a few seconds of an intense stare-off between us, Granite grabbed a sheet off the bed and used it to cover the vomit on the floor. “I’ll get someone to clean that as soon as you’re done eating.”

“How the hell am I supposed to eat with the stench of chocolate vomit stuck in my nose?”

“Maybe you’ll think twice before you vomit next time.”

“Maybe you’ll think twice before you come in here covered in blood.”

He shot me a wicked grin, as if my being bothered by bloodstained clothing amused him. Psychopath.

The mattress whined when he sat down. He took off his cut, placing it next to him, and reached for the bowl of food. “Let’s get this over with.”

“I will not—” He shoved a spoonful of macaroni into my mouth. Immediately, I spat it out, but Granite just forced another spoon in my mouth—which I spluttered all over my lap, only to get my mouth stuffed with more food.

“We can do this all day, Alyx. There’s a lot more where this came from.” He held up the bowl and grinned. “I got nothing but time, woman.”

“You know, usually, when psychos kidnap women, they starve them. Not force-feed them.”

He raised a dark brow. “Usually, when psychos kidnap women, starving them is a way of torture. In your case, it’s forcing you to eat.”

“So, you admit you’re a psycho?”

One corner of his mouth curled in a half-grin. “That’s one statement I’ll never argue, ballerina girl.” He held up the spoon. “Open wide.”

I frowned. “Please tell me you’re not about to make airplane noises.”

“No, but I’m about to shove this spoon down your throat.”

With my lips sealed shut, I glared at him, weighing my options. The determined look in his eyes was enough to tell me this was a battle I wouldn’t win.

Always choose your battles. The one thing my dad taught me—especially when it came to my mother. Choose the battles you know you can win. He knew all too well no battle with my mom was ever something you could win. God, sometimes I hated him for loving her so much that he would turn a blind eye to the kind of relationship she and I had.

My gaze remained on Granite’s as I reluctantly opened my mouth, feeling like a fucking toddler forced to eat.