Page 105 of Juniper Unraveling

A place to chain me up, like the other woman, who I assume is his sex slave.

I spin around on my heel until facing him again and clutch the book to my chest. “If you think I’m going to waste the hours entertaining you, you might as well kill me now. Life’s too damn short.”

He snatches the book from my hands, and when I reach out for it, he bats my hand away.

Watching him flip through pages tugs a sneer, and I cross my arms. “Not like you can read it, anyway.”

My eyes scan the room with his distraction, and I mentally count the steps it’d take to reach the door. “Look, you don’t want me here. I don’t want me here. How about you just let me go.”

With a tip of his head, he stares back at me and tosses the book onto the bed. In two steps, he’s closer, towering over me. “Kneel.”

Gaze locked on his massive chest, I tighten my jaw. “Fuck you.” Every muscle in my body begs me to run, if not for his massive form caging me against the wall. Even if I made it out of the room, I’d have the asshole guard to contend with, and a gang of bikers on my heels.

The pressure against my shoulders forces me to kneel, and I flail my arm, knocking his hand away from me. Stood at the level of his bulging crotch, I glare up at him, fantasizing about those blue eyes clamped in pain as I bite down on his dick.

He hooks a finger beneath my chin, gently stroking his thumb along my cheek.

The gesture disarms me, and I stare blankly up at him for any sign that a cold hard smack will follow for my insolence.

His scent reminds me of rain, the way the earth smells after a storm. Fresh and clean. Fingers drift over my face, and I realize he’s studying my bones.

Perhaps considering mine for his collection.

Crouching in front of me, he lifts the chains and tugs at my wrist, securing the lock snug to my skin. He repeats the same to the other arm, leaving me only about five feet of chain for each limb.

Kicking away from him, I back myself to the wall, allowing some distance between us.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

It strikes me that I haven’t told any one of them my name. None of these people know who I am. Not even Rigs. Names hold power, and I’ll be damned if this one’s getting mine. If everything else is to be stripped away from me in this place, it’s the one thing I’m damn well keeping for myself.

“Go to hell.”

His eye flinches over the skull jaw, and I wonder if he’ll wrap those hands at my throat and throttle the life right out of me.

A knock at the door interrupts our stare-down, and two younger girls, maybe sixteen, enter the room with trays of fruit and a jug I assume carries water. The sight of it has me swallowing a harsh gulp, desperate for one sip after traveling in the desert heat.

The desire is quickly tamped down as the girls set the dishes on the floor before him, heads bowed as if they’re scared to look at him. The sight of it sends a cyclone of disgust and anger churning inside my gut, and I curl my lip at the arrogance of this man. Asshole probably hurts them. Judging the surrounding macabre, he likely gets off on it, too. Why else would he sleep with skulls?

I catch a glimpse of one girl staring downward at the scar across his hand. While the other pours water, her eyes remain glued, and they seem to guide her hand, as she reaches out to touch him.

He recoils and balls his hands into tight fists.

My muscles tense, waiting for him to swing out at her. I don’t know what I’ll do if the bastard hits her in front of me.

Fist drawn back into her body, she drops her gaze, rubbing her hands together. “I’m sorry. I … forgot. I’m so sorry.”

Both girls push to a stand, keeping their gazes directed away from Rhys and me.

I lift the chain, rattling it against the pole beside me. “Hey! Anyone happen to notice the woman chained up here? Wanna help me out?”

Ignoring me, they quickly shuffle out of the room and close the door behind them.

Rhys’s angry eyes turn on me again. I don’t know that they’re angry, for sure, just that the scar makes it appear that way, as if a constant snarl exists behind that mask.

He twists to face me, holding a fig and the jug, and tugs the mask to his chin, exposing a scar that lifts the corner of his mouth. Tipping the jug to his lips, he kicks his head back and skinny rivulets trickle from his lips.

The parch sting in my throat invites another swallow, failing to produce enough moisture.