Page 17 of To Have and to Hold

“And by your own will, you won’t leave.”

Fainting out of this world and into another was so alluring that I almost heeded to it. Rather than being in here, with him, and enduring his plans, his smell, his touch, I was willing—hoping—to exit permanently.

But my parents. And my fiancé. The way I left things with Spencer. Allowing this creature to dispose of what was left of me in a way that would never be discovered. My family would never understand what happened.

“Come back to me, my darling.” He gradually loosened his hold. “This is no time for you to disappear.”

Coughing, this new home of mine came back into view, the warmth of his body still close—too close—to my naked one. Grime, captivity, the pair of us in a hidden basement for the rest of my shortened life hit me in droves, even as he stood in silent expectation.

“Good girl. Now lie down.” He paused. Tipped his grotesque face. “Or do I have to make you?”

My upper lip curled.

He shrugged, and his relaxed nature had me sensing his real smile behind the painted teeth before he said, “Your choice—”

My feral claws hit his neck first, and I screeched, digging and pushing and using my knees and elbows to slam him backward. Teeth bared, I barreled into him, my size versus his doing very little to hinder the less evolved parts of me that demanded I get the fuck out of here.

He tripped a step, then two, his hands going up in defense and catching me in a sideswipe, but not for long. I punched him in the gut, and when he bent over I aimed for his kidneys, my spit dribbling onto my knuckles as I screamed. I shoved his bowled over form into the opposite wall like he so loved to do with me.

He straightened, that mask turning and aiming at me, the painted grin never faltering.

I ran for the door, fully aware I wouldn’t make it, but knowing this was what he expected of his prey. It was clear he didn’t want much from whoever he held, because he was so much smarter than them. In his words: Controlled.

When he ran for me, I whirled to face him. There was time for a brief, whittled thanks to be sent to my father for forcing me to do self-defense classes before moving to New York. Poised for the perfect undercut, I rammed my fist until I hit payday.

He yowled, and it was such a lovely sound.

I twisted his ballsack harder, fueled with the hope that I could twist it right off. He fell to his knees, arms smacking into mine, and eventually he became so desperate that he found the strength to dislodge my vulture grip and I fell to the floor beside him.

I was ready for whatever would come next. He may win and kill me, but he wouldn’t do it without limping away with severe wounds.

He groaned to a stand, his permanent skull leer gaining enough altitude to loom over me.

Swallowing, I kept my glare, my hands braced on the floor and my legs curled to leap.

Though I couldn’t see it, he stood over me much too long not to have a few murderous expressions behind the pretend.

My heart tore itself bloody with equal parts fear and adrenaline. I’d fight, yes, but I didn’t want to die. I feared the pain he’d inflict on me, the things he’d do. I was stripped bare on the ground, covered in old and new blood, and he was clothed and masked above me, stronger and cockier with the surety of a plan to fuel his actions. I didn’t have that. I was acting on instinct alone. He was going to torture me.

My pulse pounded up into my throat, into my ears, had my skull on fire.

But he turned away.

After a few steps, he pushed off the doorframe, slammed the door, and was gone.

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