Page 25 of Trapped

“I’ve spent years mourning you.” She shakes her head again before her pinched expression finds mine. “I’ve put up altars for you. I’ve…” She stops and looks away. She rolls her shoulders, and when her eyes return to mine, something darker has taken their place. Betrayal.

“And this whole time, you’ve been living your happy little life.”

“Who says I was happy?”

“It doesn’t matter, Silas. Do whatever you have planned for me, but as far as I’m concerned, you’re still fucking dead to me.”

We drive past the city and onto the dirt road toward the small ranch on the outskirts of town. Security of the property stretches for miles as we make our way up into the deserted area of my family’s estate. The sun begins to rise, painting the sky with shades of orange and purple. It’s beautiful, but not as beautiful as the woman sleeping next to me.

You’re still fucking dead to me.

If she only knew that, even in my death, I would find a way to crawl out of the grave to find her. I had spent longer than I intended in the shadows. I was dumb to think our distance benefited her. Not when she clung to my memory in the same way I had clung to hers. Whatever sorry fuck that had said distance made the heart grow fonder was wrong. Fondness is not the emotion circling within me.

The day she made her way to me in that church, I had felt a naïve sense of affection. I wanted to protect her and fall in love with her. That fondness morphed into something darker. The time apart only grew that feeling into starvation. Wants and desires clawed my morale. My demons rattled in their cages, desperate to meet hers. Desperate to break her. Claim her. To own what was always mine.

Another half an hour passes before the narrow dirt road widens. I slow down, and Thalia opens her eyes. She had been awake, but continued to keep her eyes shut. A part of her façade of hating me. Her eyes widen, and she fights the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth when she sees the house. It’s the project that took over my obsession when I couldn’t have her.

I spent years building and pouring my money into the destruction of the house I grew up in. The memories of my family were too painful. So, I built something that reminded me of her. When I was done, I thought about setting the whole fucking thing on fire. It was a cruel torture to build an entire home for the wife who I could not have.

Her entire presence could not be numbed. I couldn’t bring women here. If I fucked women, it was always outside this house, and I refused to see their faces. I refused to be reminded that their wet pussies didn’t belong to her. They were objects to be used, but she is the devil I bow to. She said she created altars for me, but I created shrines for her.

We drive closer to the goth farmhouse, and her eyes shine up at the matte black wood siding, tall narrow windows with pointed arches. The exterior of the home creates a stark yet elegant contrast with the surrounding greenery. Gothic architectural elements are woven throughout the vast, expansive property. I had even built matte black stables and chicken coops to match the aesthetic. To match her.

I open the side door of the truck, and Thalia sets her attention back to me. I hold out my hand and she grabs it and steps out, taking in every detail. I open the front door, and she walks inside, taking in the vintage décor. I watch her the same way she takes in the house. Every one of her expressions and reactions tattoos itself into the depths of my soul.

“Would you like a tour?” Her face falls flat at the sound of my voice. Whatever wonder that had overtaken her has now been shattered by the reality of where she is and who she’s with. That cold glare returns.

“I’d rather die.” I stalk toward her, grab her hair, and pull her head back.

“I can arrange that. In fact, I will personally escort you to Hell, bruja,” I grit out. Her lips part, and her breathing accelerates. I release her despite the rage coursing through me.

“Where’s my room?” My laugh echoes in the haunted space.

“Ourroom is up the stairs to the right.” I don’t give her time to talk her shit as I grab her suitcase. She follows behind up the curved staircase. I throw the suitcase on the bed and open it.

“Unbind my hands,” she demands.

“Ask nicely.” She grinds her teeth and closes her eyes.That’s it, mija. Swallow your pride. Better yet, choke on it.

“Will you. Please. Unbind. My hands?”

“Hmmm, nah.”

Her nostrils flare. I go through the suitcase and stop when I find a lacy piece of lingerie. Lingerie she had been expecting to wear on her solo vacay.

“Who did you have in mind when you packed this, bruja?” I click my tongue, and her eyes shift to the side. I throw the material to the side. I’ll be burning that later.

I rummage through the rest of her things, making sure she doesn’t have any weapons. My wife definitely loves the second amendment. I find no weapons, but I do find a plastic pink hammer. I look at her with an arched brow. I press the power button and the head of the hammer begins to vibrate. Surprisingly, her cheeks don’t redden. Instead, her demon eyes flare at my amused expression.

“What did you think that you’d come back to, a saint? Women have needs, and half of Houston has fulfilled mine.”

“Then half of Houston will die, mija.” If half of Houston had fulfilled her needs, she wouldn’t have to fuck silicone. I grab a black lace thong and toss it at her.

“Go wash your pussy for me. I like a clean meal.” I point toward the master bathroom, and she glares up at me. Her cold stare is meant to warn me, but all it does is make my dick harder.

I’d die of frostbite looking into her eyes. I open the top drawer of my dresser and pull out my bowie knife. I push her into the large master bathroom, where there’s a large tub to the right and a shower to the far left.

“Shower or bath?”

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