Page 12 of Imprisoned Obsession

His hand travels to my jaw, running down my bruised throat. Haunting memories of his hand threatening my life with a dangerous squeeze stay with me.

He had the chance to kill me when he took Janice’s life. He didn’t, and now he is playing with me to see when the fight response disappears.

Maybe I’m overthinking this. Maybe he’s just using me as leverage in case the police find him.

I’m a bargaining chip.

If that’s the case, I have a good chance of getting out of this alive. As long as my usefulness remains, there is room for negotiation.

Elio has proven his intelligence by demolishing my confidence in escaping. He’s counting on me to take steps he has already anticipated.

He’s waiting for me to make a severe mistake, giving him a reason to hurt me.

The strange thing is, I don’t find his touch repulsive. I should, but I don’t react with an ounce of disgust when he touches me.

Sometimes he is as gentle as if I were made of glass. But other times, he holds me tightly to see how easily I bruise.

I look up warily. I have no idea what to expect when I see his face, but I’m ready for anything he throws at me.

He’s smiling, and my heart lurches under my ribs. I’m positive it’s fear, not warmth in my stomach.

It’s definitely not that.

The sound of the doorbell forces my heart to race in shock.

Elio’s takes my hand, his grip suffocating the tremors in my fingers as I pull back.

“Don’t fight me, darling,” he says calmly.

Like snapping his fingers, the fight leaves my body embarrassingly fast. Whatever he has done to me as I sleep, my body responds to his commands.

He has never told me what happened the night he drugged and kidnapped me from the hospital. He never apologized for his actions, and I’m too much of a coward to ask.

I have to play this smart. I can’t win against brute force, and I certainly can’t outsmart him when my emotions are going haywire. It gets worse when I’m near him, and my nerves tingle when he touches me.

I can’t breathe normally when I’m awake. The only time I’m truly alone, other than when showering, is during the night.

Even then, I question whether I’m truly allowed privacy.

Does he have cameras in the room?

I wouldn’t put it past him. That disturbing notion aside, I’m glad I didn’t attempt to scale down from the third-floor balcony.

His home is a three-story estate, built with glamorous marble and fancy graphene. He gave me a tour of the house, and that enlightenment pummeled any hope of escaping.

It’s fortified to keep people inside rather than to deter them from burglarizing it.

What would happen if a team of burglars managed to break in? Would they make it out alive?

It’s normal to assume that they would, but Elio is not to be underestimated. He’s unpredictable and has a perverse sense of morality. I’d hate to see what Elio would do to someone who invaded his home.

“Come, darling,” he ushers. “We must greet our guest.”

What guest?

He pulls me out of the bedroom as my shoes squeak on the polished marble. I woke up this morning to find shoes at the bottom of my bed, new clothes in my style replacing the designer brands in the closet, and his lingering scent on my skin.

He is everywhere, floral body wash doesn’t cover his scent. The smell of him seems to come from under my skin, and I have had the ludicrous thought that it comes from my blood.

---