Page 62 of Cruel Cravings

But I should know better as my eyes scan wildly around the room.

It’s the bedroom that belongs to the Klum family. The same bedroom I’ve slept in the past several nights as I’ve kept…

The thought cuts off, drowned out by my hysterical scream. I’m pushing my vocal cords to the max as I scream into the otherwise silent night.

Someone somewhere has to hear me. Someone from the road or one of the neighboring houses.

Please… please… PLEASE.

I scream until my throat burns and I’m out of air. Then I gulp some down and try again, yanking and thrashing in place, fighting the handcuffs that refuse to release me.

The bedroom door swings open and the last person I want to see appears in the doorway. Brontë fills the open space, both side to side and from the floor to the top of the doorframe. He stands there like he’s walked in on a new discovery and not come to check on the woman he’s bound to a bed.

“You fucking asshole!” I scream in hysterics. I thrash some more, hot tears spilling from my eyes and my expression twisted up in rage and anguish. “LET ME GO!”

He’s so calm. So fuckingcomposed.

He stands there, unmoving and nonplussed, as I fill the room with my hoarse, high-pitched voice and wild jerks of my body.

Minutes must pass.

I don’t stop. I refuse to stop.

I scream until I’m lightheaded and my voice goes out. Waves of dizziness crash down on me and the metal handcuffs bite into the delicate skin on my wrists.

But I don’t care. I don’t care what damage I do to myself. I want him to uncuff me and let me go. For him to leave me the fuck alone for the rest of my life.

The hot tears splash on my cheeks. The room seemingly spins.

Except for the doorway where he stands observing my meltdown. He remains resolute through it all, an unmovable presence even in my hysteria.

When I’ve exerted every ounce of energy I have in my body and finally go still, he decides it’s time to move. He steps away from the door and approaches the bed, his boots loud on the wooden floorboards.

Tension bottles up inside me and I flinch before he ever touches me.

“Get away,” I croak, voice rubbed raw. “Don’t!”

I’m ignored.

Brontë grabs the glass of water and then brings it to my lips, signaling to take a drink. I turn my head away. He grips me by the chin and wrenches my head right back.

“Drink.”

“NO!”

He doesn’t ask a second time. His grip tightens until he’s prying my mouth open and tipping the glass against my lips with the other hand. My resistance pushes back against his efforts. I keep trying to turn my head to the side, lips clamped shut.

After several seconds of struggling, he succeeds, forcing my mouth to open enough that water slips past my lips. I choke on it, refusing to swallow to the very last drop. I’d rather die of thirst than accept anything, even water, from him.

He slams the half empty glass of water down on the bedside table. He moves onto the blanket swathed over me, his long, thick fingers twining in the fabric and snatching it away. Theblanket flops to the foot of the bed and I’m left uncovered in nothing more than my bra and panties.

The realization I’ve been stripped down ignites more screams and thrashes.

“You asshole!” I yell, kicking my legs despite the handcuffs. “Undo these right now! Let me go right now! RIGHT NOW!”

He ignores me, working in silence.

It’s then that I realize he’s not empty-handed—he’s brought some kind of first aid kit with him. Probably a find he came across rummaging through the Klum’s things. They’d kept plenty of those kinds of supplies in the hall closet.

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