Page 98 of In Control

What the fuck does he hope to achieve?

When he first covered my mouth with his hand, I thought he was going to kill me. I closed my eyes and waited for the impact, thinking of Gabe, thinking of a knife and blood. But there was no impact. Instead the world faded to black.

Drugs. It must have been some kind of drugs.

I woke up in this room, my head pounding, my eyes stinging and my mouth dry. My mind ran through all kinds of gruesome possibilities then. All the terrible things he could do to me, here alone, half drugged, my hands tied, my mouth stuffed full of cloth. I couldn’t even scream.

But he hasn’t touched me. Hasn’t laid a finger on me. And as the minutes and hours pass, I become more certain his intention is not to kill me, or harm me.

No, the twisted fuck has some other plan. One I imagine involves making me his.

That’s what he thinks I am.

Another possession. Another belonging. Another thing to be owned.

He never liked the fact I didn’t agree with this assessment.

I wonder how long it will be before anyone notices I’m gone. A whole weekend before I fail to show up at the college on Monday and even then they might write the first days of absence as sickness. I’m pretty much left to my own devices most days – only checking in with my supervisor once a fortnight. Scott is so wrapped up in his own work he probably won’t know I’m missing and my mum will assume I’m avoiding her calls. That leaves Rosie. But how long until she realises I’m not simply missing her calls but am actually missing?

And Gabe and the others? They’ll probably think I’m ghosting them.

Shit!

I creep to the door and rest my ear against the wood, listening. I was invited to this place on numerous occasions. Every time I refused. Now I’m debating if that was so smart. If I’d come before maybe I’d know more about this house. Then again, I’d always had my reasons for never accepting an invitation back to his house. Reasons that, under the current circumstances, seem justified.

We only dated for a few weeks. Enough time for me to see behind the mask of charm and pleasantry and glimpse the real man. Another man I’d trusted. Another man who’d proved I was a fool to do so.

The house is silent. I know he lives alone, but I also know he’s fuck-off wealthy and so I wouldn’t be surprised if he has staff – a cleaner or a house keeper. Someone who might be able to help me.

I keep listening, hoping to hear a creaking floorboard or a tap running. Nothing.

I try the window again, even though I’ve tried it three times before. Even though I know I wouldn’t survive the fall and there’s no convenient drainpipe to shimmy down. Nor is there an air vent in the ceiling or a secret door in the closet.

I stifle a sob in my throat.

I am not going to cry.

The fucker is not going to have the pleasure of seeing me cry.

I am not his. Not his to manipulate and control.

I breathe. Deep, lungfuls of oxygen. In. Out. In. Out. Ignoring the stale taste of the air.

I am going to find a way to escape.

* * *

The light has fadedby the time I hear footsteps in the hallway outside my room. I scramble to my feet, wishing to high hell I had a weapon, and having to make do with forming my hands into fists.

The lock in the door turns and the door swings back, the light flicking on immediately and blinding me.

I blink, my eyes adjusting.

When I finally focus, he’s there, standing in the doorway perfectly calm, like he didn’t just drug and kidnap me.

Justin.

“Would you like to join me for dinner, Sophia?” he asks.

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