Ghostface Killer(42)

"Baz!" I plead before he leaves the room. "I have to pee. Bad."

He regards me like he knew this was coming then walks out. Shit, he is out to make me suffer. I'm going to end up sleeping in a puddle of my own piss, and he's going to gloat while I do.

I cross my legs, doing my damnedest to ignore the prickly sensation trying to escape out of my bladder. A few minutes later, Baz returns with a key in one hand and a gun in another. 

"Don't make me shoot you, Stevie. Don't turn this into a tragedy." He unlocks one of the cuffs, releasing my hands.

As much as I want to kick the living shit out of him, the nausea is getting worse. I feel really weak and just collectively like crap. I'm definitely not one of those women who glows during pregnancy.

"Walk." Baz nudges me with the barrel of the gun. I steal a quick glance to see if the safety is off. To confirm if he's serious about shooting me. It is, and he is.

Obediently, I walk out of the room, clenching my jaw the whole time. An unwelcome reminder of the power of his fist ghosting across my sore face.

I get my first glimpse of the house as I walk out into the hallway. Big, spacious, the entryway sweeping, providing an unobstructed view of the open living area below. The log cabin is warm with golden tones, maroon leather couches, and fur throw rugs in front of a crackling, stone fireplace.

We walk a few steps down the hall until we come to a door. "In there."

I swing open the door to the bathroom and step inside. It's not huge by any means, but it does house a shower, a toilet, and a dual vanity. There's also a six-point deer head on the wall. That's an interesting place to mount a trophy.

As I go to shut the door, Baz blocks it with his arm. I stare at him, annoyed. "You gonna watch me?"

"Yeah, I'm gonna watch you," he spits.

Geez, we didn't even get this intimate in his cabin in Colorado.

With a resigned huff, I march over to the toilet and pull my underwear down. I do it in such a way that when I bend over, my bare ass is on full display.

I hear a low, guttural groan come from behind me. I smile. I have many methods of torture.

I sit down on the toilet and do my business, Baz watching me the whole time. Not awkward at all. He's lucky my bladder doesn't get stage fright.

Once I'm done, I flush and wash my hands, stalling as long as I can to devise some kind of plan of escape. I could take him by surprise, but I need something big and hard to hit him over the head with. The deer head would work if I could lift it off the damn wall. Baz is large, tall, and broad. If I could take him down, I could probably suffocate him with a submission hold, but I know he won't go easy. Not without a fight. Especially with the green fury churning in his eyes.

And with my precious cargo, I'm not as reckless as I'd usually be. No, now I need to be smart. Especially since I'm practically naked and exiled in the middle of a winter wonderland.

"Let's go." He knocks my shoulder with the barrel of the gun. My exhale is laced with annoyance as I walk back to the bedroom. "Get on the bed, put your hands back over your head." He gestures with the Glock. I listen, grudgingly. "Lock them." Pausing to stare him down with daggers, I mentally stab him to death as I lightly click the metal until it's secure around my wrist. Fucker.

Baz walks over once I'm bound and checks the handcuffs. He tightens the one I just refastened. Oh, he isn't stupid. I had left it loose enough to slip out of.

"Nice try." The cuff is biting into my skin now.

"You're one hell of an actor," I tell him.

"That's the pot calling the kettle black, no?" He pauses pointedly and gazes down at me. "And I wasn't acting." The sentence is acerbic.

"Then who is this person standing in front of me?"

"My darker half." A little bit of the crazy dissipates in his eyes as he reaches down to touch me. I edge away, but he merely brushes his fingertips along my lower abdomen, a brief, wistful look skirting across his face.




 

 

Everything south of his fingers tightens as I try to reject his touch. Want to reject it, but the feelings I harbor for Baz are still present. Still as strong and brilliant and prevalent as they had been in Colorado. I want to hate him. I want to want to kill him. But when he looks at me like that, touches me like that, all I want to do is go back. Start all over, tell him everything. Give us a fighting chance.

He suddenly yanks his hand away, snapping out of whatever daze he was just lost in.

"You're a fucking siren, Stevie." It isn't a compliment. It's a resentful declaration. My heart sinks, but the emotion isn't worn on my sleeve.

I watch helplessly as he storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I relax once I'm alone, the constant sickness pulling me under. I allow it to. I'm exhausted from constantly fighting the rising bile and turbulence in my stomach.