Three Years(28)

I roll my eyes.

“Though,” he says, raking his eyes down my thin frame, “You’re looking more like a praying fuckin’ mantis these days.”

“That’s generally what happens when you starve someone for three months,” I retort, feeling my face go red. He pushes all of my buttons. He makes me so fucking angry.

He’s the only person in the world who can change anything for me, and all he’s going to do is make things worse.

Not for the first time, suicide crosses my mind. I didn’t have any way to do it before, when I was tied up in the dungeon, and I wonder briefly if he’ll keep me tied up in here as well.

“What are you planning to do with me?” I ask quietly.

He kneels in front of me, a strange gesture of submission for the man who dominates my every waking moment, but the look on his face says otherwise.

He smiles, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. “I’m going to destroy you,” he says softly, that deep voice making me shake, and I don’t doubt him for a second.

He pushes off his feet, standing above me.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says.

My heart plummets into my stomach.

He disappears, slamming the door behind him, and I eye the door nervously. Did he lock it? I didn’t hear a key turn.

I rush to my feet, the empty breakfast plate sliding from my lap and onto the carpet with a dull thud. I reach the door just as it opens again, and I have to step back to stop it smacking me in the face.

“Miss me already?” Dornan asks, looking amused. “Sit. Down.” He points to the chair and I reluctantly make my way back to the chair, sitting my skinny ass down. I watch as he approaches, wondering what sick surprise he’s got in store for me. “Look at that,” he says, reaching down and nudging my slightly rounded stomach. “You’re showing.”

I stare up at him morosely. “I just ate breakfast,” I say dully. “I don’t believe you. I’m not pregnant. You’re just trying to fuck with my head.”

“Shut up and get on the fucking bed,” he says shortly. “Now.”

I’ve been trying to convince myself all along that he’s just fucking with me. That it’s not real. It can’t be. But when he produces one of those hand-held Doppler machines and holds it to my bare skin a few minutes later, I can practically feel my world end.

First, he squeezes cold, sticky goop on my stomach and rubs it all around. Then, he presses the tip of this plastic microphone thing to my skin and moves it around until it starts going crazy.

It sounds like horses galloping. He turns it up so loud that the noise fills the room, and I feel my own heartbeat quicken.

I narrow my eyes. “It’s my heartbeat,” I say dismissively. “Nice try, asshole.”

He smirks, grabbing my fingers and jamming them against my neck, against the spot where my own pulse flutters rapidly. But the sound being transmitted from the small machine, the sound that bounces off the walls and strangles me with its absolute certainty is completely different in pace and speed to my own fragile heart.

Fuck.

I gasp. Tears fill my eyes. He smiles triumphantly, pressing the little plastic receiver harder into my stomach, and the sound gets even clearer.

He’s not making this up. This is really happening.

Again.

How could I have been so stupid to let this happen after everything I went through the first time six years ago?

The room starts to spin, and I can’t breathe. The galloping sound, the heartbeat of a baby, is so loud it’s overwhelming. I sit up and swipe at the machine, getting it away from me, kicking and screaming as Dornan pins me easily with his brute strength.

“Stop,” he says, that glint in his eye telling me he’s getting off on this.

I don’t stop. I keep kicking and screaming until I feel a sharp prick in my arm, and warmth floods my body. My body stills, and I feel so fucking relieved.

Dornan leans over, tracing my lips with his fingertip, making me shiver despite the warm sunshine in my veins.

“Hooked already,” he chuckles. “Just like your momma.”

***

A while later—how long, I have no idea—I hear someone shift beside me, and push myself up into a sitting position, rubbing my eyes.

Dornan is sitting beside the bed, having pulled up one of the white wicker chairs, and when he sees me he grins, reaching for a glass of water.

“Here.” He hands me the glass of water and I take it, thirsty complicit little slave I’ve become. I’m too drug-fucked to even care he’s gained total control over me in such a short time. I’m just empty. Done. A broken shell carrying a product borne of vengeance and hate.

Oh, Jesus. The sound of the fetal monitor dances in my head again and I take a deep gulp of water.