I already know so much and it’s equally as heartbreaking as it is infuriating knowing what she suffered. Do I really need to know more, and more importantly, do I have a right to invade her thoughts this completely?
The answer is no, but I’m a dick and I don’t care what rights I do or don’t have. That woman upstairs is mine, and if I have to live with some guilt in order to know how to heal her I’ll do it.
It takes less than an hour to read the file cover to cover, and I’m crying by the time it’s done.
I dry my eyes and think of every minute of every coming day and the ways in which I’ll make those minutes the most blissful for Ellie that I can.
That’s my job since I failed to protect her from that animal Bolton. I take that shit seriously, more so now after I know how bad her ordeal was.
The file is closed and stashed in the safe where it will stay till I’ve tortured myself a few more times and read it again. I’ll do that shit till I can recite it word for word so I never forget why she needs me more than she needs freedom from me.
And then I’ll burn it.
I do drink this time because this is too much. As the man that I am, ruthless in business and what little personal life I allowed myself while waiting for Ellie to be ready, I’m not used to letting emotion cloud my mind.
The feelings rushing through me now are too strong and I turn to the liquor cabinet, set on getting myself nicely sauced so that when I see her in a few hours I won’t be quite this raw. And maybe, just maybe if I’m mellow I won’t give in to the urge to make love to her before she’s ready.
This knowledge, the sick and twisted facts I now have polluting my brain, has only served to amp me up. The instinct to claim and mark is now that much stronger, and since it was a beast before, I reckon it’s a slavering rabid animal now.
But I’ll wait, as long as need be before I do anything that might harm her. She’ll be ready soon enough, God willing, because my dick is desperate enough to go looking if I so much as fall asleep beside my baby.
***
Ellie
This is the third morning I wake alone and I don’t like it, not one bit. I fell asleep last night cradled in his arms, the cuffs binding us together as tightly as any ring or marriage license can, and I’d felt, peace…I think.
I sure dropped off quick enough to make me believe that’s what that feeling was, and I slept like a corpse to boot, only half waking when I felt him get up to go to the bathroom.
He must not have come back, though. I’m stretched out on his side of the bed, my face planted in his pillow, sniffing out his scent like some dog in heat or something.
Yeah, I’m so there after seeing him drop trou last night and crawl in behind me. The man is built, but what I failed to see last time is that he is tattooed, as well, with some sort of dragon thing across his right shoulder and part of his chest.
And then my eyes had progressed down and my vagina actually shrank in fear because that thing, his…it was just so…there. Proud and large and swollen.
It got harder the longer I’d looked at it, and by the time I could drag my eyes up I was blushing and not so sure about him, me, and the whole sex thing.
Too big. Way too much.
I’m awake now and mad. Where is he? What sort of captor is he fixing to be if he leaves me alone for hours and doesn’t even re-cuff me to the bed? To play a damsel in distress is hard enough without him taking away the whole distressed part of things.
He’s clever, though, I will give him that. From what his mom told me yesterday, his intelligence has served him well in business. Wyatt is a mogul, like one of those rich guys who could buy and sell countries and not break a sweat over the cost.
And he likes power plays enough that even though he’s gotten rich enough to retire for ten lifetimes and never go without, he still goes to work for the rush of sealing the unsealable deal.
I suppose he has to have that kind of drive since the man is a health fanatic and drinks those raw egg shake things like water. Just gross. How the heck am I supposed to kiss him with that shit on his breath?
A record scratches in my head and everything stops. Can I, Eloise Carver, messed up as I am and averse to any sort of happiness, really be wanting to kiss Wyatt Lane?
At my age, it may not seem like a big deal, except for the fact that I am a virgin with no experience. That shit is intimidating.
I’m also unprepared to consider that kind of relationship with this man, no matter what my body wants. I’ve just come off the terror of being taken against my will again, not to mention the snake debacle. I need some rest for my nerves.
The problem is that I remember. I’ll always remember. After I escaped and ran from Bolton’s torture, I spent so long walking in circles, delusional from thirst and hunger and heat. I collapsed and would have died right there if not for that freak stalking me, just waiting to snap me back up and take me back to his hovel.