CHAPTERSIX
Vivia
He asksme more about my upbringing, my brothers, my schooling. He asks me if I've ever dated anyone, what I like to listen to for music, do I like to read? The questions seem almost pointless, but I make it a point to answer each one honestly. I don't know why I wouldn’t.
Why did he ask me if I was a good girl? It was the only question that hit a nerve for me.
I can't help the way my body reacts at the slightest hint of approval from him, and it unnerves me. It's an erotic touch, a sensual kiss, a come-hither smile, and a crooked finger. I don't understand why, and I feel as if a part of me is broken to even crave this from a man like him. Or from any man, for that matter.
My stomach growls, and he nods. “We need to eat and then get some rest. Do you need to use the bathroom?"
Of course I do. I've had to pee for like an hour.
Cringing, I ask hesitantly, “… I don't think I saw a bathroom around here?"
He gives me a smirk. "There's an outhouse, toilet paper, and soap. That's about it."
I cringe and think I’m grateful this hasn't happened when I'm on my period because gross.
I hold my chin up high. I can do this. I can do this. “Yeah, I could definitely use an outhouse."
"I'll go with you."
"Oh, no. I don't think so. That's just…"
His hand claps against my ass. “Yes, I will.” I flinch at the unyielding sound of his voice.
I feel my cheeks heat with mortification. It's not so much that it hurt, but I'm humiliated. I look sharply at him to see what his game plan is. What was that?
"From now on, we have rules, Vivia. No back talk. I’m the one in charge here, and the sooner you accept that the better. There’s no privacy. There’s no you and me, there’s the two of us joined at the hip indefinitely. There’s no way you're going anywhere alone, and you will not have a chance to escape until we've gotten to the very bottom of this. I’ll give you the tiniest bit of privacy to use the facilities, but that's all you're getting." He stares at me, so angry it makes my heart beat a little faster.
"Do you understand me?" he says, with that ultra-fixation that’s making me squirm. It was nice when he was focused on asking questions, but now that he's correcting me, I feel as if I'm withering under the laser stare. Yes, yes, fine.
“Fine," I breathe. "I guess I'm a prisoner and all that." I turn my head away from him so I don't have to look at him. Something tightens in my throat when I realize that this is part of what my family is. This is what they do.
“Off we go,” he says with a grip on my arm as he marches me outside.
Okay, so the outhouse is one of the most disgusting concepts ever. It's a literal tiny shack in the middle of the woods with a hole where I’m supposed to—no, wait, we’re both supposed to do our business?
Gross. I don’t even use public restrooms if it can be helped.
Something tells me things are going to get a lot grosser before they get better, if they ever do.
How do the Survivor people do it? No one ever talks about peeing or… worse… in the woods and having to use like leaves to wipe your ass. What about shaving your legs? There's no way he's giving me a razor. I shudder. I shave every day and feel like little trees are growing from my stubble if I go longer than twenty-four hours without shaving.
And then I realize with a cold sort of fear… this is part of my punishment.
I've been stripped of all the comfort that I was raised with, every luxury my family could afford. I have no one to drive me anywhere, no house cleaner to make my bed, no personal chef to give me my platter of food or make me a side salad. No mother to give me an allowance, or older brother to bail me out if I get in trouble. No luxury car to drive me to the city to meet my friends, and I am definitely not getting a manicure anytime soon.
Why do people like situations like this? I shiver and open the door to the gross outhouse. I scream. Dario’s two paces behind me so when I scream, he’s right there.
"What is it?" I don't realize at first that he has a gun drawn.
I point a shaking finger to a disgusting spider with the longest legs I've ever seen.
"It’s—it’s—it's a spider." I manage to stammer. He laughs, actually laughs at me, the asshole.
“Arachnophobia’s a real thing,” I mutter.