I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t jump at the chance to get out of this room. Not only does it open the door for me to chance another escape, but it also might help settle the tormenting thoughts swirling in my brain on a daily basis.
“Aren’t you scared I might stab you?” I grin.
He chuckles, low. “Try your hardest. Even if you succeed, you’ll never get more than five meters down the road and my men will have you. Then, sweetheart, you really will wish you were never born.”
“Call me sweetheart again, I dare you,” I warn, eyes narrowed.
“Hurry up and get dressed or I might just change my mind.”
I turn and slam the door in his face, then quickly pull on my clothes. Every few days, they rotate my clothes, giving me some clean ones. I don’t bother to ask who they belong to, but they are women’s clothes so I assume one of their flings. I drag the old comb through my hair and then stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is dull and in need of some serious attention, and my eyes ... they’re bloodshot and tired. Yes, this place is certainly pushing my mental state to its limits.
I walk out into the room and see the door is wide open.
I hesitate, because as far as I know, this could be some sort of trap. Why would he let me out now? What’s in it for him? Hesitantly, I walk out of the open door and into the large house. As I approach the kitchen, he’s sitting at a bar stool, staring down at something. Is he reading? Seriously? What’s wrong with this picture? Is this man completely off his rocker? Surely he is, either that or he’s really testing me out right now.
That’s fine, I won’t try and escape tonight.
No, two can play at his little games.
I walk right past him and go to the fridge, opening it. I glance around at the contents, and pull out a tray of chicken. Luckily for him I can cook and, oh, I can do it well. I pull out mushrooms, onion, garlic, and tomato paste. I slam them down onto the bench right in front of him, and he ever so slowly lifts his gaze to stare at me. I hold that gaze, for a long, long moment before going back to my meal.
Chicken spaghetti. A childhood favorite of mine.
“Smells good,” Jagger murmurs, when I begin to sauté the onion and garlic.
I narrow my eyes, staring at him. This must be a test. It has to be. He’s not nice, and he’s certainly not this casual. What is he up to?
“Thanks,” I mutter.
“Do you cook all the time?”
I shrug. “I like cooking, but most of the time I like to do it by choice and not because some asshole kidnapped me and forced me to.”
He snorts. “Touché.”
“Tell me, Johnny, do you make it a habit to kidnap girls to get what you want?”
He flinches. Someone doesn’t like being called Johnny; I make a mental note to throw that one in there more often. I slice the chicken and notice his eyes scanning over the blade. He’s not nervous, is he? I fucking hope he is.
“No, you’re the first,” he finally answers.
“Well, don’t I feel honored?”
“It could be worse ...”
“Tell me how?” I mutter sarcastically.
“I could have raped you, let my gang rape you, beat you, starved you, the list goes on.”
“Well, lucky me.”
“I have no intention of hurting you, Willow, but your mouth is pushing me to my limits.”
I glare at him. “You’ve hurt me, numerous times.”
He growls, low. “You’ve given me little choice.”
“There is always a choice, buddy. You’re making the wrong ones.”
“My life is not a fuckin’ fairytale, at what point did you think it was?”
“Oh, believe me, I know it’s no fairytale,” I growl, throwing the chicken into the pan.
As much as it kills me to admit it, being out of that room is a refreshing change and one I’m really beginning to enjoy.
“Then why do you defy me so often?”
“Do you want me to fear you, Jagger? Is that what will get your juices flowing? Well, news check, buddy, I don’t. I’m not going to let you or your little gang friends break me. I’m staying strong for myself, it isn’t to challenge you. I want to come out the other side of this with my sanity.”
He stares at me for long moments and my cheeks heat under his gaze. I curse my reaction and pray it just looks like the steam from the pan is making my skin flush.
“How old are you?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“I said, how old are you?”
“You know so much about me, but you don’t know how old I am?”
“Didn’t bother to check. Now answer the question.”