Eventually, he had stopped her himself.
Mila didn't know how long she spent on her knees working desperately to get through the door, but eventually it had burst open once more and the man had stormed in. He hadn’t spoken a word, but he had been almost vibrating with anger. She had thought he was going to spank her again, and her bloody hands had subconsciously moved to cover her still sore bottom.
He hadn’t wanted to spank her though.
Instead, he had wrapped a thick arm around her waist, yanked her up against a hard chest, grabbed one of her hands, and shoved it inside a mitt. The mitt was black and made from a dense, heavy material. It had a large Velcro strap around the wrist which he secured tightly. Almost too tightly.
Realizing he meant to physically restrain her now instead of letting her roam freely around the room had her flipping out. Claustrophobia was already suffocating her, the thought of not been able to move was incomprehensible.
She began to struggle frantically.
Fighting against the arms that held her, she scratched at him with her free hand, and swung her legs, managing to connect squarely with one of his shins causing him to grunt in pain.
He had taken hold of her by the shoulders and shook her so violently her head snapped backward and forward and her neck burned with pain at the sharp movements.
She was going to get herself killed.
Why couldn’t she stop fighting him?
Why couldn’t she play things smart?
Mila knew that her sister would do anything to find her. She and Rylla may have their problems, but her sister was a good cop and a good person, and she would work non-stop to find her.
While she was still stunned, he had shoved her other hand inside a matching mitt then snapped on a pair of handcuffs. He had added a belt around her waist and secured her already bound wrists to it. Then he had dragged her over to one of the corners where a small metal ring had been set into the stone wall and attached the belt to it so that she was forced to stand on her tiptoes, with her nose pushed up against the cold wall.
That had been hours ago.
He hadn’t been back since.
She knew there were cameras in here so he was probably watching her, but he had kept his distance.
She was still standing in that same awkward position, unable to move more than an inch or so to either side. Her calf muscles ached from being perched on her toes for so long. Inside the mitts, her hands stung from all the cuts and bruises she had given herself.
How long did he intend to leave her here?
Indefinitely?
She wasn't sure how much longer she could stand it.
She wished that the man would come back and yet at the same time she desperately prayed he wouldn’t.
Was this how Rylla had felt as a teenager about their father?
Before this, she had never believed her little sister. Had thought that Rylla’s claims about their father were simply fueled by shock over their mother’s actions, grief about their destroyed family, and typical teenage unhappiness about parental rules and limitations.
But what if Rylla had been telling the truth?
What if she reallyhadbeen afraid that their father would physically harm her?
After all, Rylla had fled and chosen to live on the streets rather than return home. Why would she do that if she hadn’t truly feared for her life? Back then, Mila had been busy with her own life, and after her mom attempted to kill her dad, she had distanced herself from her family, embarrassed for her new college friends to find out what had happened. She hadn’t wanted to listen to Rylla’s claims, she hadn’t wanted to be bothered figuring out if they were true or not. And then Rylla had moved on, gotten married, had a child, become a cop, and everything had seemed to work out okay, so she had brushed aside the guilt that niggled at her about possibly abandoning her sister when she needed her.
Now she was deeply ashamed of her actions. Her sister had needed her, and she hadn’t been there.
Tears streamed down her face.
Was this her punishment?
If their father really had gone off the deep end and been afraid that Rylla would try to kill him just like his wife had, then he very well might have murdered her while she slept. And Rylla had been all alone, just fifteen years of age, with no one there to protect her.