She fights me just as much as she did the first time when I take her.
My marks are back where they belong on her neck, her arms, that fattest part of her perfect ass.
Yet, I can’t let myself believe that I own her, that she’s mine.
I try to force that promise from her lips, but no matter how many tears flow down her face, she just won’t give in to it.
I’m almost at the end of my rope with it, wondering if I’d be able to force her hand if I tie her back to my bed, but making her stay and her choosing to herself are two very different things.
And fuck do I want her to choose me, to choose this life I’ve promised her.
I send the emails to Liam, Hollis, and a third guy that has reached out to me by the name of Nash. I haven’t met the last two guys, and we’ve only communicated through emails, but they’re kicking ass and taking names while I stay in the house, fuck my woman, and rake in the cash.
It’s quiet today, something I used to relish, but Lauren is a fucking tornado. She talks just for the sake of hearing her own voice, and as much as I thought it would drive me crazy, I’ve grown somewhat used to the chatter.
Today feels different. It feels heavy in its quietness, and I know things are going to change.
She has had more than one opportunity to take off. I’ve tested her, leaving cash and my truck keys lying around, but she’s never attempted it. I know better than to get complacent, and that’s what has me moving from my office to the living room.
It’s empty, as is the bedroom and bathroom.
I find her standing on the front porch, my truck keys dangling from her fingers as she stares out over the barren land surrounding my property.
I don’t know what she’s looking for, what she may be missing, but I know she’ll never express her needs without them being forced from her lips.
Getting her to open up has been more difficult than I originally thought it would be, and she refuses alcohol every time I offer. We both know it’s like a truth serum to her, and although I’ve thought about pouring it down her throat just to get a little fucking insight, I haven’t crossed that bridge yet.
I watch from inside the house as she works through whatever has her head fucked up today, wondering if I’ll be strong enough to let her leave if that’s what she decides.
She may not have opened up to me about what she’s struggling with but I know her enough to know she never pictured her life like this. She was going to push the limits, push the boundaries in captivity until one of those sick fucks pushed back too hard.
I swear every time I close my eyes, I see her shifting her head to the side as I dragged the knife down her neck. She wanted it to end, wanted the pain inside of her that she couldn’t control to stop. I could read it in every tear that dripped down her skin.
It haunts me, just like I know the thoughts of her sister and her childhood haunt her.
She hasn’t asked for the diary or necklace. She hasn’t gone digging through the house in search of them either.
If she isn’t chattering about absolutely nothing of importance or getting fucked, she’s quiet and reflective. She’s like two different people, and sometimes all it takes is the sun setting and rising again for the transition to happen.
One day, she’s all smiles, teasing me until I fuck her hard against the wall, and other days, her pretty eyes are filled with so much pain, she’s hateful and taunting until I end up fucking her.
We always end up fucking, but it’s not like I’m fucking the same woman each time.
Some days, she smiles when I pull her to my chest after we both come. Others, she continues to scratch and claw at me until I release her.
Last night was one of those nights, one of the times that really made me believe she fucking hates me.
The change didn’t happen with the sunrise, however.
She didn’t seek me out in the kitchen naked with a mischievous smile on her face like she’s done in the past. She stayed in bed, curled in a ball. I could hear her sobs through the closed bedroom door.
I fought the urge to go to her, to assure her she was fine because that’s not what she’s looking for, not what she needs when she gets that way.
I tried it the first time, and when she told me she was leaving, I believed her. But instead of walking out the front door after her shower, she went right back to bed where she stayed for the next day and a half.
The woman is truly fucking broken, and I feel helpless, trying to figure out how to fix it, terrified she’s going to find the strength she’s been punishing herself to find for so long. I can’t fix her any more than she can fix me. I still struggle daily trying to silence the voices in my head that tell me I’m a fucking idiot for thinking I could ever be happy.
Her hair blows in the breeze, the jacket of mine she’s wearing, whipping around her thighs, but instead of walking off the porch toward my truck, her shoulders fall. It’s a classic sign of defeat, and her face is wet with tears when she turns around and walks back into the house.