“Thank you,” she finally whispers.
Now if only I can keep my word.
Chapter 14
Raya
Not long ago, I shoved down the idea that I was suffering from Stockholm syndrome. But I have to wonder if that was the case. What else would explain the reasoning for feeling more than just a hint of arousal, watching him jack off right beside me, the movement of his hand easily felt because we’re sitting on the same mattress.
I’m losing my mind. I have to be going crazy for my body to be reacting the way that it is. That arousal faded quickly when he went to go shower, so does that make it temporary insanity? Is it the lack of sunlight? The lack of a schedule? The lack of large groups of people having expectations? Is it because he’s the only one I have to focus on? Is it because I’m not having to spread my attention?
I don’t have the answer to any of those questions. But I can’t deny that it turned me on. I dipped my fingers between my legs when I heard the shower turn on. I was wet.
I could tell when he walked back in here that he thought I was just sitting here like a good little girl, and I pray that he never finds out that I climbed off this bed and used the corner of the sheet to clean myself up. I didn’t orgasm. That would be even crazier than being a little turned on at the sight of him but I needed that arousal gone. I wouldn’t put it past the man to challenge me, to demand that I show him.
It has to be coming, right? He can’t be satisfied with just watching me get off. He can’t be okay with just me watching him. He promised he wouldn’t rape me but I can’t allow myself to believe that. There’s going to be more and it makes me want to cry, knowing that the appeal of everything we’ve done is there.
My heart continues to race at the same speed it did when he was pleasuring himself, but now it’s because I’m scared. I’m scared of how it made me feel, of how it forced my body to respond to him. My mind keeps traveling back to his promise. But he doesn’t have to rape me for it to be assault. He doesn’t have to penetrate me for it to be assault. Not even including the abduction, what he’s doing, what he’d just done on the bed beside me, could be punishable by law.
Peeping Toms and men who pull their penises out in public get charged. They face criminal charges for doing such things.But you liked it,my mind forces me to acknowledge. I shake my head, wondering if he knows how much I’m struggling internally right now. Not that he would care. He doesn’t seem like the type of man that would give a shit about anyone else’s feelings, anyone else’s needs, but his own.
I don’t think for a second that he brings me food and water because it’s a benefit to me. I would be hard to manipulate if I were too weak. This isn’t my fault. He’s to blame for this. And if not him, maybe it’s my lack of experience. My body doesn’t fully understand what’s going on, what’s happening, and what’s appropriate, when to get aroused, when to feel desire. My lack of experience can be to blame.
I could also blame my parents for keeping me guarded so strictly. That’s who I blamed after the near scandal with my college professor. Had they given me a little freedom, if they allowed me to experience life, on any level, I don’t think I would have been as susceptible to the small amount of attention I was paid as a freshman. I wouldn’t be turned on by a psychopath if I had been given a chance to go out and live a normal life.
Tears streak down my face for my own depravity, and I have to dash them away with the back of my hand. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t smile or taunt me because I’m upset. He also doesn’t look pleased. The worst part of all of this is that he watches me the same way I watch him. His eyes graze down my cheek, following the multitude of tears that I can’t seem to stop.
His promise means nothing as he tugs the blanket a little bit higher up on his chest. He said don’t be scared of that, of that type of assault. But he’s in bed beside me, and that is all I can think about.
He pulls his eyes from mine as he lifts the television remote, pointing it at the screen. It goes black before a whirring sound fills the room as it slides back into its hidden spot in the footboard. He turns over, angling his back in my direction, and turns off the bedside lamp.
He’s not afraid of me. He’s not scared or worried that I’m going to hurt him in the middle of the night. There’s no reason he should be, despite what’s happened. My mind keeps going back to the fact that physically, he hasn’t hurt me. I don’t know if I can fight him. I don’t know if I can hurt him, physically. Even though he hasn’t done that to me, I know I wouldn’t win.
I refuse to think about the fact that’s not the main reason why. I don’t know if he changed his mind or if he’s just uncomfortable, but he rolls back over, the overhead light still shining bright. His eyes are closed, those sandy brown eyelashes resting fully on his cheek. When he moves again, I startle, a knee-jerk reaction.
He twists in the middle, grabbing a different remote, and then the room goes dark. I’m left sitting, staring into emptiness, my heart pounding in my chest. If he has nefarious plans, I’ll never see it coming. I can only assume he’s going to hurt me when his body moves again, but all I feel is a soft touch—a brush, probably the tip of only one finger, on my leg and then it’s gone. It was so brief, I could convince myself that I imagined it. That it didn’t happen. That he didn’t finally cross that line.
He doesn't apologize. There are no whispered words in the darkness, but he also doesn’t reach for me again. I sit there for what feels like hours, adrenaline rushing fast enough to give me a headache, but he doesn’t move again. His breathing is low and steady, rhythmic enough that I convince myself that he’s asleep.
I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to look back at this moment. If I’ll be rescued and asked to tell the full story, to give every single gritty detail about my stay here. Would they ask me why I didn’t try to smother him or why I didn’t try to hurt him to get away? Because I don’t touch him, and I don’t know the answer as to why I don’t.
I tried to imagine myself being free of him. I tried to picture what it would look like, but overpowering him, for some reason doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t feel right deep inside of me as that’s what I need to do. I want to shake him awake and insist that he leave. I want more promises from him. I want an agreement of sorts. I want to be able to ask for things and get them—like him sleeping in another room, which he did before now. I want privacy to shower and use the restroom. I want meals that don’t consist of things I’d never pick for myself if I’m going to be his captive.
I should have more accommodations. I scoff, covering my mouth with my hand the second the sound escapes. I don’t want him to wake up but my thoughts are leading me to ridiculous places. Maybe this is part of that insanity.
The man forced me to make myself come in the shower. It wasn’t what I wanted.But did he make you watch him when he jacked off beside you in the bed?The answer to that is yes.
I tried to pull my eyes away. I tried to not watch him. I didn’t feel threatened in that moment. I wasn’t worried he was going to hurt me. There was no silent command to keep my eyes on him but that didn’t make it any less of a choice. There was no choice. I was in a trance.
I blink into the darkness but my eyes refuse to adjust to the lack of light. It’s too dark. It’s too quiet. It’s too everything.
“If you don’t go the fuck to sleep.” I jerk at the sound of his voice, scaring me in the darkness. “Raya,” he warns, the tone of his voice making me immediately lie flat on the bed.
We’re still not touching. I wouldn’t survive the night if we were. I close my eyes because they serve me no purpose in the darkness. I lie flat on my back, listening, but there’s something soothing about the sound of his voice, about the sound of his breathing, and when I get the urge to drift off to sleep, much like how I’ve acted since I got here, I don’t fight it.
Chapter 15
Liam