11. Dolly

11

DOLLY

M y throbbing head woke me yet again, and I winced before I even opened my eyes. The ache started at the base of my neck, a discomfort that made my entire body feel heavy and sluggish, making it hard to breathe.

I slowly blinked open my eyes, everything from before I passed back out rushing in and causing my head to pound even more.

The room was dimly lit, shadows casting unfamiliar shapes against the walls and ceiling. I struggled to focus, blinking away the haze that clouded my vision from whatever sedative he'd given me and the heavy sleep it induced.

Panic surged through me as reality hit hard and deep. And the longer I tried to make sense of… anything, the more that panic rose. I sat up quickly, but a new wave of dizziness forced me to steady myself against the headboard.

I was alone. I knew that, so I took in my surroundings fully for the first time.

The bedroom was modest with minimal furnishings—a small, scarred, and aged dresser. To my left was a wide, sturdy-looking nightstand beside the bed, and there was a single window across from me. The glass looked slightly foggy with its heavily embroidered curtains mostly shut. A chair was next to the door.

Everything looked… normal, but I knew it was anything but. As my vision adjusted more fully and I took in more of the room, my gaze landed on an open bag sitting on the ground by the closed door on the left wall. I knew that bag because it was mine .

I could see my clothes inside, still neatly folded from when I last packed it. My fear rose, and I sat up further, feeling my heart race and my breathing pick up. On the nightstand lay my poetry book, neatly set out with my reading glasses on top of it. I ran my fingers over the worn cover.

I focused on the bedroom door, and the cold realization of my situation reinstated itself like a heavy anvil in my gut. This man—who kidnapped me—had also brought all of my belongings here. Which meant he had no plans to let me leave. And somehow, above everything else, I felt a sense of violation that someone had gone through my things.

Although I was still dizzy, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and gave myself only a second to breathe through the wave of nausea. I was about to stand, but when I placed my hands on the mattress and added pressure, the tug and pull of discomfort in my wrist stopped me, and I gasped.

For the first time, I noticed a small bandage wrapped around it. It felt tight but not constricting, and with shaky fingers, I unwrapped the dressing, terrified of what I would find.

And when I saw the skin beneath it, I gasped in horror at what was revealed.

Etched into my skin in elegant black script was a single word.

Lars.

I stared in disbelief at the tattoo.

Oh my God . He tattooed me. He all but branded me in the sense that I was his property.

My fear made way for anger, churning with more ferocity the longer I stared at the ink. Before I knew what I was doing, I was screaming out as loud as I could. All my anger and fear and sadness came rushing to the surface.

I was still screaming when the door crashed open. I glared in incredulity and female rage at the man—at the monster.

I didn't need him to tell me his name to know what it was. He'd permanently etched it into my flesh like I was fucking cattle.

Lars stepped inside, his muscular, imposing frame filling the doorway. He had his dark eyes trained on me, his expression unreadable, as he stepped farther inside and shut the door behind him.

In his hands was a wooden tray that held plated food and a glass of water. My stomach clenched in a mixture of nausea and hunger as I smelled the eggs, ham, and toast.

"You're awake," he said in a calm voice, but his sarcasm was clear.

Obviously, I was awake. I'd just been screaming.

I didn't respond, just scooted backward on the bed, as he came closer and set the tray on the bedside table, moving my book and glasses to the opposite side, his movements unhurried, his focus never leaving me.

I couldn't find my voice, even though I'd just been crying out to the heavens seconds before. My gaze darted between him and the door, calculating my chances of getting past him and escaping. But my body still felt a little heavy, and my fear made my limbs uncooperative.

"Why am I here?" I finally asked. But I had a hell of a lot of other fucking questions on my mind. I swallowed, my throat dry and tight, and that glass of water was looking really good right about now.

As if he read my thoughts or saw the thirst on my face, he grabbed the glass and held it out it to me.

I pursed my lips and shook my head.

"Be as stubborn as you want." His voice was low and deep, his accent American. "But you're not going anywhere, so you'll either starve to death or eat and drink what I give you." He pushed the glass closer, his expression hard. Firm. "The faster you drink this, the sooner I can get you another one to flush out the sedative."

It was as if his saying those words made me thirstier. I figured if he wanted to drug me again, he wouldn't need to spike my drink. He'd just stab me in the neck with another needle, which I now remembered him doing so stealthily. I took the glass and moved right, scooting sideways on the bed before climbing off of it. At least the mattress was between us, yet I was even farther from the only escape.

I drank the water so fast I choked on it. He took the empty glass and left, but before I could make a move toward the door, he was back with the glass refilled. I snatched it away and drank that one, too, and when I finished, I exhaled at how good it felt to no longer be thirsty.

He moved over to the chair pressed to the wall and dragged it across the wooden floor, the legs scraping loudly in the room. He picked up the tray of food and set it on the mattress between us before he took a seat on that side.

When I didn't go for the food, despite getting hungrier as the time passed, and I didn't say a word, he finally leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head and said, "I brought you here because I wanted you. You're mine, and we belong together."

I took a few seconds to really look at him. His hair was short and dark, his eyes just as black, almost bottomless. He wore a plaid, long-sleeved button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and the first few buttons were undone at the collar. I could see a sprinkling of dark chest hair on the exposed skin.

"It's safer this way… to have you here with me."

I felt a wave of incredulous anger fill me. "Safer?" My voice was flat. "You—" I inhaled deep and long and exhaled just as slowly. I glanced down at my wrist, holding it up as evidence, my flesh throbbing and sore. "How am I safer with you when you're the one who did this to me?" My voice, although emotionless, was rising.

He stared at my wrist, and the bastard had the audacity to have a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured, not saying it like a question. The motherfucker was proud of himself for what he'd done to me.

"But…," I whispered, "why?"

"I needed you to understand how much you mean to me and how permanent you and I are." He held his arm up, twisted his hand, and showed me his skin. And there, right on his wrist, was my name. "Now, I'll always carry a part of you with me and vice versa."

I recoiled in horror. Disbelief careened through me as I stared at my name. His skin was raised and slightly pink, the tattoo as fresh as mine. "You're fucking crazy." My voice was choked and strained, and I felt tears stream down my cheeks.

He sighed and leaned back in the chair. "You think that now, but in time, you'll see how this is where you're supposed to be. With me. Always."

I shook my head, the sensation of adrenaline overriding the fog in my mind. "You can't keep me here." I said it with such certainty that, just for a split second, I even believed the words, as if saying them out loud meant they'd come true.

He didn't speak, didn't look arrogant after what I said, because we both knew what I said was a lie. He definitely could if he wanted to.

"My family and friends will start freaking out when I don't return next week." My voice was shaky when I said those words because they held zero truth. But he didn't know that. Right? "Someone will come looking for me."

He cocked his head slightly, his gaze steady, his expression unreadable. "I don't like lies, Dolly. Let's just keep it the truth between us, okay?"

I swallowed, trying to push down the thick, nervous lump in my throat.

"Even if what you said were true," he said, low and steady, "it wouldn't matter. No one will find us. No one will take you from me."

"This is crazy." My voice rose with my anger. "I'm nothing to you. Let me go." I felt my face heating with my emotions.

"You're everything to me."

I felt like my eyes bulged out of my head at those words.

"I don't even know you." In my head, that truth was screamed in a surge of panic, but it was nothing but a breathy whisper from my lips.

He was still and silent for long seconds, but then he leaned forward, braced his elbows on his jean-clad thighs, and stared at me. "But I know you, Dolly." There was this fervent edge to his tone, as if he needed me to understand and accept it. "I've watched you. I understand and know you in ways no one else ever could."

Oh my God. He's a lunatic. Psychopathic.

I was still standing on the other side of the bed and took several shaky steps back, my body coming in contact with the wall. "This is insane. You're insane."

He stood then, and when he moved closer, I opened my mouth and screamed… but nothing came out. It was nothing but a fear-stricken gust of air that left me, and I couldn't stop it until he stood right in front of me.

"I don't want to frighten you," he whispered so gently it made me want to believe him with everything in me. "Don't you understand?" He reached out and touched a lock of my hair, and I flinched, as if that touch burned me like a brand. "I want us to build a future together. I want you to trust me. And I know that'll take time." He stared at that lock of hair between his fingers, rubbing the strands as if mesmerized by the sight. "And I have all the time in the world for you, little darling."

My arms were crossed over my chest, a defensive pose to protect myself. But the sting of the fresh tattoo reminded me I couldn't protect myself at all from this man.

A wave of female rage built inside me again, and I placed my hands on his chest and pushed him. Surprisingly, I pushed him back an inch, but I knew I only could because he allowed me to.

I held up my wrist. "This isn't trust. This is abuse."

A shadow of darkness passed over his face, and I inhaled sharply, afraid of what I saw.

"Saying that shit isn't helping matters." With one more hard, unyielding look, Lars turned and headed for the door. "I suggest you eat and finish your water. After that, get some rest." He didn't look at me, just stared at where he gripped the door handle. "Your clothes are in your bag. Put them in the dresser as you see fit." He glanced back at me then. "Once you're feeling better, we'll wash you up and talk more later."

"We'll wash you up?" Oh, hell no!

He opened the door, but before walking out of it, he said, "It's best if you don't leave. The cabin is out in the middle of nowhere. The woods are dangerous, and you'll just end up hurting yourself before I get to you." He stared at me with cold, black eyes. "And I will find you. Be smart about this, Dolly." With that ominous statement hanging between us, he left and silently shut the door behind him.

I didn't hear a lock engage, so I could only assume he was so sure about me not leaving, or that he'd find and catch me if I did, that he wasn't worried about keeping me in this prison with lock and key.

I stood there for a moment, numbness spreading through me because I was good and fucked. Fight or flight told me to make a run for it no matter what he threatened. But what if things got worse if I tried to leave, and he found me?

As reality settled in, I sank to the floor and let the tears I'd been holding back spill forth. I was trapped in an isolated place with a man who had been stalking me, and believed we were meant to be together in some fucked-up and twisted fairy tale.

I stared down at my one and only tattoo. I was now marked permanently with his name. There was no doubt he had a claim over me, no matter how nightmarish it was.

I was trapped.

I felt helpless and weak.

But if he wanted me so badly, there was no way in hell I would make it easy for him.