10. ten

"Coffee?" he questions as his heavy footsteps travel further from the door. A moment later, he's rummaging through cabinets and drawers in the kitchen.

Is he actually making fucking coffee?

Tiptoeing across the room, I slowly shut the bedroom and ensure it doesn't click as it presses closed. I turn the lock and back away from the door until my back is pressed against the far wall.

What the fuck is going on?

Looking around the room, this place is nothing like the dirt-infested hell hole I've been tied to for weeks—or was it months? It fucking felt like years. This place is clean. Luxurious furniture, clean sheets, curtains on the windows—a way out.

Yanking open dresser drawers, I haphazardly rustle through clothes looking for socks and a pair of pants. Finding socks first, I quickly pull them onto my feet and head into the closet. Even this space is immaculate. Rows upon rows of pristinely hung pants, shirts, and suits. But it"s the pile of neatly folded sweatpants that truly draws my attention.

Pulling them on, I look at the rows of shoes and quickly surmise that none of them will even come close to fitting my small feet. I walk with purpose from the closet toward the windows. I'm going to fucking be free. Drawing back the curtain, I'm met with iron bars and my heart sinks.

From one hell to a fucking cage.

Silently unlocking the bedroom door, I draw it open a crack and peek down the hallway. No sign of him. Pulling it open enough for me to pass through the threshold, I step into the hallway. My steps are soft, hoping the floors don't creak as I make my way down the hall. Reaching the end, my heart is pounding when I poke my head around the corner. No sign of the man, but the front door can't be more than thirty feet away.

Sucking in a deep breath, unsuccessfully trying to calm my nerves, I dart around the corner and sprint to the door. I don't even look for him or glance behind me. My sole focus is getting to the door, turning the knob, and finally being free. I hit the door with force, my body not entirely cooperating with me. Painfully gripping the knob, I turn my hand, but the knob doesn't move.

"You're not getting out that way, either." A deep snide voice draws my attention. Whipping around, I press my back to the door to find him looking at me smugly from behind the kitchen island. "Cute sweatpants though."

Reaching behind me, I continue to fumble with the knob while feeling for the lock. Nothing. Taking my eyes off him for a second, I look toward my hand and realize that there is no deadbolt.

"It's for decoration." He turns his back to me and opens a cabinet. "The lock is electronic. No one comes or goes without my permission."

Spotting the knife block on the counter, I hesitate for a second to determine whether I can reach it before he turns around. Instinct outweighing any sense of logic, I run to it and wrap my fingers around a large knife.

"Did you want coffee?" he asks as he turns around, completely unfazed by the knife I'm now wielding.

"Let's not get crazy, little lamb." He continues making his cup of coffee as though there isn't a single threatening thing about me. "Put the knife down before you get hurt."

"I want to go." I wave the knife at him.

"I can't let you do that." His response is flat as he lifts his cup to his lips. He pauses to take a slow, savory sip of his coffee before continuing, "I'm not done with you yet."

"Done with me?" I step toward him, the knife held firmly in my hand, ready to plunge into him if needed. "Just fucking let me go."

"Put the knife down, Lucia." His voice deepens as he steps closer.

"Fucking stay back." I swipe the knife toward him. "I'm not afraid to fucking stab you."

I'm not afraid. I'm fucking terrified.

"Give me the knife." He continues to walk toward me. I retreat with every step until I find my back pressed to the cold steel of the refrigerator door. My heart thumps in my throat, and I try to swallow it down while sucking in trembling breaths. Too terrified to speak, I merely shake my head at him.

The point of the knife presses against his shirt, and he stops when the knife meets the resistance of his stomach. His large, calloused hand wraps over mine, and he holds the knife firmly against him as he leans toward me. My eyes fixate on the small red stain seeping into the white fabric of his shirt behind the tip of the knife.

"Either give me the fucking knife," he inches forward and grits his teeth as the blade presses further into his flesh, "or fucking use it."

I gulp back the rising taste of bile in my throat, a reaction to the nauseating, slick sound of the knife slowly sliding into him. His grip tightens around my hand, squeezing it painfully hard as he forces me to plunge the knife further into him.

"Stop." The word trembles from my lips.