7. Her

7

HER

DAY 1

T he only thing worse than the bastard's presence was the sudden lack of it. Being alone with my thoughts was the most torturous form of punishment.

My childhood had been spent in isolation. Not too far off from this, nearly as cruel. If the son of a bitch knew anything about me, he'd realize that this wouldn't be the first time I'd been given the ultimatum of licking my meal off the floor. I was a survivor. I did what it took to get where I was in life. Despite my upbringing. Not because of it. And I would do the same here.

He dished out insults like they meant anything to me. Like I hadn't heard the worst of it long before I even understood the meaning of the colorful vocabulary hurled my way. And he called me princess, as if his wounds were somehow more significant because they were visible.

Fuck that. I'd take damaged flesh over a damaged psyche any day.

There was nothing he could do to my body that hadn't already been done to me before. Nothing I wouldn't endure as I plotted my way out of here.

He wanted a pet? I'd give him one. But something told me he didn't want that at all. No, he was pleased when I fought him. When I talked back and spit in his face. His eyes twinkled and his dick hardened. My submission was never the endgame, whether he realized it or not. What he wanted was a worthy opponent. Because when he did finally break me, that would be the ultimate satisfaction.

What that knowledge didn't do was help me determine my next move. How to play this or play him.

My initial offer was only meant to buy me time. And it had done that… I guess. Every crime show I ever watched said the first forty-eight hours were the most important, and I'd requested more than double that. But then again, who really knew how long he planned on keeping me here…?

It took eight hours for the hunger pangs to set in and my will to finally break. Eight hours plus how ever long I'd spent in that hospital bed after being knocked out. Which didn't seem all that significant in the grand scheme of things. But my pride didn't outweigh my survival instincts. Being weak and half-starved only steeled your spine long enough for death to set in. And I refused to die in this basement. In captivity. Like some forgotten zoo animal.

My dry tongue scraped across the concrete flooring, the granules of dirt, dust, and mummified insects overpowering the flavor of the bland oatmeal. I told myself it was protein. That I'd stomached far less appetizing meals in my lifetime. I'd grown plump and pampered over the years, more so than the bag of bones I'd been in my teens. And a little grime wouldn't kill me.

But I was starting to realize he just might…