Regret curdled inside me. Had my desire not held me hostage whenever Jackson was around, had we not given in to our baser needs, had he not needed condoms to fulfil our lust for each other, then I wouldn’t be in this predicament.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, frozen beneath him. “And how… how did you know—”
“Where you lived? You didn’t really believe I couldn’t find you, did you? You belong to me, Sophie,” he said, my name like acid on his tongue. “You always will.”
“I’m not yours. Not anymore.” I tried to buck him off me, but to no avail.
“I have a legal document that says you do.”
The last thing I wanted to do was mention Jackson, but maybe if he was aware a trained fighter was on his way back here, and soon, he’d come to his senses and leave.
“Jackson is going to be back any second.” I struggled to free my hands from his grip, but he tightened his hold, bruising my flesh.
“I’m not worried about him. Some of my buddies will keep him busy for a while.”
“What did you do?” I asked, panic threading through every word I spoke. “Did you set him up? He has nothing to do with you and me.”
“He’s fucking my wife. He has everything to do with this.”
The man I once pledged to spend my life with now looked like a stranger. Gone was any reminder that he ever loved me. Although, I doubted he felt anything toward me other than his warped sense of ownership. But at least there had been times he faked it so well, I’d believed he truly cared for me. But the man pinning me to the bed had a dead look in his eyes, as if every trait that made him human had morphed into something else entirely.
His dark hair, which he’d kept short, was slightly longer. And he’d never worn facial hair but was now sporting several days’ growth. Mitch had been meticulous with his appearance, careful not to allow his mask to slip long enough for anyone to see the real him. Other than me, of course. These slight changes told a story—unfortunately, a dangerous one.
He reached behind him and withdrew his gun from his waistband. He looked at the weapon, then at me, and I was sure he witnessed the terror on my face.
Would he really kill me?
Was he delusional enough to think he’d get away with my murder?
Was it possible he could?
Would he try and set Jackson up for my death?
So many questions rattled around inside my head, but none of them distracted me enough to calm the erratic beat of my heart. My fear thickened the blood in my veins, and every breath I took was stolen by the next.
“What are you going to do?” I asked, unsure if I wanted him to answer. The less I knew, the better. Right now, delusional wasprobably the safest place for me to mentally reside until I could figure a way out of this. If that was at all possible.
The clank of his gun hitting the bedside table made me flinch. “I’m going to punish you for running away.”
“I didn’t run away,” I argued, my tone lighter than I intended. But panic was to blame for the display of weakness. “I left because you abused me. You pushed me down those steps and killed our baby.” I hated using the word “our” because he never wanted that child.
“I did.” This was the first time he admitted what he’d done. “I wasn’t going to share you with anyone,” he said, the coldness behind his eyes terrifying me. “And I won’t start now.”
With his free hand, and with force greater than he’d ever used before, he squeezed my right nipple. I cried out in pain. He repeated the torture several more times before he wrapped his fingers around my throat and restricted my air. As black tunneled my vision, I thought of my dad and Abby, of Jackson, and how I’d never see any of them again. But right before I passed out, Mitch released his grip, and I was thrust back into full consciousness.
Through every painful cough and stuttered breath, I held on to hope I’d be rescued, but when I looked at his gun, then veered my gaze back to his and saw his expressionless face, which frightened me more than if he flashed an evil smile, I quickly realized this would be the end of my time on this earth.
The only question was: how long would he drag out the torment?
34
Pricks of pain washed over me—from the awkward stretch of my arms to the bruising around my breasts and neck. Part of me fought to hold on, praying I’d escape with my life, but there was also a small part of me that conceded and wished for him do whatever it was he planned and just get it over with already. I was tired of being afraid of Mitch, and I hated that there wasn’t anything I could do to stop him from hurting me, even possibly killing me.
There is something you can do.
My inner voice rattled off the statement out of nowhere, and I paid attention.
Defend yourself.
