Whoa. Talk about a freakish nightmare. I was safely tucked away in bed, and the sun was streaming through the window. I sighed and snuggled back under the covers. A few more minutes and then I’d skip downstairs to collect my three kisses before my father left for work. I wasn’t going to take them for granted anymore.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I frowned.
It wasn’t supposed to follow me into reality.
I kept my eyes closed.
The covers felt funny, rough and coarse, not at all like my soft, silk duvet.
The window, the one I’d caught sight of momentarily, it wassmallandround.The kind that belonged on aboat.
And I hurt. I could feel it now. I hurt everywhere. My head was thick and heavy, and my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I knew it was bad, whatever that sound was. It was coming from behind me and I knew it was bad and evil, and it was going to pull me right back into hell.
“About time,” it said.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Dah-me-yahn.
Damian Hair-ripping, Skull-bashing, Coma-Inducing, Caballero.
He was here and he was real.
I squeezed my eyes tight. I’m pretty sure a wobbly tear would have escaped, but my eyes were so dry, my lids felt like sandpaper.Allof me felt like that—raw and scraped, inside and out. No wonder I had been dreaming about tunnels of sandpaper. I was probably dehydrated. Who knew how long I’d been out or what the side effects were of whatever he’d used on me?
“Did you . . . what did you do to me?” My voice sounded weird, but I had never been more grateful for it. The same went for my arms and my legs and the rest of me. My head hurt, my bones ached, but I was still in one piece and I was never,evergoing to hate my belly or my ass or the dimples on my thighs again.
Damian didn’t reply. He was still behind me, out of my line of sight, and he kept doing whatever the hell it was he was doing.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
I started to tremble, but stifled the whimper that threatened to escape.
It was a slow, psychological game—him, being in total control, and me not knowing what was going to happen next, or when, or where, or why.
I startled when he slid a stool next to me. It had a bowl filled with some kind of stew, a hunk of bread that looked like it had been ripped off—no knife, no niceties—and a bottle of water. My stomach jumped at the sight of it. I felt like I hadn’t eaten in days, and although I wanted to throw it all back in his face, I was ravenously hungry. I lifted my head and sank back down—the motion, combined with the rocking of the boat, making me woozy and disoriented. I attempted it again, more slowly this time, coming up on my elbows before sitting up.
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
What the hellwasthat?
“I wouldn’t turn around if I were you,” he said.
Interesting. He didn’t want me to see his face. If he planned to kill me, why would he care? It would only matter if he didn’t want me to be able to identify him.
I spun around. The world went all dizzy and blurry, but I spun around. Maybe I was a crazy-ass bitch, but I wanted to see his face. I wanted to memorize every last detail so I could nail the bastard if it ever came down to it. And if he killed me, so be it. At least we would be more even.
I saw your face:Bang Bang.
Rather than I-Have-No-Clue-What-I-Did-To-Deserve This:Bang Bang.
He didn’t react to my defiance, not the slightest hint of a response. He just sat there, dipped his fingers in the paper cone he was holding and tossed something in his mouth.
