The fourth check in today.
Sighing heavily I re-position myself, giving my back to him.
Wrists sore I start again with the leg cuffs. Rationally I know it’s futile. There’s no glimmer of hope that I’ll be free of my restraints. But I can’t just give up. It would feel final. And I’m not going to be the one to put the final nail in my own coffin.
My ankles have taken less of a beating than my wrists. The cuffs dig into the skin there, creating cuts that sting every time I go to walk. I mentally curse his name. He couldn’t even give me a slither of space between my damn skin and the restraints.
I know if I continue to try and remove them I’ll only be slicing my skin to the bone. And what good will that do me?
If I have any chance of escaping I need to be strategic. I have to outsmart the man who seems to have thought out every little detail.
My stomach rumbles. I eye the uneaten food. Perhaps I should put my stubbornness aside and at least take a bite.
Realistically, how long can I refuse food before my organs start to shut down?
It’s already been two days given the amount of trays that lay untouched.
Wetness kisses my cheeks. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hands.
Two days and it feels like a fucking lifetime.
God, I really miss my ma right now.
I sober quickly as I hear the key being placed in the lock. I will not show fear and I will not bow down.
If I could defy my pa I can defy any man. Even knowing the notorious tales of the infamous Rico Maroni. Stealing souls like the grim reaper himself to place before The Devil of the East Coast, Don Constantine Donati and his wife Carina.
My death, if it does come to that, will be honorable. That is a promise to myself I will not break.
He enters the room and it’s almost impossible not to look at him. His presence demands to be acknowledged. What a contradiction for a man who wants to belong to the shadows.
Satisfaction fills me as I see the wounds I inflicted. A swollen eye and tape over his broken nose. My hands fists with the urge to do more.
The door shuts quickly behind him. I’ve tried once running past him. The next day I woke to my feet being shackled.
“You haven’t eaten,” he says.
I reply with snark, “Thanks Captain Obvious.”
“Are you trying to commit suicide by starvation?”
“Would it ruin your precious plans if I did?”
He ponders. His eyes search mine. Assessing. Analyzing. I have a feeling if he stares too long he’ll uncover everything there is to know about me. “I could always force feed you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I seethe.
“I wouldn’t dare, Imogen. I simply would.” His tone is nonchalant. Blasé. And it begs the question how many times has he had a captive?
Enraged, I shuffle off of the bed and come to a stand. There’s a healthy distance between us but it can be closed easily.
I look at him then. Really look at him. And as I do it only pisses me off more.
Here he stands in his perfectly tailored clothes, with warm food in his stomach, skin clean and his damn scent of amber. YetI haven’t bathed in two days. I’m still in the clothes I attempted to escape in. A constant reminder of my failure. My hair has become a tangled mess and my smell certainly isn’t pleasant.
“You keep surprising me,” he says and I can tell he doesn’t care for it. “You try with tremendous effort to break yourself free. Rid yourself of tears until the point of exhaustion. Yet you have not once begged for your life nor your freedom.”
His monotonous voice does nothing to unravel the ball of nerves that reside in the pit of my stomach, it only adds to it.
