He only chuckles, to the point I begin to wonder if this guy is ever serious about anything. Life must just be that peachy when you're rich, huh, because he doesn't seem to have a care in the world right now.
Or maybe he's just happy he was right.
I'm guessing it's that one, because he's still entirely smug when he says, “Told ya.”
22
Amber
If I had known that letting a man bring me to orgasm would have felt so fucking amazing, I'd have let them try harder. If I'd known a man would feel compelled to cook for me once he made me come so hard I promptly passed out, maybe I'd have even created a little instructional guide or flow chart.
He hasn't even started cooking anything, but the kitchen already smells amazing. I didn't realize how hungry I was. We've spent the last few days living off of whatever takeout Dex has brought over, cereal, and snacks. I've spent pretty much my whole life living off of protein bars and sandwiches, so I wasn't exactly complaining. It was a hell of an upgrade from the bare minimum they gave us after I was taken.
But the thought of a home-cooked meal has me feeling unexpectedly... sentimental.
I should not be feeling anything other than maybe some mild but tempered rage, resentment, or maybe hatred. What he did to me isn't okay, and I know that. I'm not so sure that Cal does, but I'm not exactly here to be his moral compass. I'm here to be his victim.
That thought steals the peace of watching him strut around the kitchen, and as he chops the onion with a massive knife, I find myself feeling too sick to even think about food.
There were six snakes in his basement. Maybe he's always been into reptiles... or maybe he inherited them.
I know what they did with those snakes in the place they kept me. They didn't just use them to terrorize us, telling us they'd throw us in the snake pit if we gave them a hard time. They also sent them in their packages. I watchedit happen to the girl they took before me, watched them stuff her unconscious body into a crate that looked far too small given how tall and lithe she was. I was drugged, and it was hazy, but I saw them pack her in there and cover her with wood planks.
And if I thought it couldn't get any worse, I was wrong, because they threw in a few handfuls of dirt and straw, like they meant to bury her alive, and then lowered a couple of the snakes on top of her, too.
Snakes didn't exactly terrify me— it's not like I saw a whole lot of them where I lived— but I thought I was going to hyperventilate just from being put into the box. When the woman noticed I was awake and crying, she dosed me more, ensuring I was fully out before they packed me up.
I don't know how precise their shipping method is, if it's random or down to a science, but I watched them lower three snakes into her box. I remember it distinctly. In fact, it's hard to not think of it since I saw his terrarium.
“Can you grab me another clove of garlic?” Cal interrupts me from my thoughts, using the tip of the knife to point to the basket set on his pristine marble counter... much like the one downstairs that he kept me sedated and naked on top of.
I eye him warily but ultimately do as he asks, plucking the bulb of garlic from the bowl and carrying it across the distance to where he stands with the knife, using it to hold the onions against his palm before he drops them into the sizzling pan.
He sure is awfully comfortable with a knife.
Is that his preferred method of killing, I wonder?
“Thanks.” He grins at me, but it falters when he senses the dark turn my thoughts have taken. He turns to me and tips his head. “What's wrong?”
I could laugh, but I don't.
The fact that he even has to ask that makes me wonder if there's something legitimately wrong with him... something more than having an affinity for killing. I also wonder if there's something wrong with me for not fighting him every chance I get.
“Just thinking.” I shrug, waiting to see if he lets it go.
Of course he doesn't. “About what?”
This time, I do laugh. Because how can he not immediately guess?
“We can discuss it over dinner.” I force a smile, and he hesitates just a minute before accepting it. When he turns back to resume making our meal, I excuse myself to the bathroom.
His apartment is masculine—sharp edges and gleaming surfaces, immaculate... the kind of place people pay very good money to live in. I wonder if he's obsessive about cleaning; I haven't noticed as much. But I also haven't seen any evidence of a housekeeper or maid. He'd probably want to avoid people like that coming to his house when he's got trafficked girls in his basement, I suppose. More so when the said girl has free rein of his apartment.
It's hard to feel like I've betrayed myself by not running yet, considering his front door locks from the inside like a normal door. Ever since the night we slept in the bed together, I've been free to go around the place as I please. But it's not like there's a whole lot to look at. I don't go into the basement—no need to trigger myself into a panic attack down there alone, though I fear it less now that he took me down there and fucked me ruthlessly and beautifully.
But running won't help me because I still don't know anything about the people who took me, Parker, or where the fuck we are.
Cal's voice is rich and decadent, but it's not distinct in its dialect. I'm guessing he's no southern gentleman, though some of his actions have certainly not been the actions I would expect of a murderer either. I'm living with a man who told me he brought me to him to kill me—and he paid to do it, to boot. But I don't know so many things even about that.
