And Marcus is taking his sweet time.
“You've decided to come back,” his text said. “Where are you?”
I send him my location, then slip the phone into my jacket pocket. Will Ashland come after me again?
My hands are wrapped around the coffee. It doesn't taste as good as Ashland's.
My god. I can't think like this.
The phone in my pocket feels like a loaded gun, and my hands are trembling. Have I really fallen victim to full-blown Stockholm syndrome?
Every time the door opens, my heart races. I keepchecking the parking lot through the windows, listening for the sound of Ashland's heavy footsteps.
But he doesn't come.
Why doesn't he chase me?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Can I get you something else to eat, love?”
The waitress stands with her hands on her hips, her head tilted to the side. She's seen this look—I know she has—the look of heartache.
“No, thank you.”
She shakes her head and pushes a few more creamers and sugars onto the table, as if that will help.
“Don't need to tell me anything,” she says. “I can see the way your eyes dart to the door, hoping someone will come after you.” She pauses. “For what it's worth, love, it won't always be this way. I promise.”
She reaches over and squeezes the top of my hand.
I bet a woman in a place like this has seen quite a lot. She truly believes I've been through a bad breakup or something.
Why do I feel like… she's not that far from the truth?
I should feel…free.
How am I both dreading and wanting Ashland to storm in, find me, and drag me back tothat cabin?
The cognitive dissonance is making me lose my fucking mind.
I escaped. I made it out, and I'm no longer his captive. I texted Marcus just like I planned.
I'm crazy, and the only explanation is that he fucked with my mind.
No. No, I'm not crazy. I'm traumatized. There's a difference.
But wait—is there?
I stare at Marcus's contact photo. He looks handsome, put-together, normal. He doesn't look dangerous. He doesn't look threatening. He doesn't look like he could pull someone apart with his bare hands to protect me, like…
I can't think about this anymore. Every time I think of being with Marcus, I see Ashland.Ashland.
I shake my head violently and dial Marcus.
“Bianca.”
His voice is wrong. Cold. Distant. Perfunctory.
