Burning heat rushes to my face, and I mumble, “I’m not stupid?—”
“Then stop acting like it!” he roars.
“I’m out of here!” I scream.
I’m not a screamer. I’veneverbeen a screamer.
But I’m at my wit’s end; my nerves have gone haywire and my pulse has exploded and every step he takes toward me makes it ten times worse.
It feels like I’m back in the cage again, confined to a small space like a pet.
I’m no one’s pet. Not even Fedorov’s.
I scurry around Killian and rush toward my backpack on the kitchen table. The sum total of everything I own crammed into one measly, frayed and faded backpack I got at the shelter. It barely holds the handful of things I call mine, but at least it makes for a quick escape.
I’m grabbing hold of the backpack when Killian’s grabbing hold of me.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I retort, voice shaky. “Anywhere away from you!”
“You’re not allowed to leave. Put your damn bag down.”
“How many times do I have to tell you I go where I want? I do what I say!” I yell hysterically. The tighter he grips my arm, the harder I fight back.
I jerk against him, swinging the backpack at him. The sack ofmy things collides with his hard, broad shoulder and does approximately zero damage.
A man like Killian Rourke might as well be made of steel.
The backpack bounces off him, and then he’s snatching it away with relative ease. I release a howl of frustration as he’s so casually overpowered me. I charge at him and shove at his chest, jumping and hopping and grappling for my bag back.
“Give me my things!” I scream in a panic. “Those aremine!”
“Calm down first. You’re about to pass out, you’ve fucking worked yourself up?—”
“GIVE ME THEM!”
My hands curl into fists that I slam against his chest. That I punch into his shoulder wildly, my glasses slipping down my nose and air bursting from my lungs.
It doesn’t change matters. It makes no difference.
But it makes me feel like I’m doingsomething.
I’m fighting back in some way.
I’m so frustrated, I’m in hysterics. I’ve exploded like a powder keg when normally I’m locked up tight. I’m a closed off, emotionally withdrawn fortress.
Killian’s brought it out of me, and the longer he keeps my backpack out of reach, the more the panic grows. The more I think about the times Fedorov’s men taunted me and withheld simple luxuries until I gave in and promised to obey.
Agreed to be hisMyshka.
I shove at Killian’s chest as he holds me back and hot tears splash down my cheeks. I’m not sure when I started crying, but it’s the first time… in a very long time.
The emotion pours out of me, the fortress walls tumbling down.
“You don’t own me!” I scream. “Nobody owns me! Those aremythings! You think I want to depend on you for safety? You think I like feeling like a burden? Do you know what it’slike to be treated like an object? Having no say or control over your own life? DO YOU?!”
I can barely finish what I’m saying. The cries have taken over, racking their way out of me.
