Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
My fingers itched to do that.
But I fisted my hand.
“No,” I whispered out loud to myself. It couldn’t have been healthy, talking to another version of myself. But it wasn’t healthy trying to seduce a psychopath either, so I was obviously fucked either way.
No pun intended.
With great difficulty, I dressed. And as I was doing it, I folded up that interaction. I did it tightly and with precision I’d learned from years of therapy. I put it far in the back of my mind then closed the door.
It was the only way I could walk back into the room with him without shrinking in embarrassment. And unfortunately, I couldn’t very well stay in this bathroom all night.
I had to go back out there as if I wasn’t profoundly affected by our moment. As if I didn’t feel changed forever.
I hadn’t wanted to talk to him during dinner, but giving the silent treatment had never really been my thing. Whenever I’d fought with men in the past, I had always promised myself a period of stonewalling—before I learned in therapy how toxic such a thing was—yet always, always lasted less than an hour, unable to hold on to a grudge, desperate to repair the chasm between us and desperate to be wanted. Desperate to be in a healthy relationship, feel safe and secure. Not that I’d ever really had a relationship. I always ran before things got too serious.
In the cabin with Knox, it was actually a good thing to engage in toxic behavior, fighting fire with fire and all that. I was not under any pressure to feel safe and secure with him, such a thing was impossible. There was no relationship to preserve, to nurture.
Therefore, the charged silence should’ve been my victory. I could feel it, like a crackle in the air, the sexual tension I’d poked at. His grip on his cutlery was tight, his shoulders taut and his movements stilted, as if he was forcing himself to be still and calm.
Yes, I’d affected him.
Points to me. To what end, I didn’t know. Weaken him in order to manipulate him into saving me? No, I wasn’t that calculated, and Knox wasn’t the kind of man who would save me. Ever.
Did I just want to torture him a little? Or did I really want to act on this forbidden carnality?
If I was asked out loud, by an outside party who was witnessing this, I would obviously say the former. It was only fair to use whatever wiles I had to torture my captor. But in my heart of hearts, I knew that wasn’t entirely the case. I wanted him. My darker side, the side of me that had been starved and denied, was only growing stronger, hungrier in his presence. I’d been so sure my childhood had beaten out any allure dangerous men might’ve had. But instead, I’d just stifled those feelings and ignored them, only for them to come bursting out of my captive soul.
Which was what I was battling with as I forced the food into my mouth. I needed the calories. I had a lot of strength to replenish. And it was good. Flavorful. He had a talent in the kitchen, especially while working with canned food and dried spices.
A little tidbit of information which was at odds with the image of him being a cold psychopath. But then again, just because someone was a psychopath didn’t mean that they couldn’t also be a good cook.
Not only was I battling the arousal I felt in the air but I was simultaneously struggling with the act of eating the food he prepared under his watchful eye. If his intention was to simply fatten me back up like a pig to the slaughter, he could’ve dumped a tin of beans in front of me and commanded me to eat.
I would’ve done it too, now that I’d brushed against the familiar feel of starvation, after hovering much too close to the abyss of death. Would I have eaten meat if he had forced it upon me after waking up? I didn’t want to answer that question.
He could’ve done it, served it up to me and taken the win by breaking me just a little. Instead, he’d made me the beans, tended to my injuries.
And now he was doing it again.
Mulling over all of that took up a decent amount of time from dinner. But I was not an overly interior person. I wasn’t used to going so long without speaking. I worked with children all day who constantly asked questions, helping them develop their language skills. There was barely ever a moment when I was silent.
When I was at home alone, I was usually speaking to my sister or singing to music. Otherwise, I was out with friends.
Silence was not a familiar companion of mine.