Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 70225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 351(@200wpm)___ 281(@250wpm)___ 234(@300wpm)
Seeing it makes me cringe, and my stomach forms in knots.
It’s not my blood, and it has to go.
I hurry to the bathroom. The walls are made of white and blue tile, the shower as well, the glass clean and inviting. I walk towards it, but on my way in I can’t help but take a look at the mirror.
I stop dead in my tracks when I catch sight of myself.
Deep, dark circles have formed around my eyes from lack of sleep. My hair is frizzy and matted, and there’s a red splotch on my forehead, where I hit my head when Axe Man gave me a beating from hell.
My lips are so raw and chapped that I see the blood between the cracks. I lick them and it burns. My wedding day makeup has run down my cheeks. I look dead already.
But that’s not the worst of it.
The worst is my dress.
My beautiful wedding gown.
It’s torn.
Bloody.
Ragged.
It’s no longer ivory. It’s smeared in dirt, oil, grime, urine, and way too much blood.
I snatch my gaze away, tears forming at the rim of my eyelids. I start the shower and strip out of my dress immediately. I keep watch of my surroundings as I wash.
I may be getting treated humanely now, but I don’t know what’s in store for later.
The steam fills my pores and I stand beneath the stream, soaking up the water, making sure every single part of me is thoroughly cleaned—every part but my still-raw wrists.
I think about what Ronaldo said in that cell, about making the king notice.
I think I did the job.
If I hadn’t stabbed Axe Man, he wouldn’t have given two shits about me. It probably would have been me getting the beating instead. I hate that my violence led him to his, though.
After my shower, I grab one of the fluffy, white towels on the handle bar and wrap it around my body. I rub my hair dry with a smaller towel and then walk out of the bathroom, peeking around the corner.
When I know no one is around, I tiptoe to the closet, across the soft, tan carpet.
Flipping the light switch, I step inside and when the closet is illuminated, I am stunned.
Patanza wasn’t kidding. There are clothes of every size here. Some look worn, but most of it is new.
I take down a pair of jeans my size, a long-sleeved gray shirt, and some tennis shoes.
I walk back to the bathroom and stare into the mirror. Normally, I’d do my hair, makeup—all of it. There is a jewelry box on the shelf beside the mirror, but I won’t use any of this stuff. It’s not mine, and I am not a puppet they can toy with.
I do decide to use the bandages they have to wrap my wrists, in hopes that they’ll continue to heal without getting infected. I hiss and stomp as I pour the alcohol on each one before wrapping them.
Besides that, nothing else matters. I’ll let my hair air dry and walk around with purplish bruises around my eyes. That way he’ll know just how much damage I incurred because of him. Because of his people.
I walk to the door, pulling it open slowly.
Patanza is standing in the hallway like she said she would be. Her hands are behind her back, her brows dipped as she focuses on me.
“It’s about damn time,” she mutters, pushing off the wall. “Let’s go. You have less than an hour.”
“Do I really?” I ask as I walk quicker.
She looks over her shoulder but doesn’t respond.
Instead, she marches down the stairs, and I follow her lead. I take in the portraits on the walls. There are four of them. All of them have a different man on them. All of the men have straight faces and cold, dead eyes.
It almost feels like they’re watching me.
I don’t know why, but the sight of the portraits sends me chills. I assume they are the boss’s ancestors.
When we make it downstairs, Patanza makes a right. I frown as I look to the left where the kitchen is.
“I thought you said we were going to eat?”
“We are.”
She doesn’t look back. She continues walking. Warily, I follow her, keeping watch of my surroundings. I don’t realize how nervous I am until I feel my fingernails digging into my palms.
I loosen my tightened fists as we walk down a long corridor. There are more portraits on the walls, but they aren’t of people. They are paintings.
All beautiful.
Clearly masculine.
Dark and chilling.
There is a signature at the bottom of each one. A large D and some scribble.
As I study each one we pass, I realize the same person has created them all. One of them of a young boy bent over catches me off guard.
The others were scenery photos but this one is gritty and sad.