Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 130048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130048 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
What would Sam say if he saw me in something so sensual? He’d often complained of my flannelette pyjamas and demanded I wear G-strings and corsets to sleep in, guilt-tripping me to be dressed for his pleasure at all times.
The red flags had been waving for far longer than I wanted to admit.
I should never have wasted four years of my life on him.
I should never have gone to France.
If I hadn’t, I’d be back in my childhood bedroom, just down the hall from Krish, about to share a lovely family dinner with my beloved parents and sensitive brother.
My chest ached, but no tears formed.
I think I was all cried out—numb after waiting all day to be abused only to reach nighttime untouched.
With nothing else to do all afternoon, my mind had wandered into the past, deliberately refusing to think of the future or present.
What exactly is my ex doing?
Had he gone back to England and left all my luggage at the hotel? Would he get nervous when I never returned home to collect my things? Would he tell my parents and Krish that I’d gone missing?
Is anyone searching for me?
Sighing, I fought the urge to go inside where it was warm and full of company. While I stayed here—high enough to touch the sunset and close enough to feel speckles of splashing surf—I could pretend I was free. But the moment I stepped inside, the truth would slap me, and I honestly didn’t know if I had the courage to keep pretending.
“Dinner is in thirty minutes.” Peter stuck his head out the small glass door, invading my tiny, barred sanctuary. At least he wore the same linen trousers he’d had on when I first met him in the foyer.
The lightness of his clothing and the rich honey of his skin seemed at such odds with the black wrought-iron rungs curved around and above me, forming a birdcage sticking out from the wall of the citadel. In another life—when I’d explored ancient ruins and drifted down carefully restored corridors of castles and strongholds—I’d seen such cages.
Gibbet cages the information plaques called them. Used to hang traitors and criminals until dead, their skin rotting and sun-bleached skeletons swinging from the parapets as warnings to all.
My empty stomach rumbled as I twisted to face Peter. “Dinner for us or for them?”
He smirked at my growling tummy. “Every night is a banquet fit for a king. If your Master is kind and feeling magnanimous, you may eat morsels that he gives you.” Stepping fully onto the balcony, he lowered his voice. “Some of us don’t have Masters who are kind, so we have a smoothie before going down. That way we don’t faint beneath the table.”
“Do we not get our own rations?” I stood slowly. My knees popped from staying cross-legged for so long.
“Not the rich food they eat, no. You’ve seen the kitchen we have. Nothing to heat or cook with. Just a blender and a sink. We have fresh fruit and vegetables. Some of us nibble on them raw, but most of us have them in a smoothie to get as much inside us as possible.”
“Smoothies aren’t exactly fulfilling.”
“No, but at least they keep us healthy.”
I sighed sadly. “Healthy is a strong word.”
He nodded. “Fine. Let’s go with…not dying.”
“Physically maybe.” I looked his svelte frame up and down, noticing the shadows of bruises from whatever his Master of the day had done to him. “But how about spiritually? How’s that going?”
His eyes narrowed. “Pretty sure you know how that’s going.” His prickly persona appeared for a moment. “We’re all surviving, not thriving. We make do. Just like you’ll learn to.”
My heart panged a little. I had complex feelings when it came to this man. Annoyance at him sweeping me into service. Frustration at his downtrodden-ness. Dislike sometimes. Empathy at others. Confusion most of the time.
Deciding to change the subject, I forced a smile. “If you could eat anything right now, what would it be? Would you ask for a burger or pizza? Sushi or pasta? Me? I’d kill for my mother’s version of malai kofta with a buttery garlic naan, saffron rice, and—”
“Ugh, don’t torture me.” He chuckled with a weary shake of his head. “I hate it when the others play this game. My mouth waters so much it’s disgusting.”
“What would you have?”
He stared toward the night-shrouded cliffs. “I’d murder someone for a banana blossom coconut curry from my cousin’s restaurant. He runs it with his wife, and I’ve never found anything as good.” He shrugged sadly. “It’s been years since I’ve tasted anything that delicious.”
My heart didn’t just pang this time, it broke in half. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”
He shook himself. “Doesn’t matter. No point dwelling on the past. One day, I’ll enjoy rich food again. Might be in the next life, but I hope it will be in this one.”