Page 51 of Pastel Kisses

Which, unfortunately, is starting to feel like a real possibility if she doesn’t screw up soon. If this deranged bitch actually manages to kill me, I just hope one of the guys is smart enough to demand a paternity test—so they’ll know the truth. So they’ll know the baby was always mine.

At least then, they’ll have a piece of me.

The wicked gleam in her eye relays her confidence, which is part of my plan. Iwanther to believe I’m incapable—stuck—and at her mercy. All of which is true, but when the moment’s right, I’m going to pounce. “How’re you feeling today?” She coos, as if she gives two shits about how I’m actually doing. Again, the concern is only for the baby.

“Doing fine. The same.” My hand trails over the roundness of my belly, drawing fire to Sarah’s irises. Her jealousy is clear when I touch the baby or experience something she can’t. She’s not going to risk getting close enough to feel a kick, nor would I let her, but the snake wants to lash out. The little bun in my oven is the only reason she’s behaving herself. I’ve gotten hit with the bar a few times, never near the baby, but arms, legs, and head are perfect targets. I didn’t say I never tempted her. It’s the only rebellion I have. “Kicking like crazy.” By the twitching of her left eye, that one put her over.

A cackle that would put a pack of hyenas to shame slips past her lips before she refocuses on me, narrowing her eyes. “We’re going to try something different today.” She pauses, gauging my reaction, so I give her nothing. “You’re smelling—badly—and it’s wafting upstairs. When guests come over, I can’t have them asking about the smell or get curious and try to find it. Plus, you’re getting close to having the baby, so cleanliness is important. That’s why you’re getting a bath today!”

She’s acting like she gets to bathe her dog for the first time, but excitement zips through my veins.She’s bringing me upstairs. This is it! My chance.“That sounds heavenly. Thank you. I’d love a bath.”

Her eyes narrow again, always analyzing. “One wrong move, and whack!” She whips the bar out from behind her back and swings it towards me.

A startled squeak chirps free as I flinch, a reaction not fabricated, because she’s a fucking unpredictable psycho. “I’ll be good.” I rub my belly and hunch my shoulders, giving off the illusion of weakness, hopefully playing her right into my hand.

“Okay,” she responds slowly to my pleading. “But it’ll have to wait until later. I have an appointment to get to.” She claps her hands together like we’re all set and walks from the room.

Anticipation claws under my skin as the day ticks by. Counting the minutes is pointless after several hours pass. Breakfast is long gone, ensuring I have the energy for whatever lays ahead.

It seems as if an entire day passes before the front door slams closed and footsteps sound above. Impatiently, I wait. She spends time in what I believe to be the living room, bedroom, and kitchen, before her kitten heals clomp their way down the stairs.

The click of the key is as loud as a gunshot in the silent room, but then she’s humming as she sets another plate of food down. “Eat before you bathe.” She perches on the chair next to the door, waiting for me to finish eating.

She’s impatient.Distracted.

My mind drifts, wondering what her appointment was about, or if she even had one. She hasn’t mentioned Jaxton or the guys lately either, indicating things weren’t going as planned. In fact, I’m almost positive they’re not. Jaxton wouldn’t have been so distraught on TV if he wasn’t waiting and hoping with every part of him, I’ll return.

When I finish eating, I clean my area like a good pet, and sit back to wait for her direction. Submissively, while excitement vibrates under my skin, hoping the ploy will feed into the innocent act.

She slowly reveals a set of keys from her pocket, allowing me the time to note the shape, size, and color. “Go sit on the bed.” Her instructions are firm, trying to claim authority.

I do as she asks, floating with excitement. When my back is against the wall, she grabs my ankle. The release of the lock signals a new beginning, a fresh start, the ending point of this culmination of events.

My ankle is all the colors of the rainbow, sprinkled with dried blood, and itching madly. When I rub the offended area, an unintentional moan escapes. “Oh, thank you. It’ll be nice to get this soaked and clean.” Hopefully, the amenability doesn’t create suspicion.

She tsks, as if the mauled ankle is my fault. “I suppose we’ll have to treat that, too.” She sighs, exasperated. “Let’s go.” She points toward the forbidden door—stairs visible for the first time.

The first step is the hardest, when all I want to do is skip, run, and shout for freedom. Physically holding myself back, I step into an unknown future, knowing I’ll not surrender to that dungeon again without a fight.

We climb the stairs, but when we reach the top, it just ends. There’s no door or handle—the exit isn’t visible until she reaches around me and double taps the wall. It bounces back and reveals a hidden door.

Once we’re in the hallway, we pass several rooms on either side, their contents hidden by closed doors. The blackout curtains shroud the living room in darkness, an enclosure of secrecy masked behind pretty walls.

Sarah shuffles quickly, obviously nervous that I’m on the loose, and when we reach the bathroom, she shoves me in. “Sit down.” She points to the toilet.

When I do, she turns to start the bath water. The little voice in my head is constantly encouraging an attack, but practiced breathing keeps me calm enough to think rationally. I’ll only get one chance.

“Take your clothes off.”

The water temperature must meet her twisted standards because she turns back to me in the cramped space, issuing the command like it’s second nature.

My muscles groan in protest as I reach for the hem of my shirt, fingers trembling slightly from the effort. Everything aches—every movement feels like I’m dragging a boulder through wet sand. I tug the fabric up and over my head, wincing as my swollen belly shifts with the motion. At this stage of pregnancy, I’m not just tired—I’m a walking planet, and the shackle that was chained around my ankle makes even the smallest motion ache.

The moment I settle back down on the toilet, a wave of dizziness rolls through me, distorting my vision with a pulsating blur—like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a strobe-lit techno rave. Sarah definitely laced the last meal with something. It’s not the usual sluggishness of pregnancy or exhaustion—it’s chemical, unmistakable. My limbs feel heavy, like they’re underwater, and my thoughts start to fuzz at the edges.

By the time I’ve caught my breath and blinked away the spinning lights behind my eyes, the air is thick with tension. Irritation radiates from across the room—Sarah’s impatient tapping, her eyes narrowing as if I’m taking too long just by existing. The silence crackles between us, and though I’m the one drugged, somehow, I feel like I’m the one holding all the power just by not breaking.

Let her stew.

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