Page 6 of Vendetta

“You raise your hand at me again and youwillregret it. Next time I'll send someone up here who isn’t as nice as me. Now get used to your surroundings, cause you’re going to be here for a while,” he says.

I inch my hand under the pillow searching for the piece of glass. As soon as he takes his weight off me, I turn and swing my arm, trying to cut him anywhere I can. It's a small victory when the shard makes contact with his arm, cutting his skin, but it’snothing serious. He grabs me by the shoulder and pins me down again.

“Fuck,” he curses, taking in the weapon.

I squeeze it in my hand and try to swing again, letting him know I won’t give it up.

“You’re going to hurt yourself.” He pries the shard out of my clenching fingers, and then puts his hand around my neck, squeezing.

Warning.

“You move, and I’ll fucking kill you,” he growls, strengthening his grip. I let my body go limp.

He looks at his hand around my throat, and then his eyes find mine. I try to swallow, but he's practically suffocating me. He snatches his hand away and I gasp for air.

“I didn’t even think of the fucking mirror,” he mutters to himself, sounding shocked, and maybe even a little impressed. He pulls out some rope from his back pocket. His fucking pocket. The man is psychotic.

“Now, you’re going to stay here like a good girl until I clean up your mess,” he says condescendingly, binding my hands together, raising them above my head, and then tying them to the iron headboard. “Try and move, and you'll regret it.”

I can still feel his fingers wrapped around my throat. I fucking despise him.

He strides out of the room, coming back with a bag, dustpan and broom, and various tools. I ignore him as he cleans up, and when I hear the drill I know he’s taking down the rest of the mirror. I squirm, trying to remove the binds, but he’s tied them too tight. Bastard must have been a boy scout or something. Just my luck.

“Anything else up your sleeve?” he asks, chuckling as he walks past the bed and outside the door, the broken mirror in his arms.

I bang my head on the headboard.Seven fucking years of bad luck, all for nothing.

This time he comes back empty handed. He leans over me, untying me, and frowns when he sees the blood dripping down my palm. I rub my wrists as he leaves once more. Each time he locks the door behind him, obviously not taking any chances. He returns what must be half an hour later, carrying a huge bag.

“Clothes, toiletries and shit,” he says, dumping the bag on the floor. Then he surprises me by throwing me a package of Band-Aids.

I look at him curiously, my eyes dancing between the Band-Aids and him.

“Don't want any more blood on my sheets.”

I narrow my eyes. Fucking asshole. I grab for the package, taking out one Band-Aid. His gaze burns through me, but I ignore him. I apply it to the cut across my palm, and then I touch the side of my face, trying not to wince in pain. “I could use some painkillers, too,” I tell him.

“Yeah. Tough luck,” he says, shrugging.

“Why the hell are you being so mean?” I never thought he would be like this. The Devon I know is someone else completely.

“I'm just being me.” His words are cold, emotionless. Realization hits me—this really is him, no matter what I made him out to be in my head.

“Look...” I say, but his back is already turned to me. Without sparing me another glance, he leaves.

The sound of the lock is final, and echoes throughout the room.

I want to call out, I want to beg for some answers, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

How is this going to play out?

I try to make up some plan in my head. I might not be able to fight him, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. Obviously I can't escape, not without some heavy strategizing.

My stomach rumbles. I can still smell the food he brought in. I'm so hungry, but I’m not stupid enough to eat it. Who knows what he did to it?

I sit on the bed, wrapping my arms around my legs. I put my head down on my knees, and allow myself a moment's weakness.

How the hell am I going to get out of here?

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