Page 47 of Unorthodox
He jerks upright, his hand knocking mine off of the gun as he expertly pulls it from the holster and holds it to my temple before I can so much as blink.
His eyes are deranged.
I’m not breathing. Bile burns its way up my throat once more as I jerk my head back, trying to get away from the gun, but my feet don’t move, my limbs frozen.
“M-Max,” I say softly, my hands trembling by my sides, terror coursing through me. “Max, it’s me.”
His finger is on the trigger. He doesn’t lower the gun.
My throat tightens as I hold up my hands, forcing myself to take a step back, away from the feel of steel against my forehead.
“It’s me,” I say again, my voice soft. “Addison.”
He blinks, and it seems like, for the first time since he opened his eyes, he actually sees me.
Slowly, he lowers the gun, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “What were you doing?”
I lower my hands, glance at the bathroom over my shoulder, the light still on. “I brushed my teeth,” I tell him. “Like you told me to.”
He keeps staring at me, almost as if he’s confused. As if he’s trying to figure out if I’m telling him the truth.
He needs sleep, but I’m not about to tell him that.
Finally, after a tense moment, he sighs. “Come here,” he says, jerking his head to the space beside him. My bed is unmade, a mess of grey and white sheets from my tossing and turning.
He places the weapon on my nightstand, and I breathe a little easier after that.
“I can just…I can just sleep on the floor if you—”
“Addison.Come here.”
I swallow down the lump in my throat and take a hesitant step toward him. I inhale deeply, trying to calm my nerves, but the pine cleaner assaults my nose again, making me wince.
I close my eyes, hating this moment of weakness in front of a man like Max Bennett. But then again, all he’s ever seen is me at my weakest. A prisoner, taken captive, hoarded away as a hostage while my father contemplates how much my life is worth. Now that it’s been a year since my father has touched me, I doubt he finds I’m worth much at all.
“Addison.”
I keep my eyes closed, try to breathe through my mouth. “What?”
“What’s wrong?” His tone is cold, but his question is genuine.
I open my eyes, take another sip of air through my mouth. In this moment, Max isn’t my worst fear. “You don’t want to know.”
His eyes narrow. My room is shrouded in darkness, but the light from the bathroom illuminates him, and I can see the scars along his ribs, the hard lines of his abs, his pecs.
I force myself to look at his face. To not think of the horrors he must’ve suffered, just as I have. I force myself to feel nothing for him, as my mind tries to push back against the pine-drenched nightmares.
“I hate repeating myself, love.”
I look at the floor, knowing that if I don’t tell him, I won’t survive in this fucking room, and that has nothing to do with Max. However long it takes for my father to come for me, I won’t be able to stomach the wait if I have to breathe in this fucking floor cleaner one more night. The other option is being drugged again, and I don’t want that. I’d rather live the nightmare than be helpless against it. Living is surviving.
“The smell of the room,” I tell him, swallowing as I shift my weight from my left foot to my right. “I don’t like it.”
Silence slices through the room.
My face flushes, and I’m glad the only light is from the bathroom, but even still, I don’t dare meet his gaze.
Then comes the follow-up question: “Why?”
