Page 23 of Sweet Doe
I have work to do.
The light streams through the bedroom windows, casting everything in a yellow hue. Without the distraction of having him here, I can finally think clearly.
He's smart, I'll give him that. Brilliant, even, in his twisted way. The planning that went into this kidnapping, the attention to detail, the psychological manipulation... it's not the work of some unhinged stalker acting on impulse. This is methodical. It’s the work of someone who understands exactly what he's doing.
But smart doesn't mean invincible. And if there's one thing I've learned in my twenty-eight years on this planet, it's that every man has weaknesses.
Every predator has blind spots.
I just need to findhis.
The chain gives me about six feet of movement from the bed, enough to reach the small table by the window but not enough to get to the door. He measured it carefully, I'm sure. I’m close enough to basic necessities, yet far enough from freedom.
The first thing I need to accept is that I can't overpower him. He's bigger than me, stronger, faster. He's also well-versed in violence in ways that Alex never was.
So brute force is out. Running is out, at least for now. When I'm chained to a bed in the middle of nowhere with no survival skills and no idea which direction leads to civilization, I can’t realistically believe I’d make it out of here alive.
So that leaves psychology.
I settle back against the headboard, pulling the blanket around my shoulders as I consider what I know about Asher. Not much, unfortunately. He's the family secret, the twin they erased from their perfect world. He clearly has abandonment issues, anger issues, and an obsessive personality that walks the line of delusion.
But what does he want?Reallywant, beneath it all?
Love, obviously. But not the healthy kind. He wants the consuming, all-encompassing kind of love that burns everything else away. He wants to beneeded, to be the center of someone's universe the way he clearly never was growing up.
He wants what Alex had.
And that's where I come in.
I'm not just a prize to be won or an object to be possessed. I'm a symbol. A representation of everything he was denied, everything he deserved but never received. In his fucked up mind, claiming me isn't just about desire… It's about justice. Leveling the playing field.
Which means he needs me to want him back. He needs me to choose him, not just submit to him. The obsession isn't satisfied by my compliance; it requires genuine emotional investment.
And that's his weakness.
Because need makes you vulnerable. The more he needs my emotional response, the more power I have to manipulate him. The more invested he becomes in my feelings, the more I can use those feelings against him.
It's a dangerous game, really. Playing with the emotions of someone so eager to murder is like dancing on the edge of a cliff. One wrong step, one moment where I push too hard, and I'm dead.
But it might be my only chance.
I think about his reaction when I told him I hated him yesterday. The way his expression faltered, just for a moment, before he covered it with that philosophical bullshit about hate and love being similar emotions. He was hurt.Actuallyhurt by my rejection, which means my opinion matters to him.
If my opinion matters, I have leverage.
The sound of tires on gravel interrupts my plotting. He's back from town with whatever supplies he thinks we need for our extended stay in his form of paradise. I have maybe two minutes before he comes to check on me, two minutes to compose myself.
The front door slams shut, and I hear him moving around the main living area. The rustle of bags, the thump of heavy objects being set down. He's taking his time, probably organizing his goods, making sure everything is perfect for his precious prisoner.
I use the time to examine my appearance in the small mirror on the bedside table. My red hair is a tangled mess, and there are dark circles under my eyes from stress and lack of proper sleep.I look like exactly what I am—a woman who's been through hell and back.
But underneath the obvious trauma, there's still something that draws him. Something he saw in all those photos that made him decide I was worth murdering for.
His footsteps are coming down the hallway now, calm and confident. I arrange myself on the bed, not trying to look too eager but not cowering either. Somewhere in between—vulnerable enough to appeal to his protective side, strong enough to keep his interest.
"How are you feeling?" he asks as he enters the room, carrying a steaming mug that smells like hot chocolate. "I thought you might be cold."
The casual tone of his voice is surreal. He's bringing me comfort food like a thoughtful boyfriend would, not like the psychopath who has me chained to a bed.
