Chapter Two Hundred Thirty–Four
ROSE
An accelerated spiral of lust – the likes of which I have never had to suffer through–batters inside my core. Creating a wanton, lecher borderlinepainful pulse of anticipation in the one place that women were gifted to receive pleasure. A place that has only ever come for me while secretly watching dirty movies, except for today.
It is his fault. Bartletts. Being near him is doing something to my insides that I’m not altogether comfortable with. The moment I opened my eyes and realized he was standing there beside the bed, it was like I was still in that dream. The one he haunted.
I felt a hundred different emotions all at once and I didn’t know how to react. Then, he touched me and all I could think about was what it might feel like if he were to kiss me too. Of course, he didn’t and he wouldn’t, because I’m not that girl. The one that guys like to kiss. I’m not special in any way. At least… not in any way that I want to be.
Rescuing
g me from a lion attack probably made him feel some sense of obligation toward me now. Some irrational duty brought on by the euphoric sensation of saving another’s life. When he heard they were going to arrest me, he must have felt sorry for me and decided to (help me escape.
Sarry enough to kidnap you, Rose? Really?
But it has to be that, because, why else would he do it?
As far as being kidnapped goes… I can’t really say I’m disappointed. If Tm being honest, I’m kind of excited. I know I shouldn’t be… I
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My head and heart pound in tandem as I watch him climb to the top of the landing. The muscles of his rear clench and unclench behind his jeans and I’m practically drooling. I’ve never seen à body so completely packed with all the goodies one might only ever see on
h television. None of the guys that I know have even a six–pack. He looks like he might possibly have an eight… or even a nehe. When he reaches the door at the top, he looks back at me and my face flames. The sapphire of his gaze sparkles and he hesitates, resting his hand on the doorframe for a cool minute while we watch each other. My breathing goes ragged as I’m nearly overwhelmed by the sudden sense of longing that washes over me. It feels foreign and almost disjointed, like the finding of a long lost loved one might be. Swallowing thickly. I try to push it down inside of me. To bury it somewhere deep within my bones. For a swift second, he looks like he’s about to come back down the stairs and, chicken that I am, I look away. My eyes dart toward the bathroom door in front of me and a moment later, I hear the bedroom door close with a soft click. When I raise my gaze back up, he’s gone and once again, I’m disappointed.
Jesus. What is wrong with me?
That man is not for you, Rose. He’s way out of your league.
Someone he him would never go for someone
me like
- mc.
Not ever.
Men like Bartlett always chase after the Delilahs of the world. The fiery, sassy, flirty girls. The ones that know how to talk and how to walk. The ones that say all the right things to entice a man a bit closer.
I’m not that girl. I’m just plain old Rose.
My blood is pumping in a frenzied rush, seizing control of my limbs and keeping me cemented in place, my mind scattering to the four corners of oblivion as I work through the implications of my sudden reality. Anxiety has always been a constant companion of mine. It is something that I’ve become accustomed to experiencing whenever I’m forced to interact with anyone that isn’t family. Girls like Delilah. for example, make me extremely nervous. They don’t tend to like me very much. I’m not sure why exactly, but they don’t. Delilah never has and we went to school together from kindergarten to graduation. She was always surrounded by different guys, none of which she ever seemed terribly into. She was popular in that way. A way that I would hver be. I can’t compete with girls like her and it shouldn’t be much of a surprise that she would know Bartlett.
Shake it off. Rose. She left.
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Chapter Two Hundred Thirty–Four
The memory of how Bartlett semed to want to protect me from her cruel remarks brings a fresh blush to my cheeks and a goofy straight to my lips. Then of course… there’s the way he looked at me when he spoke about my figure. If I didn’t know better I would thought he was checking me out. His gaze did sort of linger on my overly developed bosom, a of
Maybe he was. Maybe he did he ne
what he saw on me.
Afterall, he is taking me to an island Islands are isolated and given that he didn’t mention which one were heading to, it could also be private. It’s kind of glamorous in a way, even if circumstances coupled with common sense would deem it more dangerous My mother, for instance, would consider it a red flag warning. However, even if he were a psychopath, I’m hardly the girl Bartlett would decide he just had to have to himself.
But he didn’t tell me what we’d be doing there. Will we be camping? Or will be? It could be that he only intends to help me with a place to hide and the moment he gets me there, he’ll disappear. I hope thats not the case. If it is I might be so heartbroken that I’d rather get
arrested.
As I throw off the covers and gently step out of bed, I’m prepared to be a little bit shaky and maybe a touch off–balance. But I’m steady on
feet when I stand up and my legs don’t so much as tremble. Taking a tentative step forward, I notice not only am I exceptionally stable, but the rest of me feels quite a bit stronger as well.
How can that be? Shouldn’t I be weak? I was attacked for God’s sake.
Maybe it’s like an adrenaline thing. Or it could be that my body is still in fight mode. Who knows, but I find myself in somewhat of a trance as 1 step toward the bathroom. Picking up the bundle of clothes that Delilah brought for me to wear, I race for the shower, all thoughts of injury absent from my mind. Untying the hospital gown in front of the mirror, I end up doing a sort of double take when gaze feathers across my neck and shoulders.
What the fuck?
I mean… what in the actual fuck?
Where are my injuries?
Where are the stars?
The bruises, the cuts, the bandages, the stitches?
Where are they?
With a gasp of disbelief, I fall forward on the counter, stretching toward the mirror for a better look at my throat.
My heart begins to pound with an entirely new form of provocation. Dread
There’s not one single sign of the attack on me. Not one gash, not one tear nothing but a faded crescent shaped scar that looks like it might
have healed ages ago,
Oh… my… God…
How long have I been asleep???
