Throne of Truth (Truth and Lies Duet #2)(6)

The clock over the higgledy-piggledy stone fireplace said we’d been here an hour. A full hour since Greg tossed me onto the red and navy plaid couch, grabbed a bottle of gin from the fridge, and made us both a cocktail.

I’d accepted it and actually drank the sour liquid, doing my best to relax and let the liquor take away my fear so I could concentrate on the best way to get free.

My attention refused to leave the clock.

Four a.m. yet my eyes were wide and brain zapping with awareness rather than scratchy with sleep. We’d been traveling for hours. It felt like days since I’d seen Penn or Larry or Stewie. Months since I’d heard my dad or stroked Sage’s soft fur.

Too damn long being Greg’s little captive.

Greg groaned as he reclined on the single seat next to the couch; the twine from my wrist dangled over the arms of the chairs, forever joining me to him. “God, it’s good to sit down.”

“You’ve been sitting while driving.”

He sipped his cocktail. “Driving is tiring.”

“And kidnapping is wrong.”

“Who said anything about kidnapping?” He smirked, bringing the glass to his lips again. “Last time I checked, you weren’t a kid anymore.” His gaze dragged up and down my body. “In fact, you’re very grown up.”

I fought the desire to slap him. My hands curled around my drink.

We stared for the longest minute, full of war and battle for authority.

Breaking the contest, I threw back the rest of the gin and planted the glass loudly on the wooden coffee table. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

“So demanding.” He stood, waiting for me to pull my aching body into standing. “But I can’t have you being uncomfortable now, can I?”

“Just being in your company makes me uncomfortable.”

His forehead furrowed. “Careful, Elle. That tongue of yours is going to get you into trouble.”

Yanking on the rope, he marched forward, dragging me with him. He escorted me (for lack of a better kidnapping word) down the hallway to a single bathroom with a shower over the bath, an autumn leaf decorated shower curtain, and shell basin that had seen a few decades too many.

He sidestepped, letting me overtake him. “Don’t try anything.” Shoving me toward the toilet, he grinned and waved the string, pulling it with him. “I’ll be right outside.”

With his threat lingering, he shut the door.

If this had been a ploy to climb out the window or find a weapon in the medicine cabinet, the leash and my bladder would’ve made it impossible. The twine barely gave me enough room to fumble with my dress and back up onto the toilet to do my business.

My arm remained speared in front of me, doing my best to keep the rope from cutting off my circulation.

Once done, I washed my face in the basin. With droplets raining down my forehead, I glared at the whiteness of my cheeks from anxiety, the purple of my temple from his punch, and the redness in my left eye from his smack. My blonde hair mimicked a mini tornado with out of control curls, and my makeup had smeared beneath both eyes making me look like a haggard aging rock star.

I hated the reflection.

Turning away, I sucked in a deep breath, preparing to tolerate him again. But I paused, eyeing the mirror.

I can’t go.

Not without checking.

Pulling open the medicine cabinet, I tried not to give into the despondency of finding nothing of use. No toe-nail clippers, no scissors, not even a Q-tip or floss.

The cupboard was bare, just like the water-swelled drawers beneath the sink.

Not one piece of human mess that I could use to saw at the rope or puncture Greg’s jugular.

He smirked as I stepped into the corridor. “All done?”

I didn’t reply.

He marched forward, tugging on the string. He didn’t guide me back to the living room. “I think we’ve done enough for the night. I’m fucking wiped.”

So he’s taking me to bed.

This is it.

This was where my one-man experience became an unwanted two.

At least, he won’t steal my virginity.

How would it feel to be taken against my control? Would I maintain my calm annoyance or break into pleading tears.

I don’t want to find out.

He carted me into a bedroom, and turned on the bulb that hung in a sad tasseled shade above the queen-sized bed with a patchwork quilt, ancient wooden side tables, and wrought-iron bedside lights.

My skin crawled at the thought of sharing that mattress with him.

“Here, let me help you.” His hands landed on my shoulders, spinning me around to undo the invisible zip of my silver dress.

“No, wait—” I darted forward, but he jerked the tiny zipper and yanked at the heavy satin on my shoulders.

“I’ve waited long enough.” He tore the gorgeous garment off me, pushing it over my hips until gravity puddled it to the floor. Turning me around, he groaned.

The slinky silver and white lingerie I wore had been for Penn’s benefit, not his.

Penn—the man who’d lied to me about everything. The man who didn’t deserve me, just like Greg didn’t deserve me.

I clamped my free arm over my breasts, hating that so much of me was exposed. I loathed the way his gaze latched onto my skin; how his hand came up to hover over my breast as if fighting his desire to touch me.