Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane #2)(28)

Rule number one: Do what he says.

Her mouth automatically clamped shut, as if it had been trained like a dog. Her eyes refused to travel to his face.

Rule number two: Keep my eyes on the floor.

“Do you think you’ve learned your lesson?” he asked.

Staring at her bare feet, she nodded.

“Good. I knew you were smart.” He sounded pleased. He set the jug of water at her feet. “You may drink.”

Bending forward, she grabbed for the water. Her weak, bruised arms tapping into some survival reserve. She removed the cap and drank. Water spilled into her mouth and over her chin. The cool liquid soothed her throat and lips. Her body demanded more.

“Wasting what I give you is disrespectful.” His tone sharpened.

Fear shot through her. Cringing, she braced for a blow, but it never came. She lowered the jug, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and swallowed. Then raising the water again, she sipped slowly.

Neatly.

“That’s my girl.” His praise was a relief, the way she craved it a horror.

But her instinct told her she had to adapt to survive. Without water, she wouldn’t live long. She must do whatever it took to keep him happy . . . so he didn’t leave her in here until she shriveled up and died.

Because she knew in her soul that he would do so the moment she was more trouble than she was worth.

What did he want with her?

Water sloshed in her empty stomach. She set the jug on the floor. As much as she wanted to drain it, she feared losing what she’d already drank.

“Since you’re being such a good girl, I have something else for you.” He brought the hand behind his back around. He held the wool blanket, folded in a neat rectangle. On top of it was another piece of cloth. He set the blanket on the floor and shook out the other item—a bright-yellow dress. He leaned forward and offered it to her. “Put this on.”

She scooted forward and took it from his hands. Turning it the right way, she drew it over her head. The dress was long-sleeved, empire-waisted, with a hemline just below her knees. Though the fabric was thin cotton, it was better than nothing. She drew the skirt over her bent knees.

“Do you remember rule number three?” he asked.

Fear curled in her belly as she struggled to remember all he’d shouted at her after the beating. But a blow to the head, the one that had given her the lump behind her ear, had left her ears ringing.

Her hands began to tremble. She bent her fingers into fists. A tear left her eye and dripped down her cheek as she shook her head.

“I’ll go over them one more time,” he said in a patient voice. “And you will memorize them. Further transgressions won’t be tolerated. Understood?”

She nodded.

“Let’s review.” He crossed his arms. “And pay attention. Memorizing the rules might earn you some food.”

At the mention of food, Chelsea’s stomach clenched painfully. She strained to listen.

“One, you belong to me. You will do what I say without question. You are my property. Two, when in my presence, you will keep your eyes on the floor. Three, no speaking without permission. Four, disobedience is punishable any way I see fit. Can you repeat those back to me?”

Chelsea nodded but waited for his cue. In her peripheral vision, she saw the cruel smile twist his mouth.

“You may speak.” His voice rang with satisfaction.

Mumbling through swollen lips, she repeated his rules.

“You learn quickly.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a protein bar. He held it out to her. She tried to grab it, but he raised it just out of reach at the last second.

With his free hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair. “Know this. I am not fucking around. If you ever try to escape again, I will beat every inch of you bloody, slit your throat, and bury you in the woods. Do you understand?”

Pain seared her scalp. Chelsea’s bones shook as she nodded, grateful he hadn’t asked her to speak because fear had paralyzed her vocal cords. Terror shook her body down to her bones.

He released her hair and dropped the protein bar in her lap. His hand lingered. His finger stroked her bruised, swollen cheek. “Everything will be all right. You’ll see that I know best. I’m going to bring your cot back in. If you continue to behave, I’ll bring you more food.”

Straightening, he turned and walked toward the door. He returned in a moment, dragging the cot back into the container and leaving Chelsea wondering what else tomorrow would bring and what she would need to do to survive.





Chapter Thirteen


He closed the door, peeled off his mask, and welcomed the cool night air. He could hardly believe how fast she was learning. Pleasure rushed through him like an excited child. Everything was working exactly as he’d planned.

Turning around, he secured the heavy-duty padlock and set the alarm on the door. He couldn’t be too careful with his prize. He was a winner, and he intended to keep his spoils. She truly was the ideal woman. He would never let her go.

Chelsea had made so much progress in such a short time. She’d exceeded his best expectations.

Responding to a direct greeting was automatic, yet Chelsea’s brain had shut down her normal reaction. He’d seen it happen before his eyes. Her mouth had opened as a reflex, but her brain had intervened and closed it. A protection mechanism no doubt. Defiance equaled pain. Obedience led to physical comfort.