Chapter 25
KARA
Juric came down the stairs after what seemed like ten minutes with a towel covering something in his hand. He tossed it beside me on the bed.
“For your cheek.”
It was an ice pack. I turned to him with surprise and was met by the phone he extended toward me, its shutter clicking. He’d just taken my picture. Then he plodded back up the stairs without saying another word.
I pressed the ice to my face and shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold against my skin.
Time dragged, hour after hour.
There was nothing to do in the small basement except sleep, but that was nearly impossible. Every creak of a floorboard overhead or a pipe running made me startle awake. My shoulders ached from the metal handcuffs. Was it day outside now? The lack of sleep and control made me crazy and jittery.
The pain medicine had worn off, and my cuts hurt now, almost as bad as the swollen cheek. And that hurt about the same as the knot on the side of my head from the fall down the stairs.
I cupped water from the faucet into my mouth since there was no glass. My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten dinner last night since I’d planned to eat at the Osterh?gen event. Would my captor feed me, and if so, could I trust it?
It had been a long time since I’d seen him. I curled up on the bed and began to plot my next move—
Juric had a hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake.
“Get up.”
How long had I been out? I pulled the sheet around myself and sat up, groggy.
I’d awkwardly tugged on the pants he’d left for me, but I couldn’t put the shirt on with the handcuffs in the way.
I didn’t want him to see me in my skimpy bra any more than he already had, which meant I remained on the mattress, willfully disobeying him.
He yanked the sheet off, wrapped a hand around my wrist and jerked me up. The pain in my cut was white-hot as he lifted my arms, stepping under the loop of them so my cuffed hands were behind his neck.
“No.” I struggled to get out of this weird embrace that brought his face right in front of mine, but his hands clamped tight on my forearms, forcing me to remain.
“Stop fighting me,” he said. “I told you, I don’t enjoy hurting you.”
The crazy thing was I sort of believed his statement. He had seemed uneasy when he’d cut me. His face right before I’d passed out had almost looked rattled.
A weakness?
Could I use this to my advantage somehow?
“If you don’t want to hurt me,” I said, “then don’t hurt me.” My mind was foggy with pain and exhaustion.
His gaze dropped down, trailing over my bare skin, and I saw his bright blue irises fill with something so fucking frightening I could barely form the word. Desire.
One of his hands moved, sliding down my elbow and on to my shoulder. It crept along my skin, paying no attention to my shudders of revulsion or how I cringed while my hands bound together behind his neck were restrained.
His caress continued to my collarbone. My breath came and went rapidly, my heart thumping faster still. He was going to put his hand on my breast. He trailed his fingertips down, dragging them lower, almost to the lace . . .
“Please, don’t.” My voice was calm and even, but it felt like I was standing on cracking ice.
He hesitated, his breathing just as hurried as mine, but then the desire abruptly dissipated. He subtly shook his head, clearing the fog, and lifted my arms back over his head, so he was no longer trapped.
“I need you to get dressed.”
“I can’t,” I said, making a show of the handcuffs.
His eyes gleamed. “Would you like me to take them off?”
I froze. Anything that sounded too good to be true always was.
“Ask me,” he said.
“I’m familiar with this game.” My voice was resigned. “Will you take the handcuffs off? Please?”
He rewarded me by producing a key from his pocket. I detested his hands on me and allowed it just long enough for him to get one cuff open. He was working on the other and completely unprepared for me to bring my knee up, right between his legs.
He groaned painfully and bent forward, his hold on me strengthening. Even in his discomfort, he was smart enough not to let go of me.
“That’s what you get for touching me,” I said, listening to him catch his breath. “You may not enjoy hurting me, but I like hurting you.”
He recovered quickly and punched me, driving his fist so hard into my stomach I was sure it was going to come out the back. Hands held me tight to keep me on my feet when I fell forward into his arms. The noise I let out didn’t sound human.
In my pain, my gaze found his. Oh God, where was the air?
“Breathe,” he whispered, once again looking stricken. “You’ll be okay.”
I gasped, struggled against him, and finally I did as he commanded. My body trembled, and now I clung to him with no other choice. The man who had struck me. He watched, curious and confused.
I wasn’t able to move. Everything hurt, and I just wanted five minutes of rest. Five minutes where I wasn’t worried about what he was going to do to me next.
The last thing I expected was for him to pick me up and carry me to the bed. The silver lining to getting punched was I was no longer hungry. He seemed to sense how weak my defenses were and seized on the moment. “What are you hiding from me?”
“Leave me alone,” I begged.
“Tell me.” He made it clear he was determined to get an answer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
It was the truth. Did he mean the business card? The fact that I might be falling for Jason’s brother? Or that my sister was pregnant?
“This part will be hard, but we’ll get through it. You can make it through this in one piece.”
“I thought we weren’t going to lie to each other.”
“I’m not lying to you, Kara.” I hated the way he said my name. Softly, like a friend. “You keep fighting me and leaving me no choice.”
I was too tired to hold back the whimper. He undid the other handcuff and set them on the bed beside me.
“You have ten minutes to get dressed and put those back on. You’re not going to want me to do it.”
My eyes closed and I listened to his footsteps on the stairs. The now familiar sound of the bar latching was a starting pistol. Liberated hands hurried to pull the clothes on, shoving Shawn’s business card in my bra again, wanting it close.
That left me eight minutes to find a weapon in this spartan room.
I tried to pull the back off the toilet or to get at a part inside, but it was glued shut. There was nothing in the shower except for a tiny bottle of what I suspected was shampoo. The only other object was the bed. Could I use the sheet as a weapon? Was there part of the bed frame I could break?
The screws were rusted on and there was no way it was coming apart. Time was running out, and I stretched my arms gingerly, mindful of the wound. I would not go back to the handcuffs. So I marched them into the bathroom and threw them in the toilet, slamming the lid shut.
The plan that formed wasn’t great, but it was all I had.