Chapter 5
Liam
I don't know why I held out hope that she would open her eyes and recognize me, but she doesn't.
It grows increasingly difficult to manage that anger as I watch her.
She's trying to hold on to her grace, despite the tears now flowing freely down her cheeks.
She doesn't wrestle against her restraints.
She's a smart woman.
She understands her reality, and it should make me feel a sense of pride that she's capable of holding on to her dignity despite the situation she's in.
But it's just another irritation to add to the long, growing list of things that are annoying me about her.
I despise fake people and, believe me, I understand the hypocrisy of this entire situation.
I know that I'm fake.
A hundred percent of the time, in every social interaction I have, I’m fake.
I have to be. People would run screaming if they knew the real me, but even amid the fear that's so blatantly clear in her eyes, she's doing her best not to give in to it.
I realize that there's a good possibility that I'm a true psychopath because I swear I can see a hint of curiosity tangled with the terror in her eyes. And isn’t that the worst part about being fake, being unable to show who your true self is to those around you?
It makes me want to ask her if she's more scared of who I am, or if the real fear lies in who she truly is.
I reach for her once again, garnering the same reaction, and I rage inside.
She has the audacity to pull her face away from my touch.
I know this wasn't part of the plan, bringing her here to my home, a place no one else has ever been.
Dropping her on the street with a note attached to her no longer held its appeal after placing her lifeless body in the backseat of my SUV.
Sure it would terrorize her. She would look over her shoulder at every turn.
She would increase her security.
She'd definitely never walk alone on the beach again for the rest of her life, but it doesn’t seem like enough.
I want more from her, and I plan on getting it.
A slow smile spreads across my face as another plan begins to form in my mind.
Taking from her would be easy.
I could overpower her.
I could drug her again, but where’s the fun in that?
The true manipulation would be convincing her to give me what I want willingly. At the end of the day, I want to see her true self.
I want to chip away the prim-and-proper demeanor she carries like a shield.
I want her to eventually cast off all the fake responses.
When she leaves, when I finally let her walk away from this, I want her transformed.
She needs to be the woman she’s meant to be, not this fake paper-doll cutout that her life has created.
I want her raw and real and true to herself. I don’t care how long it takes for that person to emerge.
I’ve got nothing but time to see it through and make it happen.
I reach for her again, and for the third time, she pulls away from my touch.
All I can do is nod and give her a little fake smile of my own.
She may not want me to touch her now, but before it’s all said and done, she’s going to be begging for it.
I stand from the bed, turning the dial on the combination lock until it releases. As her left arm falls free, she doesn’t move it.
She attempts to grab her wrist with her other hand. I don’t know if it’s because she’s tied up and cognizant enough to know that she can’t touch it.
People usually reach for the untied limb the second that happens.
It’s a natural instinct.
Her instinct is to keep her eyes on me, to assess my every movement, and what I wouldn’t pay to have access to her thoughts right now.
“Sit up,” I tell her.
She doesn’t move, and I have to hold a smile back.
Getting her to bend to my will is going to take time, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it.
“I’ll make you stand,” I tell her as I make my way to the other side of the bed to unlock the chain from the bolt in the floor.
She moves slowly now, sitting up but making no effort to climb off the bed opposite of me.
It wouldn’t be possible because of the length of the chain, but at the same time, she’s smart not to get closer to me.
“Is it still nighttime?” she asks, her eyes darting to the curtain on the far side of the room.
I don’t answer her as I give her chain a little tug.
Physical violence really isn’t my thing. I lean more toward mental manipulation than anything else. It takes more skill to hurt someone by getting inside of their head than it does to beat them into submission.
She’s cautious as she climbs off the bed, keeping the full length of the chain between us.
She doesn’t argue or beg when I connect her chain into another bolt in the floor across the room.
“Sit,” I command, pointing to the chaise.
Her hesitation is shorter this time, and an illicit thrill runs through me. When she blinks up at me, it’s as if she’s waiting for her next command.
Honestly, I’m a little disappointed in her lack of self-preservation. She should be fighting or at least begging me to release her.
Her throat works on a swallow as I pull a collar from my pocket and inch closer to her.
Once again, she doesn’t fight when I strap it around her neck.
She doesn’t argue when I release her right hand from the chain and connect it to the buckle on the front of the collar.
She doesn’t try to escape when I release her fully to pull the combination lock from my pocket and secure all of it in place.
She continues to lock eyes with me when I take a step back, fear marked with a hint of defiance in her eyes.
Collars usually aren’t my thing, but the security of it is what I’m going for.
“You’ll eat,” I tell her, pointing down at the tray of meats and cheeses I brought in before she woke up.
She takes a moment to glance down at the food before drawing her eyes back up to mine.
“It’ll help get the drugs out of your system faster,” I explain, unsure of why I’m offering her any sort of explanation. “Make sure you drink both bottles of water.”
She doesn’t look down at the offerings again, but she also doesn’t argue.
Her defiance rests solely in her eyes.
“Is there a problem with the food?”
Her jaw clenches but she doesn’t respond, and I can’t decide if she’s honestly as big of a bitch as she’s portraying herself to be or if this is part of her fakeness. Is her bravery false or is she just so fucking hoity-toity that she thinks petulance is what’s gonna save her from this situation.
“You’ll speak when I talk to you,” I say, a warning clear in my voice.
She licks her lips as she blindly reaches for the bottle of water.
My patience is wearing very thin as she takes a sip from the bottle, but at the same time, I’m a little distracted at the sight of her lips wrapped around the plastic.
“Are you asking for a ransom?”
I tilt my head to the side as a slow smile creeps across my face. “There’s no amount of money in this world that would be better than the plans I have for you.”
“So this isn’t a political move?” she asks as she recaps the water. “This isn’t because of who my father is?”
“Sweetheart, I have no idea who you are, much less who your father is.”
She has the gall to look confused, her head tilted to the side as if I’m crazy or have been stuck under a rock to not know who she is.
“I’m Raya Reed,” she says matter-of-factly.
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
She scoffs, the sound a grating noise, as if she’s got the upper hand in this situation.
Her nose scrunches before she speaks.
“Look me up,” she says, her words a challenge.
I pull my phone from my pocket and type in her name.
I consider myself a man capable of controlling all of my emotions at all times. I know that she can read the surprise in my mannerisms, at the way my body locks up with what I’m seeing.
She is not only Texas Senator Thomas Reed’s daughter, the man who will be the next President of the United States, but she’s already been listed as missing.
I swipe up, scrolling past article after article with details of her disappearance.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
I’m not known for making mistakes, but this could possibly be the biggest mistake of my life.