Chapter 8
Raya
He’s going to rape me.
I’m certain of it. It’s in his eyes, in the way his erection strains against the sweats he’s wearing.
I never considered this would happen to me. Not once in my entire life did I ever think I’d be threatened in this way.
Of course there have been times when men my father introduced me to crossed a line.
It’s sad how young I was when I started getting looks, ones that said the man staring at me wished he had a few minutes alone with me.
Men in power always think everything is theirs for the taking, but not once did I think I was unsafe. Creeped out, yes, but never this.
“P-please,” I beg again, even though I know it won’t work.
Will I survive this?
Would I even want to after he’s done with me?
I’m to the point of not being able to control my emotions. Until now, only tears escaped, but as he stands there with that threat of if I don’t do it, he’ll do it for me, in his eyes, I can’t stop the sob from escaping my lips.
I press my thumbs into the elastic waistband at my hips, uncertain why I choose to take my underwear off before my bra.
“Do it,” he growls when I pause, and the constant threat just his presence brings moves me into action.
The fabric sticks to my damp skin all the way down my legs, but I’m quick to kick it free once it hits my ankles.
I fumble with the clasp of my bra at my back, but I eventually open it.
He keeps his eyes locked on mine when my bra joins my panties at my feet.
It’s a testament to his control, the way he holds my gaze rather than letting his eyes rake the length of my body the way they did when I took off my dress.
I see the desire in them, however, so him not taking the liberties he could doesn’t give me any hope that I’m safe in this situation.
Hatred, anger, and, for some reason, embarrassment heats my cheeks, and I’d claw his eyes out if I didn’t know what he’d do to me after would be much worse than any harm I could cause him.
His eyes move, first rolling over my shoulders before pausing on my breasts.
I’m doing nothing to entice him, but my ragged breaths cause my chest to rise and fall, and, for a brief second, he seems entranced at the sight of them before moving on to my stomach.
I fight the urge to close my legs in an effort to keep him from seeing me there.
The brief affair I had with my college professor was nothing like this.
It wasn’t romantic. Each time we met was a rush to do the deed without getting caught.
I couldn’t meet him at his house or in some discreet hotel room.
It was always in his office, also always bent over his desk with my skirt hiked up only enough for him to pull my panties to the side.
He was selfish in the way he used me, but at the time, I thought that’s how things were supposed to be. He didn’t have to woo me or persuade me in order to have me. The slightest amount of attention from him drew me in.
A tingle I hate and would never openly admit to washes over me at the way he takes in every inch of my body.
I hate myself for it.
I hate my parents for never letting me have any sort of life outside of my father’s campaigns.
How fucked up is it that even nefarious attention from a man who is no doubt going to end up killing me makes me react this way?
It’s fear, I argue internally. I’m not aroused. I’m terrified. Even if I hadn’t seen him shirtless at the surf shop, I’d know he is stronger than me. I have no hope of fighting him off if he advances. I might get in a few scratches, but he’d leave me broken and bleeding.
If I don’t fight, is it still considered assault? The educated side of me says yes, but that part of me that’s always been told there has to be proof for people to believe it is also a big part of my psyche.
He’s no longer appealing to me, and I had to have had a moment of temporary insanity to even consider for a second that he was good looking.
He’s a monster, a villain.
No.
He’s the damn devil.
“Out,” he says, making me realize I’m still standing in the shower.
My body moves instinctively, his threats enough to control me.
He doesn’t step in closer to me. Instead, he reaches to the side, pulling a towel from the rack before holding it out to me.
He isn’t near enough for me to take it from his hand without walking closer to him. He’s going to make me approach him, and I struggle with that as well.
I’m doing exactly what he says.
Will this be what he plans to use in his own defense? Will he tell everyone that asks that I wanted whatever it is he plans to dish out?
My hands shake uncontrollably as I take two steps toward him before reaching out to grasp the towel.
He doesn’t pull it back in an effort to taunt me.
As quickly as possible I wrap it around my body.
“It’s warm,” I tell him absently, feeling only slightly better now that I’m not fully exposed to him.
A single layer of fabric won’t protect me, but it’s like blankets on you at night, a false sense of security. With what’s happened to me so far, I’m willing to take any reprieve I’m offered and bask in it.
“I’m a criminal, a kidnapper, not a savage,” he says in a bored tone. “Now, dry off.”
I do the best I can to soak up all the water on my skin without exposing myself again, but I notice the way he follows each droplet of water that runs down my skin from my soaked hair.
My eyes burn with fresh tears as I pull the towel from my body. I bend, wondering if this is the moment he attacks as I roughly swipe the towel over and through my hair.
In a different life, one before I became a victim, I would never do this. My haircare is a full routine, so extensive that I sometimes go an extra day or two to avoid the effort it requires.
I hear my mother’s voice in my head about split ends and how self-care is important because people notice when you don’t put forth the effort.
What does it say about how we’ll take care of our voters if we’re not taking care of ourselves?
“There’s no point in that,” he says when I try to wrap the towel back around my body. “Here.”
I track him across the room, taking a step back as he approaches a cabinet near me.
He doesn’t look pleased or annoyed that I’m avoiding him. He doesn’t react the way he did when I flinched from his touch after I first woke up.
I stare at his hand when he holds out a pile of clothes.
It’s the least he could do, but at the same time, it feels like a gift. It also feels like a test, and I have no clue what the right answer is. I’m terrified of the consequences if I fail.
“Thank you,” I whisper as I reach for them, my eyes locked on his.
“I’ll take the damp towel,” he says when I try to pull the soft t-shirt over my head with it still wrapped around my chest.
I hand it over quickly before going back to getting dressed.
I feel his eyes on me as I lift the shirt over my head. They don’t leave me as I slip my legs into the sweats he offers me.
He chuckles, a sinister sound, when I pull the drawstring so tight the effort hurts my hands.
We’re both well aware that a simple pair of sweats wouldn’t impede his ability to take anything from me.
While he’s distracted, hanging the towel back up, I dart my eyes all over the room. I need to find something I can use to defend myself. I’ll go insane if this continues much longer, but I come up empty.
I’d call his décor style minimal because there isn’t a single thing in here that would help me.
My eyes land on the cabinet beside the sink. It’s possible he has a razor in there, but I get the feeling a couple of slashes will only piss him off.
“Are you going to hurt me?” I ask against the argument in my head to just keep my mouth shut.
He turns, his face emotionless. “Do you want me to hurt you?”
“What?” I scrunch my nose up in distaste. “Of course not.”
“You say that like there aren’t people who like a little pain.”
I’m not completely ignorant to the things that go on in the world. I own a computer and a television for Christ’s sake, but him even hinting that I’d be okay with him touching me much less hurting me is absurd.
I realize as he steps around me to unhook the chain from the shower floor that even if I had a weapon, I’d still be trapped. I could kill the man, and the outcome would still be my death because I don’t know the combination to the lock at my throat.
I follow him back into the bedroom, feeling utterly hopeless and defeated.