: Chapter 9

No.

Just. No.

I stare at the door, slack jawed, waiting for him to swing it back open and say just kidding.

But he doesn’t. Because I think that psycho was being serious.

But…married?!

My brain can’t even wrap around the thought.

Why would he want that? How would that be useful to him at all?

And why would I ever agree?

I wouldn’t.

I would never.

I don’t even know him. I don’t even know his last name.

I glance around the massive bedroom. And standing here, finally alone, it all hits me.

I’ve been kidnapped.

No one knows where I am. No one knows that I’m in danger.

And I saw a man kill someone tonight.

Well, technically, I didn’t see anything. I heard two male voices. I heard something pop. And then…

Images of Lee’s dead body fill my vision.

The blood.

The hole in the head.

The vacant eyes.

Nausea washes through me.

I didn’t even like him, not at all after today, but still…I’d seen those eyes up close and alive only hours before.

My stomach lurches and I dart toward a darkened doorway, thankful it’s the bathroom.

Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke.

Some motion sensor turns on soft lighting nearby and it’s enough to guide me toward the little separate room in the far corner that houses the toilet.

Stumbling, I catch my palms on the toilet seat, and squeeze my eyes shut as my body heaves.

I hate puking.

Tears stream from my closed eyes, as I cough and spit. My insides and emotions roiling in turn.

Blindly, I reach for the lever and flush away the evidence of my weakness.

My body sinks to the floor and I’m finally able to push my hair away from my face as I dry heave one more time.

I don’t know if it’s the fear, the sickness, or the cold tile beneath me, but I’m suddenly freezing. Colder than I’ve ever been before.

This isn’t happening.

I hold my hair with one hand and spit once more, before flushing for a final time.

This can’t be happening.

I sit on the floor, forcing in a few deep breaths.

I need to stay in control.

One more inhale, then I climb to my feet and shuffle over to one of the two sinks, and turn the water to hot.

There are large rectangular mirrors above each sink, and that gentle glow filling the room is coming from behind them, making it look like the mirrors are floating off the wall. Their bronze frames suspended in the air.

In the reflection, I can make out a giant freestanding bathtub and a shower stall, big enough for a party, surrounded by opaque frosted glass.

And it’s nice. I expected it to be opulent, but warm and welcoming… The white and tan and bronze colors are not what I would’ve pictured.

I fill my palms with hand soap and while I’m lather furiously, I lean forward and sniff the fresh eucalyptus sitting in a vase between the sinks.

Stop admiring the killer’s bathroom.

After washing my hands twice, I cup some water in my palms, sipping some so I can swish the nasty taste out of my mouth.

My eyes are red and puffy, my nose is pink, my cheeks are flushed, and I still have tears clinging to my lashes. But thankfully, I don’t have puke in my hair. So that’s one small win, in a sea of losses.

Hoping for another win, I open the cabinets under the counter until I come across a bottle of mouthwash.

“Thank fuck.” I twist the top off, and after hesitating for only a moment, I bring the bottle to my lips. If King has a problem with me putting my mouth on this, he shouldn’t have kidnapped me.

I do it twice, just to be sure, then I return the bottle to its spot and cautiously step back into the bedroom. The really, really nice bedroom.

I obviously have no idea who King is, or what he does, but he clearly has money. And lots of it.

The whole house is impressive. Huge and clean and well decorated, but somehow not pretentious. Beautiful, but not stark in that ultra-modern style most rich bachelors go for. All black, minimalist, zero personality design. But I think that makes this creepier. Because it looks normal.

I turn my back on the oversized bed with crisp white bedding.

Across the room is an unlit fireplace, with a comfortable looking chair and ottoman aimed towards the mantle. And covering the whole wall is a beautiful built-in bookcase.

My eyes slide over to the door.

I’m sure it won’t open.

I know it won’t.

But I step up to it and try anyways.

The handle doesn’t so much as wiggle.

Okay.

Stay calm.

I face the room again.

There has to be a window… My brain slaps me upside the head. Straight across from me is a set of wide French doors.

I hurry over and see the balcony just on the other side. A balcony that’s only one story off the ground, and there’s probably a bush or something I could jump into…

I hold my breath as I try to open the door, but it doesn’t budge either.

“Shit.”

Grabbing the handle with both hands I lean all my weight into it, but it’s like I’m trying to open a brick wall. There’s literally no give.

I make a frustrated growl in the back of my throat and let go.

He can’t just lock me in here. This is unlawful imprisonment!

My teeth grind together as I work to keep the calm I’m so desperately clinging to.

Think, Savannah. How do you get through a door?

I’ve never picked a lock before, but it can’t be that hard. It’s simple mechanics. Right?

I mean sure, I don’t have anything on me to pick a lock with, and I know jackshit about the mechanics of a door lock, but maybe I can figure out something. I’m a smart person.

I bend down to look at the keyhole, as though it will give me insight, and blink. Because there isn’t one. No keyhole or slot of any sort.

Tipping my head, I stare at the little black touch pad thing above the handle. Same as the one King used to open the front door and the door to this room.

I roll my lips together. This is a stupid idea. Obviously, my print isn’t uploaded as an approved user, or whatever it’d be called, but not trying seems just as stupid. Because what if…

Staying in a bend, in case there might be something to see, I gently press my thumb against the pad.

And nothing.

No sounds of it working. No lights to indicate that it’s scanning.

But one and a half seconds after placing my thumb in the square, a sharp jolt of electricity zaps up my arm, scaring the shit out of me and making me fall onto my butt.

I yelp on the way down, the pain in my tailbone matched by the tingling in my thumb.

“You cannot be serious.” I shake my hand to disperse the pain. “This cannot be my life.”

Whatever the hell that thing is, it must’ve zapped my brain, because now I’m pissed.

That little shock should probably make me more scared, considering this place is wired up like a damn dinosaur pen, but I’m not. I’m furious.

Slapping my hands onto the perfectly waxed wood floor, I shove myself up.

“Don’t want me to open the door with the handle? Fine. I’ll find another way.” I stomp to the bookcase, ignoring the titles I recognize as books I’ve read and liked, and focus on the statues. I debate for a second between a finely carved mermaid made from Jade and a marble bust of Darwin. “A man got me into this, a man can get me out of it,” I grumble, hoping I don’t lose this battle of survival of the fittest, and yank the old dude off the shelf.

I use both hands to test its weight, confirming that it’s probably just as expensive as it looks.

Not allowing myself to overthink the possible consequences, I take two quick steps towards the French doors, aiming for one of the large pieces of glass, and throw Charles.

My momentum moves me another step closer, and I start to squint my eyes in preparation for the shattered glass. But instead of flying through the glass, the marble bust bounces off.

I yelp, again, and jump to the side, just in time to avoid getting my toes crushed in the world’s dumbest example of a Darwin Award.

The anger inside me amplifies.

“No!”

I don’t know if I’m scolding the scientist or the glass, but I can’t accept this.

I pick the bust back up, find the pointiest part of the base, and swing it like an ax.

Nothing.

Not even a chip in the glass.

Shrieking, I strike the glass again and again, only getting more furious when the marble doesn’t even scratch the clearly-not-fucking-glass in front of me.

“Would now be a good time to tell you that all the windows in this house are shatter proof?” The sound of King’s voice has me whirling around, to find him leaning against the doorframe. “Bulletproof too, if you happen to have a gun tucked away somewhere.”

“Let me go!” I yell, my throat hurting from all the screaming I’ve already done.

“Sorry, Honey.” He shakes his head. “No can do.”

His smirk is so aggravating, I’m throwing the bust at him before I can think twice about it.

I have a brief second to worry that maybe being violent towards him is a bad idea, but then the bastard catches it.

Fuck him, so much.

“I think I’ll keep this.” He hooks it under his arm like it’s a balloon and not a giant piece of stone. He nods to the floor. “This should be enough for tonight. If you need me for anything…” he cocks a handsome brow at me, “just press your thumb to that pad again.”

Embarrassment washes over me even as I lunge for the bookshelf, looking for something else to throw at him, but the door clicks shut before I reach something appropriately heavy.