Page 50

I feel in every cell of my body that his lust for me is increasing day by day.
The bastard’s never touched me beyond casual gestures—helping me stand or walk after I spent over a week locked in a cage and could barely use my legs. I’ve learned to flatter him, to gain his trust. I’ve made him believe that sooner or later, magic will happen and I’ll surrender to our “love.”
Even though my plan seems to be working on the surface, I can sense him getting more anxious. He’s given me just one glimpse of what he’s capable of. It happened when he served me breakfast and I said I didn’t like runny eggs.
I was blindfolded—he only lets me walk around the house or property that way. When I took my first bite of the egg and felt nausea rising, I couldn’t hide it. I tried to tell him, with all the care in the world, that I didn’t like it, but his reaction still chills my bones today: I heard him hurl the plate. He called me vile names. It was the only time, since being kidnapped, that I couldn’t stop myself from crying.
Not even on the first day I woke up in that cage did I cry. I screamed for hours, I think, but there were no tears. However, the certainty that his calm voice and polite manner are just a facade really shook me. He spent nearly an hour cooling off, then suddenly everything went back to “normal” and he said he’d chalk up my “bad behavior” to the drugs he gave me to carry me out of my apartment. Apparently he expects me to still be terrified.
He’s one step beyond crazy. Even if I lost track of time at first—before I had the watch—there’s no way those drugs could still have been in my system days later. He lives in an alternate reality, molding every answer to fit the needs of his insanity.
The moment I woke in my prison and could think straight, I thought of my father and how he and Mom must be frantic up in heaven. I didn’t survive this long just to lose to some psychopath, so I began to plan and wait.
I’ve always thought of myself as someone who doesn’t pay much attention to what’s going on around me: impatient, rushed. Dad used to call me that. I felt like I was in a constant hurry in every aspect of my life. Even when I learned violin, I did it quickly, devoting countless hours every day. I’m thirsty to live, to experience things. I won’t let anyone kill that thirst, especially not a madman.
But I’m not the same Taylor as when he first brought me here. All my senses are on high alert. There’s no more rushing; I’m full of determination to get out, to beat him at his own game.
He says his name is William. I doubt it’s true—too big a coincidence. Yet I suspect he’s connected to my William somehow. My gut says I’m just a piece on the board of some sinister game this man has orchestrated. I’m not the leading role—just a supporting character who can be discarded if I stop being useful.
Many times he’s tried to slip mentions of William into our conversations, probing me about my jobs and relationships, but my instinct told me not to let the topic advance. Not only because I don’t want this creep’s obsession turning against the man I love, but also because he’s already shown he’s possessive where I’m concerned.
Or maybe of whatever he thinks I feel for William?
He’s never been violent, aside from that egg incident; and except for keeping me locked in a cage like an animal at first, a less guarded woman might mistake him for a gracious host, since the bastard tries hard to give me every comfort. Once I started sleeping in a bed, I got pillows, clean sheets, clothes, and daily showers. He even asked me about my favorite hobby—which confirmed I’m not here because of who I am but to serve as a tool for some scheme I know nothing about. If I were the real object of his interest, he’d know about my love for the violin and classical music.
He does know, for example, that I once went to a concert, but he doesn’t know William showed up there to meet me. He’s not perfect. He failed to keep track of certain details. Now I’m sure the sensation of being followed—one that started a few weeks after I began working for Mrs. Marshall—was real. I really was being watched by him, the faceless man, The Voice, as I call him in my mind.
I have no clue what made him take notice of me, but I think it dates back to the first time William came to his grandmother’s house. That night, heading from the bar to the subway, was when I sensed someone following me.
“You seem distracted today, Taylor.”
“I don’t want to upset you, sir.”
“You could never upset me, my love.”
“Promise?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then I’ll tell you the truth. I want to see you. I don’t like this blindfold. It feels strange. I already love your voice, but how can I love all of you if I don’t even know what to dream about?”
“You dream of me?”
“Every night. It doesn’t matter if you’re not handsome. I won’t judge you by your looks.”
I hear his laugh, and it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Not because it’s sinister but because it’s so . . .ordinary. Like a laugh you might hear on the street, never suspecting it comes from a monster.
“Keep your palms flat on the table, Taylor. If you move, I’ll punish you.”
I obey, my heart pounding in my ears. I tremble in fear as he moves behind me and unties the blindfold. When my eyes finally adjust to the morning light, I almost cry with relief.
I hear his footsteps as he walks toward me, but when we’re finally face-to-face, I can’t hide my shock.
The monster isn’t a monster: he’s one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen. Well-groomed, wearing what looks like expensive clothes.
“Surprised?”
“You’reveryhandsome,” I say honestly, but in my head my thoughts are racing a million miles away—planning, because now more than ever I know I must escape.