Sample pages

CHAPTER ONE

I throw myself down on my couch, ripping open the letter that has been sitting in the mailbox for me. My fingers shake as I pry the paper from the sticky tape. I'm nervous, scared. The papers tremble as I reveal them. I must be quick, I must be quick, I tell myself. He must not find out, he can't.

I read the letter quickly, scanning it rather than absorbing it. I read too fast, my eyes flick to the logo in the corner of the letter. York Incorporated. Yes! I got it. I got an interview! I smile, panting from the adrenaline pumping through my veins. My eyes are wide and unfocused as I read the instructions on attending the interview. I'm excited but terrified, and I feel nauseous and faint. What do I do? My eyes attack the clock as I shift on the worn red couch. It's only half-past five; I have thirty more minutes.

I fold the papers back, creasing them into different shapes as I cram them back into the envelope. I stand, quickly searching for small pieces of paper from my rush to tear it open – there's nothing. No indication they've been here. I dart across the hall and into the spare bedroom, dropping my purse and keys to the floor. I fall to my knees and slam myself onto the buckle from my coat. The metal bites into my kneecap, but I feel nothing; just the thought of what could be washes away all physical pain. I wrestle with the bed covers. I hoist them onto the mattress so I can frantically crawl under the bed.

In the far corner, I pry one plank of wood loose using my nails to lift it. I can barely see. The bed is hogging all the light as it leans against the wall. I reach beneath the plank, roughly pulling out a faded, battered pink shoe box and lift its lid to squeeze my letter inside. I trap it in the box before shoving it back underneath the floor, letting the timber fall back into place.

There. It's gone. He will never find it. I slide myself from under the bed and immediately replace the covers. Twisting violently, I reach for my keys and purse and scramble into a run back to the living room.

5:38 p.m. I still have time. Ripping the coat from my arms, I hang it loosely on my hook beside the door, putting my keys on the third rung of the five metal hooks attached to the back of the door.

I run my hands over my face and rush to the bathroom. In the mirror, I see panicked eyes. My make-up has run, smudged from my overheating body. I grab a face-wipe from the pack and rub roughly around my eyes, nose, jaw and lips, removing my mask. I dispose of the wipe in the toilet and flush it away. I run the cold water and smear it onto my flushed cheeks. Quick, faster.

I rub my face bone-dry with a fluffy towel and replace it exactly as it was except its back-to-front. If he touches it, it won't be wet on this side, only on the back. I glance at myself. My reflection looks hot and bothered.

Leaving the bathroom spotless, I skid into the little kitchen and fill the kettle. It's 5:47 p.m. I flick on the kettle, fetch a cup from the rack and put it on a kitchen towel. I steadily pour in five tablespoons of milk, one sweetener and the coffee mixture into the cup. I wait anxiously for the water to boil. Come on!

5:52 p.m. The kettle clicks. I snatch it. I bend my finger over the cup, so the first crease is on the rim and I cautiously fill the cup until it reaches my fingertip. The heat stings my finger tip. It's boiling, in fact, but I don't care. I stir the coffee, not letting it lap over the sides. When every granule is mixed in, I carry it carefully over to the couch and put it on a coaster on the rugged coffee table. I place today's newspaper next to it, so they sit neatly alongside each other.

I hear his voice outside the door as he talks to our neighbor. His presence spikes my pulse, sending every nerve ending numb as I doubt my performance. I remember to smooth my dress down; luckily it's long enough to cover my bruised knee. I sit, perched on the arm of the couch; my ankles crossed and my back straight as I must sit with impeccable posture. He slams the door.

My shoulders gather tension as I try to build my confidence. I've done everything. I've performed every task as he requests. He shouldn’t be upset with me. He shouldn’t punish me. I've behaved like he wants me to. Perfectly trained.

He doesn't look at me as he shrugs off his second hand jacket and throws his keys onto the side cabinet; they clink against the vase of fresh flowers I put there when I got home. He throws his jacket at me and, with careful grace, I stand and straighten it. I scuttle to the coat rack to hang it neatly beside mine, smoothing all visible creases.

He moans in relief as he slouches onto the couch, closing his eyes, popping the button at his collar. I stand silently in the entryway. His lids flicker open, his black eyes glaring at me. I remain impassive, trying to hide my rising fear.

He sighs heavily as he glances at his coffee before his onyx eyes bore into me. He looks displeased, his eyes hooded and jaw clenched. His snarling lips curl into a salacious smile.

"Good girl, Addie, you're learning at last." His voice is cold. My spine shivers at his ice-filled words spike my heart rate. His praise means a lot to me. I don't get it often. I'll do all this again tomorrow. I want to hear it more.

He claps his hands to his knees, stands and strides towards me. His fingers grab my upper arm, squeezing it tightly. I dare not flinch. I must not move. His eyes travel down my body, that smile turning into a wicked grin. I gulp as he leans in to kiss me. His kiss is softer, more meaningful as if he hasn’t seen me for a week.

Nice kisses because of being well behaved!

Polo mints freshen his breath, but his lips feel slimy as they press against mine. I struggle to kiss him back; his kisses make me sick. I resist gagging.

He stands back, releasing me.

"Bath," he orders, gesturing behind him towards the bathroom. He returns to the couch as I hastily walk towards the bathroom and shut the door quietly. I'm not allowed to lock it. I glance at my watch. 6:02 p.m. I have eighteen minutes. I strip quickly and place my underwear into the laundry basket and my clothes, folded neatly, onto the bathroom stool, my flat shoes settled on top.

 I set the taps running, and dribble precisely four drops of lavender oil into the gushing bubbles. The aroma fills the tiny tiled room, awakening my senses. This is the best part of my day: a soothing bath before the storm. I step into the lukewarm water, and it flows over my body as I lower myself beneath it.

The squeaky taps silence as I lean back, letting the water flood my bellybutton. I sit there letting the water slosh around my legs and my back as I sit. The liquid heat runs across my stomach and my breasts, warming my skin. I tingle all over. The warmth soothes my tense muscles and tender bruised flesh. I rest my head against the rim of the tub and close my eyes. I must not fall asleep.

Resting my hands on my stomach, I can almost feel the tension leaving me. My shoulders slump as I moan softly. My legs rest under the scented water, and my aching feet throb almost luxuriously. I can't fully relax; my back stays fixed with anxiety, filled with nerves about his next move.

6:13 p.m. The watch-face glistens beneath the water. I feel stabs of disappointment as my time ends, but I examine my knee, completely unblemished. Thank goodness. He'll never know.

I stand, dry and dress myself in my fluffy bathrobe he hangs on the back of the door. It's the one present Ryan has bought me which I totally love. It keeps me warm and feels amazing, soft, and almost silky. I shrug it on and reach into the tub, permitting my heaven to drizzle away down the drain. Luckily my hair is not wet.

6:19 p.m. The handle creaks and he strides in, his shirt rolled up to his elbows. He towers above me, his muscles tense as he examines me quickly. I am ahead of myself today. His face is expressionless as he cups my elbow and leads me out to go to our bedroom. I see a pile of his book submissions scattered around the living area and notes scribbled on a yellow notepad. He's working, don't distract him. I have always admired his determination to get his publishing underway. I know he can't really do it, but he loves it too much to give up.

He lets me sit on the corner of the bed and crosses to my chest of drawers. I cross my ankles. Seconds later, he comes to me carrying white panties and a bra. He holds the panties out and open for me to put on. I slide my feet in – toes pointed, and I stand. He pulls them up around me, letting the elastic slap me, but I mustn't flinch.

He tugs off my robe and throws it away. I am wearing nothing but my panties, and he admires me greedily. I feel vulnerable and exposed. After a beat he clips my bra into place and then goes back to my chest of drawers. When he returns, he pulls a five-sizes-too-big shirt over my head and stands back to admire me.

"Addie, you are so alluring," he whispers, and it almost makes me shudder. Please no. Not tonight.

"Tell me," he commands.

 "I love you." I want to be sick. I don't love this man, at least not properly. He wasn't always like this.

He grins and licks his teeth. He grabs the back of my neck, shoving his lips against mine, kissing me harshly before pushing me away. He tastes of mints, coffee and cigarette smoke.

"I want breakfast for six o'clock tomorrow." He's adding another task to my list of chores.

"Yes, Sir," I reply quietly.

"Bed," he points and walks out, leaving me standing at the foot of the bed. I walk around, bouncing on the bed as I fall onto it, and look at the alarm clock: 6:42 p.m. I sigh heavily, facing a sleepless night. I am trapped with no escape. What can I do?

I wake slowly as the dawn creeps in. It's dim light, barely breaking through the blinds. I look over at the clock: 5:13 a.m. I carefully climb out of bed, looking back at him lying asleep. One arm is flung above, and his lips slightly parted as he breathes slowly. Long lashes splay on his cheeks and his dark blonde hair tangles around his forehead. His muscular chest stretches his T-shirt, but he lies totally relaxed.

Yes. He is nice to look at. On our first date his eyes had been adoring, his humor bewitching and his manner smooth and courteous. But that man is gone and has been replaced with someone else. This is not the person I wanted two years ago. This man is a monster. He is not my lover, he doesn't care about me. He is my owner.

I was so confused when he first struck me. I felt completely debased and humiliated by him, but mostly I felt hurt. I felt the physical pain, but the guy I had become so close to had hit me. Where did his warmth go? Ryan had always kept me safe, from anyone, even beating up my bullies in school. I couldn't understand it.

I didn't tell anyone the first time it happened. Makeup covered the small scratches and fading purple bruises. The second time it happened, I told Melissa. We had only known each other a few months, but I felt I could confide in her at work. I repeatedly told her it wasn't like him, and that we had purposely moved away from all the bulling in my family in Maine.

She patched me up in the clinic a few times, telling me to leave him, but the small voice in my head always told me that I was to blame. That I was the reason he had suddenly turned.

“It was your family we were getting away from!”

“It's your fault you weren't happy in Maine.”

“It's your fault your mother didn't want you.”

“I hate the fact I was made to feel sorry for you.”

 I always felt blamed by my mother at home when things didn't go to plan. My birth being one of them. Her favoritism towards my brother shoved me aside, leaving me to turn to my dad for anything I could get. He might've been the man of the house, but he wasn't the one who laid down the law. He, too, was kept firmly in my mother's strict grasp.

I know my daddy loved my mom, but I was often cowering on the stairs listening to him get verbally beaten down by her. He wasn't the type to step in, or say enough is enough. He'd coast, just like me. Seeing him do it kept me with Ryan regardless of how often he hit me.

I stare at the sleeping monster as I reply our first fight. My love quickly drained from him. I did love him. He had been the one place I could escape when my mother pulled in the reins. He kept our relationship quiet just for my benefit. He had been sweet, caring, charming almost. I fell instantly, and jumped at the chance to leave with him. But when we moved from Augusta to Portland, Oregon, everything turned. After buying an apartment, and Ryan sinking our savings into his publishing, our money just slipped away. Our lifestyle changed drastically from being well kept and happy to miserable and lacking. He hated that I had to find a job, so he could no longer keep me locked away in our little world. His lack of control on our life spiraled, causing him to lash out at me. I'm only thing he can still control.

I know someone has to be the dominant person in a relationship. It was my mum back home, and now it's Ryan. But, I know deep down he must feel something for me or he wouldn't have flown me over here to escape from my mother and the constant torment that I received at school.

I turn slightly, breaking my stare and tired thoughts. My nose wrinkles at the foul smell in the room from his drug laced cigarette. I leave quickly, reminding myself to pick up more air freshener when he takes me shopping.

I suspect he will be waking at half-past. So I set to work preparing his breakfast under the dim kitchen lights. I like cooking. It is something I can control, something I am in charge of - the only aspect of my life I can control. I'm just a puppet on a string while he's my puppet-master.

I place his breakfast in front of him just as he sits at the table. He slides his pile of manuscripts aside as he sighs. My timing is becoming impeccable. He nods at me, and I set a glass of orange juice on a coaster beside him. I stand back and wait for orders.

"Go on," he says, distracted, cutting his bacon in half and piles his fork high with mushrooms and beans.

 I place a piece of bread into the toaster and wait. When the toast pops up, I eat it standing beside the cooker; dry with no butter or jam.

"Sit down," he says, irritably jabbing his fork at the vacant seat as he reads through a section of the paper I placed down for him.

I sit and finish my toast, fighting not to brush my lap free of crumbs. He folds his paper down and looks at me.

"I've laid out your work clothes in the bedroom," he states, shoving a forkful of egg and bacon into his mouth.

"Thank you," I reply sweetly. He looks at me. His expression gives nothing away; he may be in a good mood or maybe a foul mood. Hopefully not the latter.

"Your optician called me yesterday. I made you an appointment for tomorrow," he adds scooping more food onto his fork.

"Thank you," I repeat. Paying for my glasses and check-ups is something he has to do, but I think he's okay with it.

"You have to be able to see, Addie."

He drops his fork to his plate; the harsh clatter makes me jump. He thrusts his hand into mine, cradling his fingers between mine. He looks considerate, a face I have not seen for a long time.

"You know I love you, don't you?" he asks confidently.

"Of course," I reply sweetly and he smiles ... he actually smiles.

"Good." He releases my hand, pushing his plate away and sips his drink.

"Why do you ask?" I ask him bravely.

Now isn't a time to be brave.

He sips slowly once more, sets the glass down and turns it in his fingers. 

"I had a dream about you," he states, looking considerate again. "You told me that you never loved me; that you hated me."

If only you knew.

He masks his concern with a stern glare, and I realize I've forgotten to breathe.

"You do love me, right?" he asks, demanding another response from me.

No. I would love you if you cared for me; I want you to love me.

 "Always," I lie breathlessly, petrified to meet his gaze.

 "You're my girl, Addie," he says possessively.

He stands, grabs his jacket from the back of his chair, forces a kiss from me and leaves with his books. I sigh with a lump of relief. He's gone.

I know that Ryan mistakes my obedience for love, but I do what I do to survive. I couldn't cope with a repeat of last years Christmas. I need to get out of here. I want more for myself than this. I don't deserve the world, but I deserve something. I might want to be free, but most of all, I want love.

It's not like I haven't tried. After the first eight months of being here, and Ryan gradually getting worse as the months slipped by, I tried to escape. Melissa offered me a place to stay whilst a room became available at the women's shelter, but he found me, tracked me like a criminal, and as a punishment beat us both to a pulp. My heart broke to see my friend in tears with her nose broken and bloody, the fear in her eyes as his fist plunged into her stomach. Just hearing her screams of pain was enough to stop me from ever considering escaping again.

 The pressure of Ryan's abuse got immensely worse after that, and by Christmas time he might've well have killed me. I tried to get back into contact with my parents, to see if there would be any hope of coming back home. I hadn't realized until that point just how much control he had over our money. He noticed that I had taken a small amount for a stamp for my letter. This fed him a line and he beat the truth out of me, ripping my last glimmer of hope into shreds before anything could be sent. It was only then did his true violent potential hit an all time high. I've been petrified to try anything since.