This Is War, Baby - K Webster Page 0,33
based on some sort of obsession or a health condition is yet to be seen.
But there’s more. I know it. His navy-colored eyes brew with a storm that assaults him from the inside. With every word he speaks, a thousand more fight for escape. They never make their escape though and join back in the whirlwind of lunacy that he clearly deals with on a minute by minute basis. It’s sad, really. For him.
For me, it’s terrifying.
This means it will be impossible to talk sense into him.
His head is still bowed, as he rambles incessant nonsense under his breath, when we pull into a circular driveway. It’s dark outside so of course I can’t see a thing but when Edison opens the door, I nearly cry with joy.
The ocean.
Waves crash in the distance and the scent of salty water invades my senses. I guess if I’m going to be a prisoner of War, I may as well be near the beach. When I glance back over at him, he’s boring his gaze through me once again. There’s a desperation in his eyes that has me weakening my resolve to bring him down along with all of those other men.
Pity once again drives away my anger and I sigh. “Honey, we’re home.”
His eyes soften and he laughs. “That we are.”
The soft, huskiness of his deep laugh warms me. There isn’t deception in his laughter, it’s… honest. Unlike Gabe, who possessed several different types of laughs. The cruel. The maniacal. The ridiculing. And then the one that bordered on sounding genuine. It was the one I hated most of all because it was the most deceiving. War’s laugh reminds me of Brandon’s.
A sob catches in my throat at the thought of my boyfriend. It seems like eons ago that I sat in his lap and flirted with him, not a care in the world. But it was only a matter of a few weeks before my life took a dark turn. I’m still trying to process where this life gets me.
“Put these on. You can put on a different pair once inside.”
He tosses me some blue shoe coverings, like the ones I’d seen used in a lab or hospital. In sterile settings. I want to tell him I’d rather go barefoot but the strain in his eyes suggests I should obey his order. Once I don the silly things, I climb out of the car. The house isn’t large, actually modest considering how much he paid for me, but it’s stunning. The architecture is all clean lines and modern surfaces. It’s eye catching and I’d love to see it during the day with the ocean behind it.
War climbs out of the car and towers over Edison and I. The man has to be several inches taller than Gabe. He exudes strength.
Yet, I know he’s weak.
Feeling bold, I blurt out, “What happens if I run? Are you going to come after me? Tackle me to the pavement and hold me still?”
He tenses and I immediately feel like a bitch for using it against him.
“Please,” he says, anxiety straining his voice, “don’t run.”
He’s not demanding, but instead, begging. His plea threads itself into my head and I find myself wavering.
Gabe has whittled down my fiery spirit. I should fight and scream and run. Maybe I could find a phone and call Dad to save me. But with thoughts of Dad comes thoughts of Mom.
Her suffering.
Her illness.
Her descent into the grave.
I need to leave this place and get back to her. She’s probably worried sick about me—as if dying isn’t enough to worry over.
Yet, what happens if I escape only to get recaptured by Gabe who has promised to come for me? I won’t see Mom and Dad or Brandon. I’ll be forced back to his awful cabin. In that case, which would be the lesser of two evils—terror cabin with a psycho or beach estate with a weirdo? My mind flits to the woods and I’m reminded of when Gabe raped my ass. I’d begged and pleaded but he did it anyway. And then later, when he’d shoved that vegetable inside of me. He’d humiliated and violated me in ways I didn’t know were possible.
This man before me promises not to touch me. Looks like beach estate with a weirdo it is.
“Since you seem to be throwing your money around, I have a solution,” I say carefully, choosing my words wisely. “I won’t run, I promise. But my mother…she’s sick.”
He scowls at the mention