The Monster's Addiction (Sample)

2. First Mistake

MIA

The length of time was starting to get lost on me as my throat grew dry and chalky. The bitter taste of my own saliva was making me nauseous, but that was the least of my concern at the moment.

I needed the fix.

I needed the fix desperately that I wished this man—this monster—would just have his way with me and let me have the drugs in return. The craving was beginning to churn my intestines—inside-out—sending bolts of spasms. I knew it would be a matter of time when the cramps would start.

I hated this feeling more than being raped or beaten.

This drug withdrawal faltered my will to exist every moment of every day.

'I am taking you home,' he said. The words kept ringing for sometime in my ears.

I don't have a home.

I don't want a home.

I wanted drugs.

As he carried me outside the house, several heavily armed men followed behind him. No matter how much I would grate and protest, I knew this blue-eyed monster wouldn't let me down. He didn't need to bark his orders, unlike the men I had seen before because threat layered his persona like a second skin.

"I will drive, leave," he ordered a man who held out the door of a car opened for him. Nodding, the man scrambled away quickly behind us.

Shoving me inside the car, he took the driver's seat before slamming the door with a loud thud. Unnerved and disconcerted with a fuzzy brain, I seized the fraction of the moment to unlock the door. And when it didn't, my fists banged frantically against the dark, tinted windows.

"Dammit!" He snatched the wrists away, locking them in his hand. "The glass won't break with a bullet, let alone your soft hands. You will only make it worse."

Instinct made me pull against his hold, but it took a mere tug on his part to make me collide against his solid muscle. An oceanic and masculine whiff caught my nose, bewildered, I inhaled it like a drug.

"I need...I need it..." My voice was coarse like sandpaper.

"I know," he murmured as if he understood. But he didn't. Nobody would.

When his grip slackened, I pulled my wrists free to thrash at him out of helplessness. But he was too quick. Gripping tighter than before, this time I saw true rage directed at me. "Enough! One: don't fight me, you think you can match my strength? Two: don't move an inch. Let me repeat it for your understanding; I don't want to hurt you. So don't make me. Clear?"

Words escaped me as I bobbed my head.

Disapproval flared in his eyes. "No. I don't read minds, girl. Tell me verbally that you have understood. You can speak, I know that."

"Yes," I answered meekly.

The stoic expression returned to his face, and he nodded as if he accepted my response. "Good," came the stiff approval. Reaching back, he pulled out a bottle of water behind the seat and placed on my lap. "The ride's not going to be long, but you're dehydrated. Drink up."

As I stared at the bottle—bewildered—he returned his attention to the car. The engine roared in no time, and he pushed the gas pedal to the floor, making the vehicle propel to its highest possible speed.

My memory slowly reeled back to all those times when I was placed inside a vehicle, hurdled into like an animal. It was always the same—tied, blindfolded, gagged so we would not know anything about the location. To this day, I still didn't know where I was.