Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance by Savannah Rose (e book reader pc TXT) 📕

I twitched.

“Sofia,” he said. “Sofia!” he yelled, pulled my head to the side, and was met by a dead, fisheye stare. My hitching breath came slower, and slower.

It was hard to breathe in a position such as this. My eyes rolled into the back of my head, and my lids fluttered closed.

“Mother-fucker son of a bitch bastard,” he hissed, pulling open the nightstand drawer and fishing out the keys.

He unlocked one cuff, then the other. My arms were entirely limp, and dropped to the mattress. The sound they made reminded me of wet sandbags.

They felt as though they were inflated, somehow. Big, sinewy balloons. So weird. So very, very weird.

I wanted to try to move my fingers, but not yet. Not yet. I was trying to put off the awful sensation of pins and needles as blood flow returned to my veins. I couldn’t. That’s not to say that these were pins and needles, though. They weren’t. These were knives. Knives and fucking razorblades.

Maddox put his hand beneath my neck in order to keep my airway open. My breathing was still labored, my lungs unable to fill completely.

“This is from a fucking cramp? A fucking cramp?” Maddox seethed, and somewhere deep, deep down in his voice, I heard fear. Genuine fear.

I tried to wiggle my toes. His face was still near mine, I could tell, so he wouldn't see me. They moved, just a little. Those tiny blades were still coursing through my legs, but were ebbing. And even though it was risky, I curled my fingers. Released. Curled them again.

“...wa-ter...” my voice creaked like a rusty door.

He sat bolt upright, and grabbed the glass. Which, by this time, was empty.

“God fucking damn it,” he swore, and ran to the bathroom.

The faucet came on, and I remained exactly where I was.

I gave my arms a quick shake, all systems almost go, and did the same with my legs. They were back with me. Nearly. I went statue still when the water shut off.

Rag doll, I reminded myself.

When you fall off the beam, or the uneven bars, or wherever, don't try to break your fall. Break your fall, break your arm. That's what Coach Roberts always said. She was a former stunt woman, so she should know.

Maddox put his arm around my shoulders, and helped me to a sitting position. I didn’t help him to move me. In fact, a corpse would have been more ambulatory.

Slowly, oh so slowly, I reached for the glass, telling my fingers they weren't sure how to hold on to it. My fingers complied, barely, and required Maddox's help, at first, to bring the water to my lips.

I took a small sip. Then another.

The liquid was an oasis in the desert of my throat. I permitted my hand to act a wee bit stronger, and brought the other to the glass. It was perfectly logical to need two hands to lift a drink of water to my mouth, given what the fucktard had done to me.

“Are you alright?” he asked, impatient. Pissed. I'd ruined the little game he was trying to play before it had even really gotten started.

I closed my eyes, and didn't nod. I didn’t shake my head either.

I took in a gasp of air, and let it fill my chest, then I finished the last of the water, and smashed the glass against the side of his head.

That's the thing about Waterford crystal. Sure, it's pretty, but it's not made to withstand any sort of impact.

I have a set of Smurfs tumblers I got at a gas station that have survived three moves, one earthquake, and more than a few benders. Waterford crystal, on the other hand, not so hardy.

The glass shattered beautifully against his face, and sent him flying off the bed. He landed with a thud on the expensive hardwood flooring – on the side of the bed that was closest to the door – but I could make it.

I had three seconds, give or take. He was holding the side of his face, blood seeping through his fingers, and grabbing at the nightstand to pull himself back up.

I leapt over him, and landed far more gracefully than an ox like him could ever aspire. It was great. It was perfect. A split second image of me raising my arms in an athlete's victory pose flashed through my head.

I spun around, still quick as a jack rabbit for being a little rusty, but I was on my way the fuck out of here. Which was awesome.

Until my knee collapsed.

Always a problem, that knee. It's what took me out of Olympic contention. An ACL tear at fourteen years old ruined any goals I'd had of becoming the next Mary Lou Retton. And, as it turned out, ruined any chances I had of escaping from Maddox Petersen.

It was my left knee. Perhaps due to a combination of being immobile for so long and a few years of physical neglect, it gave out after only three strides.

I slammed onto the floor, my arms extended in front of me like some spastic, half-assed super hero. The impact hurt my bare breasts more than anything. My boobs were another reason why gold medals were not in my future – too big – but the door was only ten, maybe fifteen feet away, and I refused to let something like busted ligaments or aching breasts stop me.

I had to get out of here, reformulate a plan, avenge my sister and bring justice to a situation in which there was none. I clawed my way across the floor, a desperate horror-movie heroine giving it one last A-for-effort try before the psychopath with the chainsaw carves her into pieces.

My God, that's what it was like. Even as I reached out for the door handle, thinking I could use it to hoist myself up and at least get into the hallway where I knew the cameras were, I yearned for