Saving Emily: A Fighter's Curvy Prize by Nora Haley

Author:Nora Haley [Haley, Nora]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Independent
Published: 2019-11-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

Emily

I wake with a splitting headache in the most uncomfortable position imaginable, my arms somehow stretched over my head. What was I thinking, falling asleep like that? All my muscles are stiff. Everything aches. The light hurts my eyes.

Squinting, I have a look around. The room is absolutely unfamiliar. There are trees behind the large windows, lots of trees. Am I in the middle of a forest?

When I try to move I realize I’m tied to a bed. Then the memory of the kidnapping comes back, slowly, in fractured images. Panic surges up inside me, drowning out all the pain and dizziness. I yank at the bonds, tear at them, throw myself against them with all my weight, but all I achieve is to hurt myself more.

“Stop it,” a voice says from the other side of the room.

My kidnapper sits in an armchair, hands on the armrests, looking so smug I’d like to slap him. But then, even without the smug expression, I would like to slap him. He deserves to be slapped. If anyone ever deserved it, then him. He’s taken off his ski mask and I was right, it’s the guy from the club I nicknamed Asshole. Looks like he’s determined to do anything he can to live up to his name.

What the fuck does he want with me?

My brain’s still sluggish. Thinking is harder than usual. He must have drugged me. That’s why I remember nothing after lying in the back of the van in the dark.

But why?

A terrible thought flashes through my mind. I look down at myself, half expecting to find my dress torn, my panties ripped off me. But to my immense relief, I’m still fully clothed and I don’t feel strange or sore either. He didn’t touch me. Not like that at least.

Asshole seems to read my mind. “Don’t flatter yourself, slut. I wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole.”

Lucky me, my psychopath kidnapper isn’t a rapist. Or just not a rapist of fat women. What a hero.

I press my lips into a thin line. So back to the question of what it is that he wants... I hazard a shot in the dark. “If this is about the ban from the club, I could talk to my boss and–”

My kidnapper only snorts.

So that’s not it. What else could have motivated him to do this?

I do my best to get my drug-muddled brain into gear by recounting everything I already excluded from the list of possible reasons for my kidnapping: He doesn’t want to sexually abuse me. He doesn’t want me to intervene on his behalf with my boss – not that abducting me would have been a great approach to that anyway. He certainly doesn’t need the bit of ransom money I’d be able to scrape together.

Think, I tell myself. Think!

Perhaps it’s futile to try to make sense of such a sick brain, but I can’t help it – trying to guess what he is up to is the only thing I can do right now.

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