Height: 6’2’’ Weight: 195? Desc: Pitch black hair that’s a little too long (surprising because of his job and his obvious anal retentiveness). It curls a little around his ears and the nape of his neck. His eyes are dark and expressive due to his dark brows. Clean shaven (very meticulously groomed aside from the hair). His lips (mmmmm). His mouth is warm and he tastes like coffee and mints. Bit of an angry shit when you kiss him unexpectedly (ha!).
Rage hit me fast and hard. Why had she kissed him? What had she really been up to when Reed had come to “check on her”?
I had to stop reading and take a few deep breaths. Livvie wouldn’t betray me. Would she? She obviously hadn’t turned me in. I forced myself to keep reading.
Livvie went on to describe Reed as good looking and sharp witted. I’m fucking good looking and sharp witted! I bet Reed only speaks one language. I’m sharp witted in five!
I moved on to my file. Surely, it had to read better than the one she had on Reed. I recalled Livvie telling me in Mexico that she hoped to write a book one day. She’d also told me the first rule of writing was to write what you know. The thought filled me with foreboding.
The document was longer than the previous two—about three pages. She’d managed a great deal of detail. The description calmed me somewhat. Livvie was very flattering, except I felt she had transformed me from a person into a character, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about being picked apart.
Height: 6’4’’ Weight: 210? Desc: blond hair, Caribbean blue eyes. A full mouth made for kissing. He has a canine tooth that is a bit sharp and slightly out of line with all of this other perfect teeth (the first time I saw him smile). Muscular, but lean—not bulky or overly muscled. His skin is tan from the sun, not a machine. He has almost invisible blond hair everywhere (kissing his back, they stood on end—super soft).
Mannerisms: Caleb always seems to think something is funny or amusing (that ridiculous smirk). His eyes can be beautiful or fucking terrifying (peaceful waters v. dark murky water). His mouth gets tense when he’s pissed and trying not to show it. He scowls a lot and sometimes he does it while he’s smiling, which usually means he’s about to do something especially cruel (that first whipping).
Livvie’s character profile went on and on about me. She wrote down pieces of things she remembered about me. She even went on to describe my dick, what I looked like when I came, and the way I laughed. Had Claudia read these notes? I knew she’d read at least part of Livvie’s story. What the fuck could she possibly have been thinking? I resented taking instant notice of how tight my lips were as I bit down on the tip of my tongue to help calm me down. I laughed bitterly.
I finally opened Captive.
Prologue:
This is not a romance. Romances are filled with valiant men and simpering damsels in distress. Romances have heroes worthy of the title. They slay dragons and climb towers to rescue beautiful princesses they immediately marry and impregnate. Romances end with a happily ever after. This is not a romance.
This is a love story. The characters are flawed to the point of being broken. The hero is beautiful, but ugly in ways that defy the ordinary imagination. The heroine isn’t trapped in a tower, but a dark and lonely room. There is no prince coming to save her. While love blooms and thrives, there is no happily ever after. Love does not always begin or end the way we wish it would.
A love story can happen to anyone. This one happened to me.
The words stirred something inside me. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind. Livvie was writing a book about us. Our story was not romance. I was not worthy of being called a hero. I was beautiful on the outside and hideous on the inside. We… didn’t have a happily ever after.
I swallowed hard. I swallowed a few times.
I’d come too far to stop. I kept reading:
I’m hurrying down the sidewalk, trying to get away from the sinister man in the car behind me, when I look up and see him. Perhaps it’s his easy stride, or the way his gaze sweeps past me instead of over me, but for whatever reason, he seems safe. I throw my arms about his waist and whisper, “Just play along, okay?”
He does, and I’m surprised when his arms wrap around me. The moment of danger seems to pass very quickly, but for some reason I don’t want to let go. I feel safe in these arms, and I’ve never really felt safe before. And he smells good, he smells the way I imagine a man should smell—like crisp, clean soap, and warm skin, and a light sweat. I think I’m taking too long to let go, so I release him as though he’s burned me. Then I stare up and acknowledge the angel in front of me. My knees almost buckle.