There are armed men everywhere I look. Two outside the door of Jacob's home, more inside seated around a rectangular table in the kitchen. Their weapons are large and conspicuous, thrown over their backs on long straps. I have no idea how many there are in total, but my odds of escape have diminished greatly.
My hands are finally cut free as we head to the table that's covered in food.
“Eat. You have a long night ahead of you,” Jake snickers.
Feeling disgusted, I sit in an empty chair and rest my folded hands on top of the table. It's lacquered, scratched and sticky. There are piles of white sandwich bread on a plate and bowls of rice and red beans. I grab a piece of bread and roll it between my palms the way I did as a child, smoothing and stretching it. It gives me a false sense of calm to have control over this one small thing, shaping it how I please.
It's loud around me, everyone talking and laughing, eating without manners. They all smell, like alcohol and sweat and stale cigarette smoke. They're mostly Quileute; the tallest men I've ever known, with black hair in varying lengths and tanned skin. A few are pale faces, with stringy hair and eyes glazed over. A bowl is dropped onto the table in front of me, the thunk startling me and rice flying over the side to land in my lap.
There's rushing water in my ears, giving the chatter a hushed sound. I blink, but no tears fall. My eyes are dry for once, too dry, and I blink more rapidly. I pick up my spoon, dropping the doughy ball of bread on the wood, and shovel in rice only to choke on it. I can feel the hysteria bubbling again, but I can't allow it. I can't seem to eat, so I sit silently next to my captor.
My husband.
I’m completely unsure of the legality of my marriage, but I know Black well enough to know that he's made the paperwork look legitimate. Enough for a bank to agree to add him to my accounts, at any rate. I just wish that money was all he was after with me, especially once he realizes he still can’t get into the trust.
“You’re not eating,” Jake spits, gripping a handful of my hair behind the ear.
The pain is there, but it dulls beneath the rest. My resolve is firm; if only I could get my stomach to catch up. “I'll do better,” I reply, and the pain disappears as he lets go of my hair. My scalp tingles as a reminder, and I force more food into my mouth.
My eyes roam the group seated around me; all of them are drinking, some stoned. As long as Jacob sleeps… after, then I should have the chance to run.
I'll try to pretend it's not fifteen miles to the nearest subdivision, and that I don't have to endure hell before I can escape.
Idly, I contemplate how hideous he's likely to be toward me. There are no knives at the table, or I would gladly pocket one to use later. As I spoon more tasteless food into my mouth, I see Seth come into the room.
He doesn't make eye contact or otherwise acknowledge that I’m sitting there, instead bending to Jake's ear. When Seth straightens again, he takes a seat on the bench at the opposite end of the table.
Jacob turns to me. “They’re looking everywhere for you,” he drawls, the evil amusement clear on his face. “I hope your lover tries to come onto our lands, he would deserve whatever my soldiers did to him.”
“He’s not my lover,” I insist, which is technically true. I swallow the lump of rice down a dry throat. “You are.”
Jacob's eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline. “Is that so?” He runs his fingertip down my arm, and I hide my revulsion with the shiver I can't suppress, hoping it makes it look like I'm interested in him.
“What can I say? You're powerful, like Charlie said. You're not ugly, and you're rich.” I shrug casually. “And now we're married.”
The grin that spreads over the entirety of his face makes me think he believes me. Out of my periphery, I see Seth‘s head dip so that he's practically drowning himself in his bowl. I don't know what he thinks. I can only pray that Edward will forgive me when he finds out what I did.
“But first, we drink!”
I breathe out a shaky sigh. He's buying it so far, I just need these men to all be really hammered first. Bottles of vodka are passed around, and I nurse the beer that's been in front of me for awhile now.
It's tedious as hell to spend hours pretending you don't want to gut the guy sitting next to you like a fish. If I had the chance to be a widow on my wedding day, the way he warned me not to do to him, I would split him open and not regret it.
When the men are sloppy and snoring on their chests, Jacob stumbles to his feet and holds a hand out to me. I take it without hesitation and stand next to him, plastic pieces on a chessboard, and we walk down the hallway that leads to what looks like a handful of bedrooms. When he ushers me inside one, closing and locking the door, I take in my surroundings. Closet, bathroom, window over bed. I can't see very far into the bathroom, but I hope there's a sizable window in there.
I turn as Jake sits on the bed, his eyes half open and his movements slow. He removes his jacket, dropping it on the floor. I look at the walls, the peeling wallpaper that might have once been red but is now a faded version of puce. The bed is messy, with sheets tangled everywhere. It smells like it needs a good scrubbing, the bedding needs to be bleached, and a bomb set off to take care of the rest.
The sound of a boot clunking to the floor gets my attention. Jacob stands and walks to me, and my instinct is to back up before I force myself to stop. When he reaches me, his hands go to my waist first, and I stand very still. He leans in, smelling my hair, his thumbs moving up my sides. I hope he's done quickly, that he passes out and I can leave. I don't know how far I can go with this, how much I can pretend. When he kisses my neck, the tears stream from the corners of my eyes.
I bite my lip, hard, to avoid letting the revulsion leak out. His lips are clammy, moving behind my ear and trailing back to my shoulder. He moves my shirt to the side, and that's when he wavers. He can't keep himself upright for much longer, thank God. If only he would hurry that up and just go ahead and collapse.
Putting my hand in the center of his chest, I push gently at first, then with increasing pressure as I realize that he doesn't notice I'm trying to knock him over. I turn my head away from him, and that's when I see it. The ugliest trophy ever, it appears to be a metal figure with a huge head, carrying a football. Reaching slowly, pushing on his chest and grappling for the trophy, crying harder now, I think I might lose my composure before I make any real progress.
Finally, my fingers close around the trophy, and slowly, so slowly, I bring my arm above my head. Just as I think I'm going to bludgeon this bastard, he seems to gain control of his senses. He raises his head and looks at my face, and he must see the tears. He frowns, the alcohol slowing him down, but soon he sneers at me.
“I fucking knew it.”
"How does it feel to lose at your own game?' I ask him.
Before he can say or do anything else, I slam the huge head of the metal trophy down. His face is smashed, the blood pouring from the hole in his head, and I back away as he lurches for me. Running is all I have left, and so I do.
I run like hell.
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