Free Behind His Eyes - Convicted: The Missing Years by Aleatha Romig Page B

for some reason…it was now my life.
    I had vague memories of fighting, none which ended well. As the recollections began to surface, I understood with painful clarity that I was no match physically for the man I’d recently met. Not only had he overpowered me, but my reception of his advances in Georgia had also opened the door to his mental domination. With an overwhelming sense of defeat, I recalled surrendering, not having the strength to continue the fight. As I cried under the hot spray of a much-needed shower, I found it difficult to blame anyone but myself. I’d lived my life independently and safely by following my rules. In a matter of days, Anthony Rawlings had broken my rules and shattered my world. No longer was I safe and independent. At twenty-six years of age, I was huddled in the corner of the cavernous shower, petrified of what the next hour would bring, and terrified of the suite door opening.
    The ambiguity of my future was numbing. All I knew with some certainty was that I was trapped in a large suite with windows that looked out for miles and miles onto a dormant forest of gray, leafless trees. No longer was I in Atlanta… but where was I? How did I get here? And… could I handle the answers?
    The fear of learning my location was equally as upsetting as the prospect of seeing the dark eyes that I knew in the pit of my stomach would return to that opulent cell. I was a prisoner at the mercy of my captor. At some moment in those first few hours of wakefulness, I convinced myself that there’d been a mistake—a terrible mistake. Perhaps it was a misunderstanding or maybe a mistaken identity. No matter the reason, survival instincts told me that it wasn’t enough for me to believe there’d been a mistake: I needed to convince the man with the key to my freedom. Naively, I believed that was possible.
    In what I later realized was a game of wits, I was informed of Mr. Rawlings’ impending return. I was told that he would come to my suite at 7:00 PM, and that I was to be dressed and ready to dine. It was as if each minute were more absurd than the one before. My brain truly had difficulty keeping up.
    Instead of being left alone to my own devices, which in hindsight would have more than likely resulted in another painful lesson, I was assisted with dressing, fixing my hair, and makeup. The entire scenario was unreal and vulgar. I was being helped to make myself presentable for the man who’d kidnapped and abused me. As much as I planned to state—or even plead—my case of mistaken identity, in the pit of my stomach, I feared that with the help of the kind housekeeper, I was doing nothing more than preparing myself for more abuse.
    The man who entered my suite that night was somewhere between the charismatic man at the bar and the monster I’d seen glimpses of during my abduction. Though intimidating, he was also debonair. It’s an odd combination, one that left me reeling with uncertainties. To say I was scared to face him would have been an understatement; however, after an afternoon of attempting to escape, I knew my only mode of freedom was through him. Though I tried to hide my trepidation, the physical cues were obvious: my entire body trembled merely at the sight of his black eyes.
    Anthony Rawlings had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen. With time I learned to read the emotions that swirled in their abyss. But on that night, all I witnessed behind his eyes was an impenetrable hunger that I didn’t understand. How could I? I was figuratively walking the tightrope of my life.
    We did dine—or should I say that he ate. My nerves were too stretched to even consider consuming food. I wanted to appear strong; however, I doubt that I did. He spoke casually about the meal, dining, and trivial things. Had my body not throbbed with the abuses from the night before and my muscles not been as taut as metal stretched to its brink, I could have pretended I was on a date with an eloquent gentleman. That