In The Arms Of Danger [Sequel to Make You Mine]

22:

22:

Recap: Remember folks, last chapter was in Ian's POV.

"I can change. Believe me I can." My fingertips squeeze her arms to emphasize my solemnity. "I just need to get away." I admit sadly.

Sometimes I feel like my dad failed me. Which is all the more reason why I can't fail Danny. I can't fail myself. I can blame everyone; my father, my step mother and even myself but what would that solve? I mean it's easy to blame yourself when you've been your own worst enemy since age ten. It's easy to lay floating complacently in your own ocean of sin. Tears are no different than rain to someone like me.

"Then do that, okay?" She rests her hands on my cheeks, in an attempt to get me to look at her. "If you need to get away from everyone and everything then do that."

I get the feeling it's meant more so for her than me. As if she wants an opportunity to get away just as bad as I do. But little does she know, her and Danny are going wherever I go.

"Let's do it then," I say just as my eyes finally greet hers.

The expressions of confusion and suspicion reside on her gorgeous face. While the expressions of honesty and intrigue reside on mine. I have a plan. A plan she is not aware of. She has no idea where I plan on taking her and Danny. She has no idea I plan on isolating them to keep them safe.

Ava's POV

Four months later: January 2018

Some said I was brave for what I had gone through. That they could not have imagined surviving had it been them. Well, to tell you the truth, I still don't know how I made it either. What I endured sounded like the kind of thing you read in a fucked up horror novel. And by the end of it I, the main character, belonged in a psych ward.

Couldn't argue with that. Maybe I didn't need counseling. Maybe all I needed was the crazy house. Or maybe that was a bit of a stretch. I mean one doesn't just go from counseling to the loony bin. It's usually reversed.

There was no doubt I had more problems than an Algebra book. But unlike a book, I didn't have a cheat sheet on the back with answers. Nope. I had to face my problems like a collision- head on.  

I had no problems admitting I was fucked in the head. And whenever someone would ask how I felt, I'd fight back the growing sarcasm inside of me. I wanted to say things like, I'm just peachy for someone who just lost her best friends. Or, I'm fan-fucking-tastic for a girl who just literally crawled out of hell.

I spent months debating on whether I should even give my therapist a chance. Fix myself or just embrace the new, screwed up me? My mind was idle. Consumed with dark thoughts that would eventually pull me under for good.

My mom used to say an idle mind was the devils' workshop. After my abduction she'd spend countless hour showing me every book there was about rape victims and the effects their captor had on them. She told me every week that I needed counseling and if I wouldn't find one then she would.

So I gave in and agreed to seek professional help. I agreed to see a therapist. One my mother had personally hand picked for me. One whom promised to help me heal as best as possible.

Healing. It's actually a lot easier to say than do.

They say the first step to healing is to admit you have a problem.  

I hated being a victim. That was my problem. I hated everything about having people pity me or treat me like a wounded animal all because of what I'd gone through. All because of what someone did to me. All because of Ian Hunt.