The car crawled along the empty road; the two of them stole glances at each other.
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From experience, the Colonel knew a girl in this situation needed time to compose herself. So he deliberately kept the speed low, thankful that the hour was late and the roads were devoid of traffic. Ensuring the path ahead was clear, he seized a brief moment of safety to steal a glance at the girl sitting beside him, only to find that she kept her head down, motionless and silent, shedding no tears.
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As he turned his eyes back to the road, she took the opportunity to turn her head ever so slightly toward him. And through the very edge of her peripheral vision, she stole a look at the man who was about to take advantage of her, while inhaling the masculine fragrance lingering on his greatcoat draped over her shoulders. After a few seconds, timing it perfectly, she averted her eyes just before he looked back at her again.
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They did this to each other more times than either could count. Until finally, their eyes met.
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For two seconds, their gazes locked, before they both abruptly looked away.
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Sophie knew this sense of security was nothing more than an illusion. The handsome man next to her was not her boyfriend, but an enemy who would soon defile her body. He might kill her afterward, or spare her life only to reduce her to his slave. Yet, at the horrifying thought of becoming his slave—of being repeatedly violated by him—an involuntary smile tugged at the corner of her lips. It lasted merely a second before she suppressed it in horror. She hated herself for this. She hated that before he had even touched her body, her heart had already been conquered.
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And then, as if the thought itself had broken something inside her, the strength holding her emotions back vanished entirely. Tears surged like a broken dam.
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Finally, she wept.
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Hearing her sobs, the Colonel pulled the car over. He then reached his hand inside the greatcoat draped over her body.
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(Is he going to start now?)
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Sophie’s heart was pounding, as his hand had slipped inside the coat, just mere centimeters away from her chest.
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Yet, his fingers never touched her body. If anything, he even deliberately moved his hand higher, cautiously avoiding her heaving chest as she cried. Carefully, very carefully, he drew a handkerchief—with alternate red and white stripes—from the inner pocket of the coat, then gently began to wipe away her tears.
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He spoke his very first words of the night. But in her overwhelmed and nervous state, she couldn’t make them out, which only made her cry even harder.
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"Please...don’t speak too fast. I can’t understand... if you’re too fast."
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Those were the first words she spoke to him. The man didn't reply. He simply focused on dabbing away the tears from her face.
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As her emotions gradually settled, Sophie stopped crying. She reached out and grasped the hand that was wiping her cheeks.
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(So cold!)
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She pulled his hand slightly away from her face and noticed he had removed his glove. The sudden realization that this was their very first direct skin-to-skin contact made her reflexively snatch the handkerchief from his grip and use it to dry the remaining tears herself.
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Without a word, the man put his glove back on and put the car back in gear.
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On the road, they started stealing glances at each other, again.
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