Dark Surrender

by Quin Zayne

Her cheeks, her lips, her eyes, all swollen and melting into a horror mask. It all went wrong. She ruined it.

  Her face. Oh, no. Dr. Laszlo said not to be too emotional, and she’d been screaming and thrashing around.

  Mandy ran to the mirror.

  Okay. Thank God. Her face was okay. She checked from different angles. She wasn’t coming apart at the seams. Whew.

  Shadows from the nightmare clung to her. Something horrible happened to her face.

  She leaned closer to her lush-lipped, lavender-eyed reflection. Nothing was wrong. It was the same amazing effect she’d seen since the surgeon removed the bandages.

  She rested her fingertips on one dramatic cheekbone. It was her face still, only enhanced. She’d never need makeup again.

  Pursing her lips in a kiss, she raised and lowered her thick lashes, click-click, like an old-fashioned doll with eyes that shut when you put it on its back. She slid her fingertips along her swollen lips, her jaw, and behind her ear, checking for Frankenstein sutures.

  Alright. Nothing to see here. She angled her chin up, Shut one eye at a time. No problems. No damage. No monster bolts.

  There was nothing wrong with her face, despite more procedures than she really wanted to count. She swallowed hard. It was scary stuff, letting them transform her. She hadn’t known how any of it would turn out. She still didn’t.

  This wasn’t bad, the face so far, but they weren’t nearly finished. Her mind returned to horrific thoughts of things going wrong, persistent as her tongue at a loose tooth back when she believed in the tooth fairy.

  It didn’t help that she’d savored so many books and movies about mad scientists. All those nights huddled under a blanket eating popcorn with Mom and Dad, Becky huddled close squeezing her hand. They all loved monster flicks. Now here she was with the wind lashing the jungle and the surf crashing on the beach. She might as well be visiting the strange island of doctor Moreau.

  No matter how often Dr. Laszlo and Damon said the procedures were minimally invasive, this was her face. Nerve damage could cause paralysis. A wrong move, and she’d be blind. And she wasn’t over the fear that some day she’d go under anesthesia and never wake up. It happened. Easy for them to say everything was safe.

  Maybe it wasn’t worth it.

  “A million dollars,” she mouthed to herself.

  Rose’s lips said the words.

  It was worth it. She envisioned receiving the money, her life transformed. What were a few procedures, no matter how scary it all was? She could take it.

  Returning to bed, she slid under the sheet and curled into a ball. The bed felt enormous. She could be drifting on an ice floe.

  She turned over and hugged herself. She bit a nail.

  No. She hadn’t bitten her nails in years. She mustn’t start now, when she was under pressure to become perfect. Sighing, she clutched her elbows to keep her hands out of trouble.

  In their few conversations, she hadn’t had the nerve to ask Damon how many applicants there’d been. No doubt he had problems with women. Being too assertive wouldn’t fit with becoming his ideal doll.

  As much as she had to keep biting her tongue, there’d be no point in playing the part half-assed. She agreed to do this, and she signed the contract. Odd that he’d wanted her signature in pixels rather than blood. Beyond keeping up the show of compliance, she didn’t want to spark him to think about a second-runner-up. It wouldn’t do to remind him of other applicants, in case he started feeling dissatisfied with her appearance or performance.

  What if there were others? What if he was experimenting on several of them? Survival of the fittest. In a place like this, many women could disappear, and no one would know. Maybe that’s why he kept her cut off from all communications. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, she already disappeared.

  It gave her the creeps to imagine her face on one of those ‘missing’ posters on campus. Have you seen Mandy Stone?

  No, that wouldn’t happen. Damon covered that by having her make calls before she left.

  She tossed onto her other side. She had to stop worrying about things she couldn’t change. This was stressful. The procedures, the unfamiliar surroundings, being away from everyone she knew, out of touch with the rest of the world—it wore on her, and it threw her. Going from working every waking hour, under constant deadlines, to being idle—it bothered her.

  She was lonely.

  Quality problems. Where to enjoy a view of paradise, when to soak in the spa indoors or out, when to luxuriate in the huge shower, when to eat another delicious meal, which sumptuous outfit to wear. When to sleep, alone again.

  The big bed mocked her virginity. Aside from a few sleepovers with girlfriends, she spent her life sleeping alone, but here, on a remote island, it was different and lonelier. She didn’t even have a few things from home to soften the strangeness. Grabbing the other pillow, she hugged it.

  Here, she was owned by a billionaire, and he didn’t want her.

  Perhaps he was waiting for her to meet his image of perfection.

  That was probably it. When her body was finished, when all of her matched the design in his mind, he’d be able to stand to touch her.

  Blowing out her breath, she touched her face. The slight numbness wasn’t bad. At least it didn’t hurt. Maybe this was what Dr. Laszlo meant about dissociation. Even though the changes weren’t huge—nothing like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—she couldn’t help sensing she wasn’t herself anymore.

  Right. She was Rose, Damon’s doll. She truly wasn’t herself any more. He bought her. And she let him.

  Deep breath. Alright, she was fine. Sleep would help. Tomorrow was a new day. She’d watch the waves in the morning before her doctor appointment. She was fine.

  No more nightmares. No heavy exertions or heavy emotions. She had to take care not to damage her mask.

  A million bucks was riding on this.

  Mandy kicked at the sheet wrapped up her thighs. Her throat felt raw from screaming. The nightmare filled the dark room, pressing down on her the way a shroud pressed the face of a person buried alive.

  She yanked at the sheet, kicking harder, the cloth gripping her tight as a mummy wrapping.

  Fighting the clinging fabric, she wrenched it down her leg, scratching herself hard.

  “Damn it.”

  Blows pelted the door.

  “It’s okay. Sorry. Bad dream.” Her voice came out weak and dwindled to a mumble. How humiliating. Another nightmare, this one a screamer.

  Kicking off the last loop of the sheet, she grabbed the robe she shrugged off after her shower.

  The knocking rattled the majestic doors.

  “I’m coming.” She hollered. Jumping out of bed, she pulled on the robe as she rushed to the door.

  She flung the door open, expecting a member of the staff.

  Damon stood there, hand raised to keep pounding. Bright spots made his cheeks hectic, like a clown’s, if a clown hadn’t shaved or slept. A white shirt, buttoned crooked, hung over bright blue boxer briefs.

  “Are you alright? Is there someone in there?” He craned to look past her. “Excuse me.”

  Before she could answer, he brushed past her. He strode to the bedroom, flung open the bathroom door, and checked the closet. He got down and looked under the bed. Springing up, he hurried to the French doors and tested the latch.

  She stood panting and fumbled with the robe’s belt, unable to speak.

  “What happened?” He paced, still checking the suite, keeping his eyes off of her.

  Mandy pushed her hair out of her face. Strands stuck to her skin, as though she’d been running. “Nightmare. Sorry, something horrible.” She glanced at the sheets that held her so tightly on the bed, preventing her from running away.

  That was crazy. They were only sheets. They didn’t do anything to her.

  She couldn’t rid herself of the trapped sensation. It didn’t help that the big billionaire stood between her and her only clear exit from his villa.
Not that she would have flung herself off the balcony, but still, the feeling of being caught—in a trap—. That was it. It was as though she couldn’t get out, couldn’t get free. Her face. Something wrong with her face.

  She ran to the mirror.

  No. It was no different than before. Dr. Laszlo replaced her normal face with a glamour shot, that was all.

  It reminded her of a feminist view about makeup, that it was designed to show men a flattering expression that suggested interest and arousal: arched brows, wide eyes, flushed cheeks, red lips. Baboon-butt time. She snorted.

  “Nightmare. Oh.” He nodded, but looked confused.

  All that adrenaline pumping through his powerful body and nothing but figments to fight.

  She imagined he could have been in the service. He had the physique and the fighting reflexes. Not a question a sex doll would ask. She pressed her lips together, wishing she could stop feeling pissed off.

  “You’d make a good boogie man patrol.” She made her tone light, but the image of him as a father rushing in to protect and soothe… She swallowed hard.

  Averting her eyes, she caught sight of the full moon high over the ocean. Her heart thumped the way it had the one time she won a race.

  “Boogie man patrol?” He stepped closer, frowning, and then laughed. He raked his hair back with his fingers and rubbed his bristly chin. “I can’t get used to this, being bare-faced and prickly. Joining you in transformation wasn’t my brightest idea.”

  “It was well meant.” She appreciated the change of subject. “Thank you.” Not knowing what else to say, she stood there, hands hanging limp beside her recently trapped thighs. His chin looked like it would scratch.

  He closed the distance between them with one long stride and pulled her close.

  “It’s alright now,” he murmured into her hair.

  Not meaning to, her hands went around him and gripped his strong back through his crisp white shirt. Damn, that was sexy, nothing but a shirt and boxer briefs. From his thick hair to his big bare feet, he radiated sex appeal.

  She became acutely conscious she wore nothing but the soft robe. Could he smell her? She felt hot all over.

  He pressed his palms against her shoulders and stepped back.

  She teetered, staring at him.

  “Go back to bed. Get some sleep. That’s it for boogie man patrol tonight. You’re all clear. It’s safe to sleep. Have good dreams.” He left the room fast and shut the door without turning around, as if he was the one who needed to escape.

  Damn him, who was he anyway?

  If not for the Internet silence that was making her sojourn here a foray into cruel and unusual punishment, she’d do a search on him right now, learn what she could about what he’d done. A man like that, he had to have been up to something bad at some time. Of course, a wealthy man had low odds of ever having to pay for his crimes. Damn him. Damn him to hell.

  She plunked down on the bed and shrugged off the robe. Growling in her sore throat, she yanked off the sheet, balled it up, and threw it toward the balcony.

  About to draw her feet up, envisioning the thing she once thought might live under the bed, she stopped with them in mid-air.

  What had Damon thought was in the room? Or—whom?

  I raced downstairs to Dr. Laszlo’s domain. I’d damned near overslept. Thanks to not needing a trace of makeup and the luxury of having clothes laid out for me, I reached his door on time.

  Wiping my hands on my jeans, I steeled myself to enter the basement clinic. Nothing bad had happened there, but it gave me the creeps. My belly turned over. What if Damon changed his mind and told the doctor to do more work on me.

  I tapped on the door.

  “Come in, Rose.”

  Shrugging off the hesitation over that name, I stepped into the room as the door opened.

  Dr. Laszlo pocketed something and gave me his full attention. His pupils widened.

  “You’re a work of art.” He rubbed his hands together. “Have a seat, this is only a formality, I can tell everything is excellent with your face.” Dr. Laszlo flashed a brilliant smile.

  “Thank you.” I sat on the edge of the exam table, glad the gown wasn’t required.

  He approached, cocked his head, walked around me more like a sculptor than a doctor.

  “Perfect! As I expected, you’ve healed beautifully. Be happy. Everything is going well. Damon’s pleased, whether he says as much or not. I can tell.”

  I let out a pent breath. I worried more than I wanted to admit about pleasing Damon.

  “That’s good to hear.” I licked my lips, my brain shuffling my questions about the billionaire, seeking something safe to ask.

  “Excuse me. My husband is calling.” A smile flickered, transforming the doctor, making him far younger. That was the fountain of youth: love.

  Rose nodded. She didn’t like it, but she worked to think of herself as Rose. Acting. Keep acting.

  The doctor rushed away from her into another room. The door didn’t shut.

  This was her life. Manners be damned. She crept close to the door and listened.

  “I’ll call you later. Yes, she’s here. Everything is fine. Of course. You can count on me. Talk to you soon.”

  She backed away from the door. It almost hit her as the doctor breezed back into the room. Recovering her balance, she pretended interest in one of his diplomas. He’d gone to medical school in San Francisco. Right. Damon knew the doctor before he joined the staff here. It made sense, but chilled her, and his taking the call in the other room had her on edge.

  He shot her a hard glance.

  No, he hadn’t bought her interest in his vanity wall.

  Striving to sound casual, she cleared her throat. “I thought there was no phone service here.”

  “There isn’t cell service. We’re much too far from towers. Damon has satellite service.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sorry. I can imagine how frustrating this must be for you. Access is for authorized use only.” He held up his hand. “If there was any way, I’d let you use my phone. Trust me. Everything is monitored. You’d forfeit the million-dollar payout, and he’d boot me off the island.” He shook his head and touched her lightly under the chin, admiring her face. “You’re a work of art, and we’re only getting started. I can’t stand leaving a sculpture unfinished.”

  I smiled in spite of myself. He had a charming way about him. Knowing he had a husband went a long way to helping me feel at ease about the forthcoming procedures on my body. No way around it. Being naked and at the mercy of a guy who reminded me of my gay friends was more comfortable than going under the knife to a straight stranger by an order of magnitude too high to measure.

  “I can relate. Art is my life. I mean, when I’m not being made into a living doll.”

  He had a good laugh, a kind laugh.

  “You’ll be fine. This top-secret part of Damon’s plan will end in a few weeks. Earn his trust. He might see the value of allowing you to communicate with friends as the former you once you’ve established your new identity. Once you’re fulfilling his dream. You’ll have more leverage to get what you want then.” He spoke low.

  I nodded to show I understood. It’s what I hoped, but tried not to think about too much. Damon didn’t want anyone looking for Mandy, so someday, I ought to be able to call Ken and Lisa. Laszlo was right—that day, if it came at all, would have to be after Damon felt satisfied with my performance as Rose. In the meantime, I needed to be careful.

  “There. That’s a good smile. Genuine, with no crinkling. Keep that up.” The doctor squeezed my shoulder. “It’s all going to be okay.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Damon needs a woman like you.” Something flashed across his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  He shook his head, casting a glance toward a corner of the room.

  Right. Surveillance. I nodded.

  His mouth turned down and his gaze skidded away from mine.
“Forget it. You’re beautiful, and everything is going according to plan.” He slipped his hand in his pocket.

  I took the hint that he was eager to call his husband. I’d have to find another way to discover Damon’s secrets.

  The door slid open.

  “Okay. Bye.” I turned on my heel.

  “Damon wants you in the dungeon. It’s the door at the far end, built into the volcano.”

  My heart skipped, and my face burned. I hurried out without turning around. “Got it. Thanks.”

  Dungeon?

  Lesson 1

  A large door with big rivets blocked the far end of the underground hallway. Her insides crawled at the thought of entering the volcano’s heart. Visions of human sacrifice crowded her mind, Damon over her with a dagger. His erection urgent, as powerful as his blood lust.

  Stop it. She drew a steadying breath and raised her fist to knock.

  The door rose before she touched it.

  She scuttled inside before she could lose her nerve.

  Goosebumps rose over her arms.

  Perhaps this surprise summons was the reason Annalise dressed her in a simple white shift and matching lace lingerie with slip-on peekaboo high heels.

  She tossed her head, sending her hair cascading down her back.

  Damon sucked in his breath and took a step toward her. His eyes glowed, the only color in the black room.

  Avoiding her reflection in the mirrors and exquisite erotic black and white photos, her gaze skidded away from BDSM equipment placed throughout the space. Bondage tables, sex swings, a rack, a device with an eerie resemblance to an iron maiden, stocks, a delicious motorcycle, and too close to her fantasies, an altar. Her mind refused to continue cataloging the equipment and the possible sex acts, kinks, and punishments he might enact on her here. The one thing she knew for certain: no one could hear her scream.

  The cool indirect lighting gave the impression that anything could happen. She’d entered a dream where rituals became flesh.

  Her flesh was about to become her owner’s main course.

  From his position at the center of the cavernous room, Damon motioned her to approach an odd apparatus. It looked like an expensive version of a padded sawhorse she saw in a friend’s garage, complete with manacles attached by chains to the legs. Forever after, she couldn’t erase the thought of her friend’s parents doing kinky things out there.