by Sophia Reed
But Annie only gave me a grim look and took the hard single chair that stood directly in front of me, dropping into it with zero grace. Gathering the front of the button-up – the only thing she'd been given to wear – she glared up at me.
"Don't blame me," I told her. "You got yourself into this."
She sat up straight in the chair. Head up, chin jutting. She was trying to be taller despite sitting and looking up at me. Because I was standing, I had the position of power. It was so simple but it worked.
"I was looking for you," she said. It sounded like she'd just remembered, past all the fury, hurt and humiliation.
I smiled and walked over to where she sat, feeling the attention of the guards shift as I did so. Taking her chin, I jerked her head up so she was looking at me. "I found you. I brought you back here." I tightened my grip to make certain she was looking at me. "You belong to me. I paid for you. I own you. If you run from me again – "
"I didn't run from you." She pretty much spat it at me, glaring.
I gave her a second to think about that while I tightened my grip on her chin cruelly tight. "You want to reconsider that?" The tone, I meant. The argument.
She didn't speak. I kept the same amount of force on her chin, neither increasing nor decreasing and she stared into my eyes, looking like she hated me.
She probably did. For now. When she needed me – when I'd become her only refuge, the pain and punishment from daily living and not from defying me – she wouldn't hate me.
She'd need me. She might even come to love me.
"Why did you come looking for me?"
Annie tried to jerk her head free of my grip. I kept hold, kept her head tilted so she had to look at me.
She could have used her hands at any time. She could have kicked out with one bare foot and caught me in the balls. There's no defense against that. Not when I was standing directly in front of her, legs spread wide, stance reading confidence and cock sure. Just to see what she'd do.
What she did was keep hold of the shirt. Both hands held it closed at top and bottom. There were no buttons on the thing and apparently she was determined to keep it from gaping open and exposing her.
Interesting. I saw the nurse I'd employed strip search her, gloved fingers sliding into every cavity. I'd seen the hot red blush on Annie's face, saw her glare in the direction of the guards. After, she'd been marched to where we were now and given only the shirt to wear. That was after she was forced to stand and wait for the shackles to be removed.
That was after the strip search, for which the guards had been very present.
Being clothed was important to her. Being naked was distressing for her.
I'd keep that in mind.
22
Annie
I'd forgotten how good looking he is.
That seemed unfair. He was tall, with dark blond hair, piercing eyes, those long, lean limbs that heavily muscled, tall guys have. When he moved, it was with the grace of a big cat. He prowled more than walked.
Everything he did was imbued with menace. I should have been immune to his games but I shuddered when he came near me. I'd spent months with Jesse. I'd had sex with him and once or twice he'd made love to me. He'd bitten me and hit me. He'd screamed at me and threatened to do far worse.
Far worse would have been automatic if my cover had been blown. As well as being a danger to Jesse's multimillion dollar business, I'd have made a fool of him. That wouldn't have been tolerated. If he hadn't taken me out, one of his soldiers would have. Jesse probably wouldn't even have executed him for it.
Nothing about Jesse affected me like this man. Cole St. Martin prowled. His strength was both the physical and the incredible presence that probably came from having the means and the morals to actually buy a human being.
No one knew where I was. As far as my team was concerned, I was on assignment. I didn't check in. That would defeat the purpose. I had a team so that I could get hold of them if I had to. I had a team that would respond when it was time to go in and take down the Brotherhood.
I was nowhere near the Brotherhood, hell and gone from Seattle, and alone with a man who was undoubtedly a sociopath. The only question was if he was a psychopath.
I'd watched his guards, not that I had to. Their actions spoke more loudly than their words. The way they pointed their weapons at me at a moment's notice. They were serious and vigilant and they were devoted to this man. That probably meant he'd bought them out of some kind of trouble. Whatever, one way or another, he'd paid for their loyalty.
I had yet to arrive at this compound awake and aware and able to see so I still had no idea how remote it was or how large. I couldn't give anyone my location because I didn't know it and I didn't have my phone, which might have been destroyed.
Or not. There was a glimmer of hope there. Because if something happened to my father, Cole would probably know and even Cole would either let me go or see me there himself.
Which brooked the problem that I didn't want anything bad to happen to my father just so I could get out of this.
Did I want out?
Cole dragged a chair across the room, which was spacious and sunny, white walls and white floor of some washable tile. The windows weren't barred but the guards were armed. One rather canceled the perceived freedom of the other.
When Cole spun the chair neatly right in front of mine and dropped down on it, arm over the back, legs straddling it, I felt an answering throb between my legs. That was what was insane. Not that he'd caught me, brought me here.
But that I'd come looking. That he might actually be my cure. That I wanted him despite his voice low in my ear telling me I didn't have to sleep with him.
Despite what he'd done to me.
He leaned in close. He'd released my jaw when he went for the chair and hadn't taken hold of it again.
Crazy or not, I missed the touch.
His eyes bore into mine. "I'm going to tell you what's going to happen. Do you want that?"
I wanted to say, Oh, yes, please in my most sarcastic tone. But I could feel the violence in him.
I didn't want to get hit.
A tiny voice inside me ventured that if that were true, I was very much in the wrong place.
I told the voice to shut up.
I said, "Yes."
He slapped me. Not as hard as Jesse ever had. Not as hard as I'd been hit in fights.
But hard enough to make my nose bleed and my ears ring.
"Yes?" he asked.
For an instant I didn't get it. I'd never played these games. Even when I pushed Mark into something harder, it was only dominance and submission, or S&M or – something. It was never M-s. Never Master/slave.
Never this.
"Yes, sir," I said, and lowered my eyes before he could demand I do so.
On such tiny instances can a life completely change.
He maintained eye contact when I brought my gaze back up to meet his. It was a technique used in interrogations and effective AF. It's hard to be stared at directly for any period of time.
"If you choose to stay here, you will submit entirely to me. I will be your dominant and master, as I am already your owner."
He waited to see if I would object. Internally I wanted to roll my eyes, but for the first time a shiver passed through me. As if by paying Samuels whatever fool amount of money the foolish Samuels had asked for, somehow something in my own reality had changed.
In a way, I had submitted to Jesse. That had been a form of self defense. People automatically deferred to Jesse. He had both the charisma and the danger.
This was different.
"If you choose to stay here, you will be healed of your addiction to the opiate." He waited to see if I had anything to say to that before he went on. "You've probably already noticed a change?"
"I woke without a craving," I said. "I'm still not feeling it." On the back of the chair, one of his hands twitched. I said, without undue haste, "Sir."
His smile was
closed mouthed but utterly smug. No. Not smug. Certain.
He knew it was appalling for me to call him sir. It is for most people who don't feel that they are in a subservient position or who don't wish to be. I knew who I was and what I was capable of. Take the armed guards out of the equation and I stood a chance against this man despite his height and reach and the extra weight he had on me. Even leaving the guards in place but taking out the weapons I'd still stand a chance.
Calling him sir was designed to put me in my place. I called relatively few men sir. My Taekwon-Do instructor. The police commissioner, who I'd had the need to address exactly once.
But he could help me.
Abruptly the Q&A ended.
"You'll adhere to my rules. You'll be in bed every night by nine unless I am entertaining. If I am entertaining, you will be dressed appropriately and groomed as befits the hostess and consort of a billionaire."
Consort? Would I wear a tiara?
How would any bruises play out in such a situation? Or was the sadism all a big lie? A little window dressing?
"You will be awake at five and out of bed by five-thirty."
Nine o'clock bedtime was barbaric. Getting up at five-thirty wasn't bad.
He went on to describe a day that didn't sound so bad. Plenty of hydration, plenty of protein shakes, lean meats, fruits and vegetables. On different days we would run together, hike in the desert, which I took to mean we were so remote that seeing the world around me still wouldn't help me locate myself. Back to the house for weights, yoga, and massage.
So far I was liking this.
Until he got to the part that I didn't.
Rules that were obeyed gained points. Rules that were disobeyed gained demerits.
Demerits built in severity of punishment until he was ready to deal with it.
"If on a given day you meet all of your goals, you'll find yourself rewarded," he said. "You might get dessert."
What am I, five? But just the expression on my face was enough to make his hand twitch again as if he was barely restraining himself from slapping me.
"Rewards can take different forms. Later bedtimes. Longer reading sessions. Contact with the outside world. Part of the day to do with as you wish."
Yep, five. He was a sadistic Mary Poppins.
"And demerits will be treated individually as I see fit. On a day when you talk back, look for ways to alter your consciousness, try to leave, refuse a direct command – those sort of infractions will be dealt with when I'm ready."
"How?" I asked bluntly and I did not add sir.
I had yet to agree to any of this. He had no hold on me.
Except for waking up without the craving.
"Nothing will harm you permanently," he said, and reached out to touch my face. I shrank back then realized he was only going to stroke, and forced myself to be still. "You will not be altered. There will be no branding, no tattooing. Since your sobriety is one of the goals, you will not be subjected to any kind of substance."
I shuddered at the idea that anyone would be, ever.
He stood and walked behind my chair. I tensed, but tried not to move. Still there was no agreement between us, but it was coming. And I'd sign when he presented it. The freedom of my body this day, without the pain, the upset, the headache, the exhaustion, the confusion, the runny nose – all of it was too good to be true.
Instead of feeling the symptoms of withdrawal, I felt good. Strong, rested. Clear-headed.
I hated what I'd have to give up for it. My freedom. My self respect. My dignity. There was nothing dignified in knowing that I was going to be punished, that it might be made some version of public. That he might invite others in to do whatever it was he was threatening.
Now he said, "Make no mistake. There will be pain and there will be pleasure."
I looked up at him, angry and confused. Waiting.
"Now that you are mine, now that you are to sign the agreement, now that you know the pleasure of having body and soul back, you will be mine completely."
Oh. Sex. That I might have guessed.
"You will serve at my pleasure. I will do with your body as I wish. You may only pleasure me some days and I may choose to pleasure you on others or make you hurt for my own pleasure." He stroked my face as he moved closer and then, without warning, he leaned over me from behind and took my hands from the front of the button up and put them to my sides. His hands moved inside the shirt and he ran them hard down the slope of my breasts, found my nipples, and began to squeeze.
I sucked in a breath, then held it, waiting for him to stop, waiting for my body to even out and accept what it was feeling, to deal with it and wait for it to end even as electricity sped through me and I felt myself suddenly getting aroused, so wet there was going to be evidence of it on the chair when finally he allowed me to stand up.
"This," he said, and releasing my nipples, which started to burn with the return of blood, he slid his hands around the outsides of my breasts and began to squeeze them as though he meant to crush them.
I started to shake. My hands balled into fists around the hem of the shirt and he barked at me. "Open your hands!"
God! Wasn't I supposed to have any release? It hurts!
I forced my hands open and in response, he tightened his grip. I bucked against him and he laughed, and dug his nails into my flesh.
I screamed.
The agreement was drawn up by and witnessed by an attorney who had to be really strange. I memorized his name so I could be certain I would never hire him by mistake. I signed my name with a hand that shook.
No one notarized the documents. No one asked for my ID.
I had a feeling the agreements were, nonetheless, incredibly binding.
23
Annie
I signed.
I wanted my life back. I didn't want to go back to fet. I'd never had an addiction before, except maybe coffee, and that wasn't something I was even serious about. I didn't like being dependent on something that I had to struggle to obtain. The idea that it was illegal was abhorrent because of its very addictive nature. To put human beings in such a catch-22 should be illegal. The manufacturers of such drugs had a duty to find the very thing Cole was searching for: Something to counteract the malignant aspects of the painkiller they'd created. So despite being in law enforcement, the illegality was more galling than morally upsetting. Plus, I didn't like risking my career and my relationships for an artificial pleasure.
There were other considerations as well. Buying fentanyl on the street meant the dosage changed, the strength, the purity. It could kill without any warning because one of those things changed. Because you got hold of something so much stronger than you expected. The people I had to buy from were the very people I was committed to putting away and that part of the moral quandary bothered me enormously.
Mostly, I hated being in thrall to anything. For the last several months, that had been fentanyl. For the time being, it would mean Cole St. Martin, at least until my life was no longer in danger.
My life was crap right now. I might have ruined my chances at a life with Mark. I might not even be certain that was what I wanted anymore. I'd become attached to the gang leader I'd gone undercover to take down and that messed with my head. My father, who was my hero, my role model, was having serious, life threatening health issues, with serious legal issues waiting in the sidelines.
Crap. But that didn't mean I didn't want it. A stubborn core inside me wanted to know how everything was going to turn out. Play out. How everything would change. Because it would. Nothing stays the same forever. Change is the only constant. When everything came around to the better side of the equation, I wanted to be there, functioning and healthy, to understand how and why it had changed and enjoy it.
I signed because I'd spent time looking for this man and even if I couldn't admit it to him, I was curious about everything he had to offer, and that didn't mean only the cure.
That might have been the scariest
idea of all.
From the signing I was taken directly into one of the bigger houses on the compound. The short walk from the room where I'd met with Cole to the next building was in the sun, my feet scuffled on soft walkways that were warm from the sun.
It was pleasant. Until we got there.
Cole walked ahead of us. The men with guns walked behind me. I didn't see anyone else on my travels, but I had no doubt they were there. I also had no doubt that whoever they were, they were armed.
From what I knew about billionaires, they were intense, driven, and not normal. Granted, I didn't know much. I couldn't even identify more than a handful of them. But didn't Bill Gates live in an underground compound? If you were worth as much as he'd earned by creating computer programs that made people scream and want to commit murder – wait, maybe I could see his point.
My mouth twitched at my own thoughts. I really did feel better than I'd felt in months. There really had to be something to this opiate antagonist, or cure, or whatever it was Cole had developed.
The second billionaire I could think of was Elon Musk, who was just weird all over the place. Last I'd heard, he wanted to create computer chips that could be placed in people's brains so they would literally be jacking in like in sci-fi movies. That was creepy. And a little nuts. The last person I wanted programming anything that was going into my head was a man who launched a convertible into space. Or maybe the man I'd just signed myself over to.
The last billionaire I could think of was the Amazon guy whose name I could never remember. He'd been ruling the world one day and sending dick pics the next. …oh, wait, that was just being a guy.
I realized I was smiling to myself and tried to stop. But Cole St. Martin was the fourth billionaire I had any knowledge about and I was definitely finding him a mixed bag.
Then inside the shirt I still clutched around me, my breasts began to ache with a fiery pain, and I stopped smiling completely. I could feel the eight spots where his fingernails had dug into the flesh. I could feel the places where his thumbs had applied uneven pressure, and I was pretty sure those were already bruising.