Taken

by Natasha Knight

When I slip it on, though, I realize it shows off enough without needing to be. It doesn’t allow for a bra—and even if it did, I don’t have one. My breasts are a very modest B cup at their most full time of the month, and this sort of dress is new for me. I’d never wear it at home.

  The fabric is softest cotton. A glance in the mirror shows me it’s not see-through. I slip on the sandals, and the look is soft. Very feminine. The turquoise complements my skin and hair.

  I peek under the tissue paper for underwear, but there doesn’t seem to be any. Which is probably for the best, since I don’t think I could wear any today anyway.

  Back in the bathroom, I brush out my hair and set it over my shoulders. I need to ask him for some clips or hair ties or something. I’m used to my hair pulled off my face and neck, especially in the summer.

  Guessing I took just over the five minutes I was allotted, I open the door and, for the first time, step into the hallway. I look right and left and up. There’s another level to the house, and this floor houses, from what I can see, seven rooms. I’m not sure if one is a linen closet or bathroom, maybe laundry. All of the doors are closed.

  Our house back home is big too. It’s been in the family for generations. But, opposite this house, it’s old and needs repair with whole sections closed off, and it’s always too cold in winter and too hot in summer.

  I take a few steps, and I’m at the top of the wide, opulent staircase. Sebastian is downstairs. I can see him in what I guess is the living room, and he’s on his phone. I make my way down. He looks up at me when he hears my heels clicking on the stairs.

  When I reach the first floor, I look around as he wraps up his call. Large living room on one side, larger dining room to the other with a long, rectangular table that looks like it can seat more than a dozen people.

  French doors lead outside from each room, making the space bright.

  The front doors are opulent, the wood light in color, the carving intricate, each door making up one half of the giant symbol drawn in it with two smaller ones on either bottom corner.

  Sebastian comes to me, and I watch him look me over, nod in approval. He’s dressed casually, wearing jeans and T-shirt, same as yesterday. Again, I see the tattoos. It takes me a minute to drag my eyes away.

  I clear my throat at the awkward moment.

  “What is that?” I ask, pointing to the door.

  “Scafoni family crest.”

  “Wow. Is that in case you accidentally walk up to the wrong house?”

  He smiles, puts his hand at my low back, and the contact of skin on skin sends a small current of electricity sparking through me. It’s instantaneous and quick, and I wonder if he feels it at all.

  “No chance of that. We’re the only house on the island.”

  Island. Wow. They own a freaking island.

  “I thought we were in Venice.”

  “We are. This is Isola Anabelle, one of Venice’s islands.”

  “Oh.” I sound stupid, I know, but honestly, I’d never thought about anything but Venice proper when I thought about Venice.

  “This is the living room. You’re welcome in here anytime. Dining room, same thing. Although I advise you to stay in your room when I’m not on the property.”

  “Because you’re my only ally?”

  He narrows his eyes, gives me a smile that warns me to watch myself, and continues. “Any doors that are closed on any level are off-limits. Don’t let me catch you inside any of them.”

  I face him, meet his charcoal gaze. He must have shaved this morning because it’s the first time I’ve seen him without scruff along his jaw.

  “Or you’ll send your mommy to cane me?” I can’t help asking, even though I know I shouldn’t.

  “Nah,” he says, leaning in close, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He’s studying me as closely as I am him. I wonder what he sees. “I’ll cane you myself.”

  His hand is at my elbow, fingers closing around it.

  A shudder runs through me, and I don’t know if it’s his breath at my neck or the words themselves that do it. I look up at him, swallow, my smile fading as his grows.

  “You won’t win with me, Helena.”

  “I won’t give up without a fight, Sebastian.”

  “Choose your battles wisely, then, or you’ll wear yourself out before we’ve even arrived on the battlefield.”

  “We arrived on the battlefield the moment I was made to step onto the block to be poked and prodded as if I were cattle.”

  “If you’re not careful, it won’t be a block I put you on.”

  I stop, no comeback, his words from yesterday too fresh in my mind.

  He’s referring to the whipping post.

  Someone clears their throat, and Sebastian’s hand squeezes my elbow. “Helena, this is Remy. He’s a sort of butler. If you need something and can’t find me, you find him, understand?”

  I turn to Sebastian, and I feel like he means more than he’s saying.

  “Is he my ally too?” I ask.

  “You’re wearing on me,” he says, introducing me to Remy, who smiles and bows.

  He then walks me toward a swinging door that opens up into a very large kitchen. Blue-and-white tiles cover every wall, and there is a wood-burning stove where flatbread is puffing as it bakes.

  The counters look to be concrete and very modern, like the appliances, and there’s a huge island where a cook is standing over the cooktop, stirring a pot. The scent coming from it makes my mouth water.

  She’s older and has her gray hair tied back into a bun. She wipes her hands on the apron around her ample hips and nods her greeting.

  “This is Miriam. She’s our cook.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I say, stepping closer to peek into the pot. “What is it?” I ask, even though I don’t want to appear interested in anything he has to show me.

  She answers in Italian and, while he translates, dips a spoon into the broth and holds it out for me to taste. She makes a motion for me to blow on it, and I like her already.

  “Stock for tonight’s soup,” Sebastian says. “It’s vegetarian. You’re a vegetarian, right?”

  I glance at him, taken aback. “Yes. And it’s delicious,” I say, directing that last part to Miriam, who smiles proudly.

  I don’t thank him for accommodating my diet.

  “I’ll let you know where you’ll take your meals each day. If you miss a meal, you wait until the next one. Remember that.”

  “Don’t skip meals, or I’ll be sent to bed without my supper. Got it.”

  He smiles, and his hand grips my arm a little too tightly.

  I follow him through the open door and into the bright sunshine. I stand in it for a minute, enjoying its rays, its warmth. From here, I can see in the distance that one of the three boats is gone. He follows my gaze.

  “My family is off the island for the day.”

  I turn to him. “When you said you dealt with your mother, what does that mean?”

  “It means she’ll think twice about hurting you again. And to clarify, she’s my stepmother.”

  Stepmother?

  But before I can ask more, he’s guiding me away again.

  “This way.”

  We walk along the property, and I’m in awe. I’ve never seen something so serenely beautiful as Isola Anabelle. The grass is lush, the water surrounding it—the Adriatic, I believe—quiet and blue.

  There’s a swimming pool that is calling to me. With three sisters, swimming was my time to be alone. It’s my haven, being beneath the surface. The pool is Olympic-size, and comfortable lounge chairs are situated along the circumference.

  “Where is Venice proper?”

  “About a fifteen-minute boat ride away.”

  “And there’s no one else on this island but your family and the staff?”

  “Correct.”

  “Do they live here too, the staff?”

  “Yes. That building there houses them.” He points to a smaller replica of the
house, the stonework as beautiful as the main house, nestled in what appears to be a small outcrop of trees.

  We turn back to the house, where I see what I think may be my favorite part, the patio. It’s a covered space with a large fireplace, a dining table that looks to seat about half what the one inside seats with big, comfortable chairs around it, and a sitting area with colorful pillows. Each area is separated by carpet, and overhead hangs a huge Moroccan lamp.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, my eyes on everything, caught by it all, wanting to take it all in.

  “The island isn’t very big, so you won’t get lost if you go for a walk, but you need to let someone know where you are at all times. The only part you’re not allowed to go to is the east side.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so.”

  “Which way is East? I have no sense of direction here.”

  He takes my hand, surprising me, and walks me to the opposite edge of the house and points. It’s strange, but it’s almost as though it’s darker on that side of the island. Although I’m sure that’s not true. And from above the trees, I see the gray stone roof of a building.

  “What’s there?” I ask.

  “The family mausoleum.”

  “Oh.” That’s all he needed to say.

  It’s awkward for a moment, and I clear my throat.

  “You said Lucinda Scafoni is your stepmother?”

  “My mother died when I was two. Lucinda lived with us. She’s my aunt, actually. My mother’s sister. She married my father soon after my mother’s death.”

  “Oh.” That seems to be the only word I can speak today. “That’s…weird.”

  “I guess.” He actually smiles. Like a genuine smile.

  “So your brothers are half-brothers?”

  “Yes.”

  He’s tight-lipped about his family, and I want more of the story, but there are more important things than his family history right now.

  “Can I have contact with my family?”

  He studies me.

  “Just my Aunt Helena, maybe. She’s very old. I’d like to call her.”

  “Tell her about our brutal ways?”

  “She knows your ways. She was the Willow Girl seventy years ago.”

  He grows serious.

  “I don’t know how much longer she has.” I don’t say more because I already feel the backs of my eyes warming, as if the tear ducts are preparing to do their work.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  I almost want to argue, to push, but something tells me it’ll be wiser to just give him some time. After all, he didn’t say no.

  I walk toward the pool, slip off a sandal, and dip my toe in the water. He follows me and takes a seat on one of the lounge chairs, legs wide like men tend to sit.

  After slipping off both sandals, I walk to the edge of the tiled area and onto the grass. It’s soft and cool beneath my feet as I make my way to what I think I saw from my room, a vegetable garden. It’s much bigger than I realized. I pass two fig trees bursting with the fat, ripe fruit. I pick one, break off the stem, and watch creamy milk run down my palm. I eat it and pick another as I continue walking to where I hear the animals.

  I see they have chickens and some lambs. One comes right up to the fence when he sees me, and I pet his curious head. I had a pet lamb when I was little. Well, it’s not like she was given to me as a pet, I just made her that. Named her Honey. She was slaughtered soon after.

  I still remember being made to sit at the table until I ate hours after my sisters had gone to bed. After that, I refused any meat.

  When I head back toward the pool, I notice something up on a slight hill at the opposite end of the vegetable patch. It’s the only ugly thing in sight, and it takes all I have to drag my eyes away. I only do when I hear him come up the path to meet me, and I know he’s seen that I’ve seen it.

  What had I thought, that he was joking? That it was a figure of speech?

  I clear my throat. “Thanks for the tour. I’m going to go inside.”

  “But we’re not finished.”

  I glance over his shoulder at the whipping post again and take a step away, but he steps in my path and takes my arms.

  His eyes grow dark, intense. I concentrate my attention on his neck. I can’t hold his gaze.

  “You didn’t ask what that was,” he says.

  “Let me go.”

  “Ask.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  “Ask anyway, Willow Girl.”

  I look up at him; I’d been avoiding his eyes. “Is this like Simon Says? You call me Willow Girl, and I have to do what you say?”

  One side of his mouth curves upward. “You always have to do what I say.”

  “I’d almost forgotten.”

  “Ask me what it is, Willow Girl.”

  “I don’t need to ask. I know.”

  He remains studying me so intimately, I can’t look away.

  “Say it.”

  “No.”

  “Say it, Helena.”

  “It’s the post where you whip us Willow Girls.”

  His eyes have gone almost black, and I see his throat work when he swallows.

  I shake my head, drop my gaze.

  “This is archaic. This…reaping, the blocks, the whipping post,” I say, and again, heat burns the backs of my eyes.

  “It’s tradition. It’s the tradition of our families. You’ll do it too, with your daughters, if you’re the one to birth the quadruplets.”

  I shake my head. “The Willow Girl is never the one.” The ring on my finger burns, and it’s like it gives me strength. Like it’s Aunt Helena giving me courage. “And if I were, I wouldn’t give my daughters up, not without a fight.”

  “Your parents didn’t fight.”

  “You think I don’t know that.”

  “Would you have run? Is that why they bound you, shackled you? Would you have bit me? Is that why they gagged you?”

  “I would have killed you if I could have.”

  He smiles, his eyes glow. “I like you, Willow Girl.”

  “I don’t like you.”

  “You don’t have to like me. You just have to obey me.”

  “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He laughs. “Yes, you are.”

  “No, you know what? You’re right. Half right. I am afraid of what you can do to me. I mean, I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and I already wear the marks to show me exactly how the next three years will go.”

  “Do as I say, and you’ll survive.”

  “By survive, you mean walk away after my time is up? What about after? Do you know the suicide rate of Willow Girls these days?” I feel my voice rising, wavering with emotion. “Do you?”

  “Helena—”

  “Why do you do it? Why take the girl? Now, I mean, in this day and age.”

  “I told you, tradition.”

  I shake my head, because that’s not it. He’s too modern for this. “There’s something else. There has to be.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “Does it matter? I did take you. You’re mine now. That’s all you need to worry about.”

  We stand quietly, me watching him, him watching me.

  He’s right. It doesn’t matter, not for me. Not anymore.

  “Come with me.”

  He almost has to drag me up the path to the post, my legs growing heavier and heavier as we get nearer. When we finally stop in the clearing, I stare at my feet in the grass.

  “Look up.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  He moves behind me, holds me to him, and forces my head up by my chin. “Look up.”

  I do. And it looms over me, this stone post buried in the ground with shackles hanging from the top. I don’t want to look too close because I see marks on it, areas that are worn smooth, and dark, human stains.

  He walks me closer to it, and I’m powerless when he trails his fingers softly, like feathers, down my arms and captures my wrist
s. My heart races as he drags them upward, and the metal of the cuffs is cold when he closes them around my wrists.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say weakly.

  “I have a question for you,” he says, ignoring my comment, sliding the tips of his fingers back down my arms, to my sides, into the opening at the sides of the dress to cup my breasts. He kneads my nipples into points, and I swear I can feel his touch at my core.

  I try to protest but my head drops back into the crook of his neck as he slips his right hand out and slides it lower, down to the front of the skirt of my dress, underneath it to my thigh, and up to my sex.

  “Does it turn you on as much as it does me?” he asks, grinding his erection against my back while his fingers work my pussy.

  I turn my face a little, so I can see him.

  “It turns you on to have a woman bound to a whipping post?”

  I suck in a breath when he pinches my clit.

  “Not any woman. You.”

  “Me. A Willow Girl. A Willow Whipping girl.”

  He grips my hair and brings his mouth to my ear. “My Willow Whipping Girl.”

  I shudder.

  “Now don’t bite.” He kisses me, and I don’t bite, not this time. He slips his tongue inside my mouth. I’m so wet when he turns me, and the chains easily accommodate him.

  Sebastian draws back and reaches behind my neck to untie the halter top.

  I wonder if he planned this. If this is what he intended all along, giving me this particular dress. And I think the answer is yes when it falls to my feet and I’m naked and bound.

  He pulls back to look at me, His fingers are working my pussy, and I’m so wet, I can hear myself.

  “Come, Helena.”

  “No.”

  “Come.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  I close my eyes, and he cups my ass with his other hand and squeezes. The pain makes me flinch, but then he kneads my clit, rubs it, smearing my own moisture all over it, and I suck in a loud breath and I know it’s useless to fight him. I’m close, I’m so close. I open my eyes and see his smile and draw back or try to.

  “I hate you,” I say, the words forced as my knees buckle and I come. I come so hard it’s running down my legs and I can hardly breathe because it feels so fucking good.

  He leans in close to my ear, still working my clit, still squeezing my ass. “Come on the post where your ancestors have been whipped raw. Where I’ll whip you when your time comes.”