by Kitty Thomas
She wasn't in the basement. He'd never kept her in a comfortable bed before. It was part of why the cell she'd kept him in hadn't had even a mattress. Claire opened her eyes to find a warm glow lighting the room. It was only then that she heard the crackling sounds coming from a fireplace somewhere below her. The fire lit up the room enough that she could take in her surroundings.
Her heart pounded in her chest as the immediate unsettling reality became clear. She'd taken the wrong man. This man had too much money to have ever called her a rich bitch.
The room she found herself in was enormous. Magnificent wouldn't be too strong of a word to describe it. There were high vaulted ceilings with intricate designs etched into them, made clear to her via shadow from the flickering firelight below. It looked like a grand cathedral. The room was all done in white. And it was set up on two levels.
She was up in a sort of second-level nook. It was small compared to the rest of the room but not cramped, and you could stand up in it without having to bend down. A large chain that ended in the shackle enclosed around her ankle was bolted into the floor. She was on a mattress.
It wasn't a bed on box springs, just a mattress on the floor. But it was a very nice mattress with light gray silk sheets and a downy white comforter. There were several soft pillows, also covered in silk. It was an incongruent level of comfort for obvious captivity, and she didn't understand the motives behind it.
She felt a sudden sense of shame that she'd had so much money of her own but had never had a bed this comfortable with bedding quite this nice. She'd had the ability to have it, but she'd just never bothered to care for herself in that way.
If she hadn't been able to give this small luxury to herself, why would he give it to her?
Also, how had he given it to her? The amount of time the sedative lasted wouldn't afford the opportunity for him to set all this up, which meant he'd already had all this. Claire swallowed hard around the lump in her throat as she took in the rest of the room.
A few feet beyond where her mattress ended, was what appeared to be a large indoor waterfall. The water came out underneath the hard floor and emptied into a giant tub with jets creating bubbles in the water. But the jets were quiet.
Down on the main level against the wall opposite from her was a large fireplace. The floor was a blond hardwood covered in white fur rugs so only a bit of the wood was visible wherever she looked. Small white pillows were positioned around the fireplace. The pillows were far enough away to not be a fire hazard. Though there was a screen set up around the fire for added safety.
A clock on the mantel showed ten o'clock. But morning or night? She didn't know. There were no windows in this room. It was practically a cave.
On the far end of the room on the main floor was a large white four poster bed. The posts were made of a sturdy-looking steel material. Her heart rate ratcheted up to an impossibly fast rate as she took in the metal chains which hung from the ceiling ending in white leather cuffs at various places over the bed.
Hanging on hooks on the wall beside the bed were riding crops and whips of various sizes and types. Suddenly she couldn't breathe.
Not only had she taken the wrong man, she'd tortured someone who had his own collection of whips. She couldn't stop the trembling when it began to flow through her limbs or the tears that slipped down her cheeks.
Hadn't she had doubts? But he'd had the scar. She was sure it was him. She'd been so drugged and starved during her captivity. The details were fuzzy now, or maybe they'd never been clear. She remembered his hair, and his build. And that scar. But that man had called her a rich bitch.
This man had called her a bitch a few times, but he'd never called her a rich bitch. It was so obvious now in hindsight... now that she wasn't so amped up on the adrenaline of revenge, anger, and fear. It would have been obvious to him the amount of financial resources it would take to keep him in that cell... to set up that cell in the first place.
He would have been infuriated by those resources. He would have rambled about her money if it was the guy. Maybe she'd thought he was smart enough not to call her that or give anything away since he'd told her he wasn't the man who'd taken her.
But he wasn't the man who'd taken her.
The door opened and her new captor walked in. His hard, arctic gaze rose to hers. She watched him warily from the mattress as he approached. When he reached the top of the stairs and stood mere feet away, she scooted back, cringing from him. As if there were anywhere she could go with the wall at her back and the strong heavy chain around her ankle.
Her lip trembled as she became even more aware of her nudity, the absolute vulnerability to this man she'd hurt over and over. She was afraid to even beg him. She was afraid to exist. To breathe. But she couldn't stop the ragged sobs that came out of her even as she tried to quiet her crying. He would have no mercy for her. She knew it.
His hard gaze froze the blood in her veins as he regarded her with a kind of determined coldness she'd hoped never to be on the receiving end of again. He hadn't broken in the cell. She could see it in his eyes.
If anything, the things she'd done had strengthened him, hardened his resolve. Even though he'd lost some weight in her care, he looked absolutely lethal standing in front of her in only a pair of jeans that rode low on his hips. He'd showered and bandaged his most recent wounds. Medical tape was barely visible, wrapping over his shoulder to the front.
His long dark sun-streaked blond hair was still wet from a shower. He looked like a warrior from some long-forgotten battlefield.
A slow smile curved his lips. It wasn't sinister, but it wasn't exactly friendly either. His voice was a low, dark growl when he spoke.
“My turn. Kneel.”
Claire didn't need further explanation. She wasn't prepared to beg or bargain or try to resist or act defiant. She was smarter than that. She scrambled off the mattress and knelt in front of him, her body shaking uncontrollably for what would come next. Oh, god, what would he do to her?
She hadn't deserved what the last man had done. But this one she'd actually harmed.
She'd wanted to feel powerful after so long of feeling so powerless. She thought if she could get payback, she could burn away the shame she'd felt at being completely at the mercy of a monster.
And yet here she was again... feeling that same shame. The shame and degradation of utter powerlessness, mingled now with the new shame of hurting someone who hadn't done anything to deserve her fury. Nothing could ever absolve her of what she'd done to him.
It seemed like an eternity passed with her kneeling at the feet of the man she'd tortured. She didn't fight him because she knew better. One could say she was an experienced captive, and there was no need to be retrained. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to block out all the things her first captor had done to her, wondering how many of those things she'd be subjected to again.
It hadn't mattered to her captor if she'd obeyed quickly. He'd still punished her. Everything he'd done had been out-of-control and filled with rage.
She could feel the rage pulsing off this man—a raw energy that consumed all the air around her. Somewhere deep inside she knew appeasing him wouldn't work. It wouldn't matter what she did, he would still hurt her. He would still torture her, and then most likely he would still kill her. Just like her first captor had planned.
How was she back in the same place again?
“I'm not the man who hurt you,” he said quietly. His voice was softer than when he'd ordered her to kneel.
“I know that now,” she whispered through her tears.
“How do you know? You seemed so sure before.”
She dared to look up into his eyes, and then her gaze darted around the room. “He didn't have money like this.”
“How do you know he didn't have money?” the stranger asked with more curiosity than anger. It seemed so odd to think of this man as a stranger. The level of intimacy they'd shared... that of predator and prey, took them well beyond see
ing each other as strangers. And now that she'd moved from the captor to the captive, that level of dark intimacy had just ratcheted up another notch.
“He kept me in an old basement, and I could hear him moving around on the top level. He lived there. When I escaped I could see it was a normal-sized house. Maybe even on the small side. And he called me a rich bitch. He said he was going to bring me down to his level and then kill me like all the other rich bitches who thought they were too good for him.”
She dropped her head back down. “Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry. Please don't kill me.”
She flinched when he touched her hair, but it was a gentle touch. Her first captor had never touched her with gentleness—not that she would have wanted him to. But the difference in this man's touch made her foolishly hope she might be able to reach something compassionate and merciful in him.
“I don't kill what's mine.”
Even though she knew it would never happen she still had to say it. “Please, just let me go.”
“No. You belong to me now. After what you did, I've earned the right to keep you forever. You obviously can't be left to run free. I understand someone really hurt you, so prison seems unjust when you were just trying to fight back. But you owe me, little one.”
He'd begun absently stroking her hair, and she hated herself for leaning into that touch, however slightly. He was right, she couldn't be free. But not because she was a criminal who deserved punishment. It was because she'd spent the last three years unable to live and function in the world.
It was too dangerous. She'd experienced the darkness of this life first hand and she couldn't go back to pretending the world was a different, brighter, safer place. Those illusions others naively carried with them had been shattered for her. She'd been barely living.
The first time she'd felt alive in the past three years was when she'd been hurting the man who now held the power of life and death over her—even as hurting him had been slowly killing her. Another whimper escaped her throat.
“My name is Ari,” he said. “But you will call me, Master. Do you understand, little one?”
“Y-yes, Master.” Again, she didn't fight him. She didn't act indignant. There was no giant shield wall of pride that came rushing to her defense. She knew from hard experience that obeying wouldn't make it better, but disobeying or fighting in any way could only make it worse.
The only reason she'd had the strength to fight back the first time was that she'd known she would die that day if she didn't, so what did she have to lose? Her life was forfeit either way, but with fighting she'd at least had the hope of escape.
She had no hope of escape here with Ari. He had far more resources to ensure she never got away. She couldn't even get to the stairs with the heavy chain locked around her ankle. There was no space to run. Fighting him would be foolish.
“Now tell me your name,” he said.
He'd asked her repeatedly in the cell, and now she couldn't refuse him an answer to his question. Or at least she wouldn't if she was smart.
“Claire,” she whispered.
“Claire.” There was a stretch of silence between them, and then he said, “Are you hungry or do you want to wait until morning?”
Why was he being this way? He hadn't made any obvious threats yet—short of keeping her prisoner, of course. Was this a trick? When would he start hurting her for what she did to him? If he was a good man he wouldn't have taken her and locked her up like this. She'd be free.
So then was she not good? Because she'd taken him.
“Claire, I asked you a question,” he said calmly.
She was hungry. Ridiculously hungry and thirsty. Probably a side effect of the drugs. But she also hadn't eaten very much that day at all. The weight of her plan to kill him had pressed so hard on her that she hadn't been able to work up an appetite. She'd been planning to eat... after.
She looked up at him. “Yes,” she whispered. Even though she knew she'd have to eat—assuming he didn't starve her—she didn't want to admit it. He could use it to hurt her. She felt like an injured cornered animal trying to hide any sign of weakness. What if he drugged her like she'd drugged him?
“Yes, what?” He'd gone back to petting her hair, and she couldn't stop shaking beneath his touch.
“Yes, Master,” she said quietly.
“Good girl.”
Those words filled her with an inexplicable warmth and a shame at feeling that warmth.
“I'll be right back.”
When he'd left her, she got back in bed under the covers. Only now was she able to fully process the fact that he'd undressed her and chained her up in his house, and then she'd left the protective shield of the blankets to kneel at his feet like some well-trained dog without even a moment's hesitation because she'd been too afraid of the consequences if she resisted.
Several minutes later the door opened again and he came up the stairs with food. He sat on the floor beside the mattress and set the plate on the bed. He handed her a water bottle.
Claire reached out from under the blankets to take the offered water as she stared at the plate. It was pizza. He must have had something delivered while she was still sleeping. Of course he did. Most of the food in his house had probably spoiled in his absence.
“Is it drugged?” She looked up at him, pleading, “Please don't drug me.” As if she had any right to ask that after everything.
“It's not drugged.” Ari took a bite of one slice of pizza and laid it back on the plate. “See? It's safe.” He scooted the plate to her. He could have put something on the second piece, or something near the crust. Him taking a bite didn't mean it was safe, but she was SO hungry, and it smelled so good.
Claire struggled to sit up, moving to lean against the wall. She pulled the plate toward her and ate, the tears silently moving down her cheeks.
“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I-I thought you were him.”
“I know,” he said.
She quietly ate her pizza and drank her water, then she scooted the plate back to him. “T-thank you, Master.” She didn't forget this time to give him the title he wanted to hear.
“You're welcome, little one.”
Claire wanted to ask what he planned to do with her, but she also wanted to live in ignorance for as long as possible. Too many questions clawed at the back of her throat, demanding answers. She finally settled on the one screaming the loudest.
“W-why is there a mattress up here and a chain? You already had all this stuff... why?”
“My pet used to sleep up here.”
“Used to?” These words filled Claire with dread. When he said pet, she knew he didn't mean a dog or a cat. He meant a person. A woman like her.
She flinched when he reached out to push a strand of hair behind her ear, but he made no comment about her reaction to him moving into her space. “Yes. She and I are no longer together.”
“B-but you didn't kill her?”
Ari shook his head. “No. She's alive and well and living out her modeling dreams in Paris.” He stood and picked up the empty plate.
He loomed over her. “I have some questions and you will answer them.”
She nodded quickly.
“Do you live in an apartment or a house?”
“A-apartment.”
“Rent or own?”
“Own.”
He nodded. She could see the wheels in his head turning. She already knew he was working out the logistics of her life. He wanted to know how to make her missing without being missed. She hadn't been listed as missing the first time she'd been taken. It was the downside of not having many close friends and all your bills paid automatically. Things had a way of humming along without interruption, particularly when you had seemingly endless money and no employer to complain about your absence.
As if reading her mind, his next question was, “How are your bills paid?”
She wanted to lie, give some indication that she'd be missed, that she would be looked for. Bu
t he seemed able to read her mind. His hard gaze warned sternly against the lie that had been on the edge of her tongue.
“Auto-pay. Online. The bills all get paid without me having to do anything.” She felt the hot tears streaming down her cheeks as the felt the vise of fate tighten around her.
“Who will miss you?”
Her voice broke when she said “No one.” Again she'd wanted to lie, but somehow she was sure he would know if she did. And she was too afraid to make him angry. She'd already done so many things to make him angry.
He nodded. “It's late. Try to get some sleep. I'll explain my expectations going forward, tomorrow.”
He had to know she'd never be able to sleep knowing that whatever he planned to do would start the next day. And he had an entire night to fully realize just how easily he would get away with whatever he decided to do with her.
Ari bolted upright at the sound of Claire's screams. He jumped out of the bed and took the stairs two at a time to get to her. By the time he reached her, she was sitting up in bed, her back pressed against the wall, the blankets pulled up to her chest, crying and shaking.
“Please, Master I'm sorry... please,” she whimpered.
Ari's chest tightened at the fact that instead of begging the monster in her dream, she was begging him. “What are you sorry for?” he asked, betraying nothing in his tone.
“I'm sorry I woke you.”
He shook his head. “It's not your fault you had a nightmare. Scoot away from the wall.” He motioned her and she did as he asked, watching him as if he might attack.
Ari took one of the many pillows, pulled the blankets away, and laid down with his back pressed against the wall.
“Come here,” he said.
She hesitated, but he waited patiently until she moved closer. He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, covering her with the blankets. He pressed a kiss against the side of her throat.
“Shhhh, you're okay. He will never find you here,” Ari said, stroking her hair until she finally calmed and settled in his arms. He knew her fear and tension were equal parts the man from her dream and him. He didn't want her to fear him, even after all she'd put him through.