by Tara Hart
Lost & Bound
by Tara Hart
Lost & Bound
Copyright © 2016
by Tara Hart
Cover design by OtherSide Design
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, downloaded, distributed or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without prior written permission from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Prologue
Leila
2 years
38 weeks
4 days
That’s how long I've been here. Captive. Frightened. Alone.
The little human contact I receive is not what I crave. It's not a friend’s comforting arm or my mother’s swift kiss. It's rough contact—forced, and familiar for all the wrong reasons. I don’t want him there, but I’m powerless to stop him. He says that he owns me and that I am his.
“Emmy,” he calls me. That’s not my name, but as more time passes I’m starting to forget things. What is my name? Where am I from? Who was I before I came here?
I abandoned all plans of escaping and have given up on being saved. And just when I thought there was no way out, that this is how my story will end, something miraculous happened. Someone came into my life and just like that, once again, I have hope.
Chapter 1
Callum
I turn the key and push open the door. Part of me is surprised that the key still fits, but then again, Dad has always been opposed to change. I flick the door closed with my foot and look around the entry foyer.
Nothing’s changed. Paintings still hang where they were years ago, antique pieces of furniture remain in their carefully chosen places and the smell—after all these years how can the house still smell the same? It’s strange and comforting at the same time.
The house is eerily quiet. Dad isn’t home, which is no surprise. Maybe I should have called to let him know I’m back, at least then he could have prepared himself for our reunion. It’s been three years since we last saw one another, but I would never expect a welcoming party. Dad has been a recluse since my mom died. He's become emotionally distant, as if he wasn’t already.
I walk into the sitting room, a room we never used and no one ever sat in, leaving the name somewhat trivial. Again, nothing has changed and it makes me wonder what I’m doing back here. I feel like I am taking ten steps back by returning to this town.
My stomach grumbles, as if on cue, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since yesterday. I dump my bag on the sofa and make my way to the kitchen. If there's one thing that’s certain it's that the fridge will be fully stocked.
The kitchen too, hasn’t changed in all these years, and apart from a mug on the sink, the place is impeccably tidy. I wonder if Rosa is still working for my dad. One look in the fridge tells me she is. I take what looks like beef stroganoff from the top shelf and grab a spoon from the canister near the sink. My hand grazes the coffee mug, the one thing that looks out of place in the whole room. On touch it feels warm, hot even, and it takes my brain a moment to process what this actually means.
I’m not alone.
I can feel her presence before I see her. I hear her short gasps for breath as if she’s been running.
I spin around and am surprised by what I see. A young woman, who can’t be much older than twenty. She’s dressed in a silk pink bathrobe that barely covers her thighs. The air wheezes out of her slightly parted lips as she eyes me cautiously.
I offer her a smile as my eyes travel down her body, stopping at the knife she holds in front of her, the sharp tip pointed toward me.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I yell.
“Quem é você??” she utters in a language that I can’t quite place. Spanish maybe.
“Wha—What?”
“I have a knife,” she chokes out, her words coated by a heavy accent.
There’s fear in her intense brown eyes that keep flicking around the room as if she’s ready to run at any moment. I take a step toward her and she extends her arm, pointing the knife directly at my heart. Crazy bitch.
“You're fucking crazy! Put the knife down and get the hell out of my house.”
Her face changes, her eyebrows reach up to her forehead as she tries to process my words.
“Your house.” She immediately withdraws the knife and repeats the words as if she doesn’t understand their meaning. “Your house?”
“Are you the new maid or something?” I eye her.
“Maid?” she repeats.
She looks dazed, like I caught her in the middle of a nap or something and she keeps repeating everything I say as if she’s a parrot.
“I won’t tell my father you were slacking,” I say, placing the container of stroganoff on the counter.
“Slacking,” she repeats the word and I realize she doesn’t know the meaning.
I wonder if this hot looking chick is my father’s new girlfriend, but quickly shake the thought from my mind. There is no way this girl would fall for a man like my father, unless she’s a gold digger, and even then, the prospect is unlikely.
She lets out a gasp, as her eyes turn wide. It’s as if she’s just woken up.
“Your father,” she whispers. “He is your father?”
I hold out my hand to her. “Nice to meet you.”
She immediately draws the knife between us again. I hold up my hands in protest. “What the fuck!”
Psycho is either tripping or has some serious trust issues.
“Is he here?” she whispers.
“Who?” I ask, my patience wearing thin with the games. “My father?”
“Is he with you?” She swallows loudly.
I scrunch up my face. “No.”
“What is your name?” she asks.
“I’m Callum, Callum Mathers.” She bites the corner of her lip as she takes a step back.
“And your father lives here?”
“Yes,” I bite out angrily.
My tone startles her. She takes another step back and the knife drops from her hand. We both stare at the silver blade as it bounces on the floor once, the sound echoing throughout the room. Her eyes flash to mine and we both scramble to the floor, racing to see who
can reach the knife first. We both lunge forward as if our lives depend on it. Who knows, maybe mine does.
I reach for the handle first. My hand covers it, but can’t get a good grip. Her hand wraps around mine.
“Stop it.” She claws at the back of my hand with sharp red fingernails that pierce my skin with little effort.
We struggle for a moment longer before I safely grasp the knife by the handle and shuffle to my feet.
Psycho remains on the floor, her legs splayed beneath her as she cries hopelessly. I hold the knife in front of me as I move toward the counter, not once taking my eyes off her. That's when I notice her ankles. They are red and swollen. Thick gouges mar her skin as if she’s been tied up. She catches me staring and her chin drops. She looks ashamed.
Who would have tied her up and for what reason? A million thoughts race through my mind, including the mental wellbeing of the girl sitting before me.
I feel around clumsily in my pocket for my phone, my heart now hammering in my chest.
“I have a phone.” I show her like it’s a threat. “I’m calling the police.”
I press the first digit when her plea fills my ears.
“Please,” she yells as she scrambles to her feet. “Please call them.”
Her response catches me off guard. My eyebrows knit together as I wait for her explanation.
“You want me to call the police?” I ask, trying to call her bluff.
“Yes.”
Tears pool in the corners of her eyes making them even more intense as they glaze over.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Moments later, I regret ever asking that question.
Chapter 2
Leila
This isn’t normal. It has to be a setup. For all these years, no one has ever come to the house during the day. Apart from the maid and him. He told me he’s my captor’s son. The son I never knew existed.
Callum he calls himself. Callum, I repeat the name in my mind. A name I’ve never heard before. It suits him. It’s soft and rolls off the tongue with little effort.
Yet, I still don’t know whether I can believe him, or trust him, even though he seems different to the others. He’s shocked to find me here and he genuinely seems confused. Something deep inside tells me I can trust him, but experience tells me not to.
If this is a test, I know I’m in trouble. I shouldn’t have spoken to him, but I was afraid. He caught me when I was having my afternoon coffee. I hid in the pantry like a scared mouse. I had no way of getting out, no way of escaping to the sanctuary of my room. I knew I had to do something. Sure, pulling a knife on him wasn’t the best idea, but I was afraid for my own safety.
“What the fuck is going on here?” he asks, one hand still holding the knife that I pulled on him.
He swears a lot, like his father.
“I live here.”
“In this house?” he asks.
I nod once.
“Are you my dad’s girlfriend or something?”
I notice his dubious tone, as if he’s disgusted by the prospect. I don’t know how to answer his question. Am I, in fact, his girlfriend?
“I don’t—I don’t know,” I whisper.
He scoffs loudly. “You don’t know?”
His eyes fix on my face as he tries to read my expression, as if knowing what I’m thinking will reveal the truth. The truth about who I am and why I’m in his home.
If he wants the truth, I’ll tell him, I’ll tell him everything. “Your father put this on me.” I point to the bracelet around my wrist. The thin white bracelet that to the untrained eye looks like an ordinary watch.
“What is it?” He raises his eyebrows in question. I stand up and stretch my arm between us offering him a closer look.
“It’s a tracking device, he uses it to track me. As long as this is attached to my wrist I cannot leave this house.”
He takes a closer look at my wrist without touching me. I’m thankful he doesn’t touch me, although the thought doesn’t repulse me.
He’s an attractive man. He’s much taller than me and his shoulders are broad. I can see beneath the fabric of his sweater that his muscles are well defined. He definitely takes care of himself.
His hair is a light shade of brown and his eyes—those haunting eyes. They are the most pure shade of blue I’ve ever seen. Even when he narrows his gaze on me, their clear blue depths shine through.
Those same eyes travel to my face, trying to gauge if I’m telling the truth or not. All of a sudden his mouth lifts into a grin.
“Nice try.” He laughs. “But sweetheart, my father wouldn’t do that. He’s a powerful man, but he’s not into kidnapping and holding people against their will. He’s the mayor of this town for fuck’s sake.”
“Mayor?” I let the word play on my lips as if it’s foreign to me.
I had no idea. I never pictured him as an upstanding citizen. Business man, yes. Lawyer, maybe. Mafia, sure, but mayor? I never would have guessed.
“Yes, sweetheart, the mayor.”
I try not to take his condescending tone to heart. Instead I decide this guy needs to know the truth about his father, the so-called mayor. Callum may be my last hope at getting out of this prison. I know if I tell him everything there is a chance it could backfire. He could tell his father and I will be punished for my actions, but after all this time it’s a risk I’m willing to take.
“He owns me,” I whisper.
“He owns you?” Callum repeats.
I nod my head. “He tells me every day that I am his.”
Callum shakes his head as if the concept is absurd.
“I don’t understand.”
I lick my lips as I try to find the appropriate words to explain my predicament and not scare this guy away.
“I am your father’s…” I mutter, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“My father’s what?”
“Slave,” I whisper, embarrassed to even utter the word.
“Slave. What do you mean, slave?”
He leaves the question hanging in the air, but I suspect he already knows the truth. I lock my eyes with his, determined to make him believe me, but the words won’t come out.
“What do you mean, slave?” he repeats and I can hear the desperation in his voice.
I try to answer, but I swallow the words back with each attempt at uttering them. I feel the tears brim in my eyes and I plead with myself not to cry. Do not let this stranger see you cry.
He inhales noisily, his patience wearing thin. “Answer me, damn it.”
“I’m his sex slave, okay?” I say the words louder than I intend. The words I’ve never said aloud before, not even to myself.
Callum’s face changes, his lips turn down at the sides and his eyes glare daggers at me. Then he surprises me when he bursts out laughing. The laugh is rough and throaty and reeks of a man in denial.
I hadn’t thought about how absurd my confession was, how impossibly made up it sounded. In the three years I’ve been in this house, my perception and reality have merged into one and I can’t remember what’s real and what is a figment of my imagination.
When I boarded the plane three years ago, my new American life waiting for me, I thought it was the beginning of something great. A family was willing to take me into their home as their nanny and to me it was an opportunity I couldn’t turn away. I’d just turned twenty-one and my life had barely begun, but it turned into something else—a life that chose me instead of me choosing it.
“Just look in the basement,” I plead with him. “That is where he keeps me.”
His eyes meet mine again, his eyebrows raised as he considers my words. “You live in the basement?” he asks skeptically.
I nod my head yes. “I am allowed out during the day when he isn’t home, but I am to return there in the evenings.”
Callum stares at me, clearly shocked by what I’ve told him. His face is painted by uncertainty and I know the next few moments are the mos
t important of my life. They will pave the way for my future. I can tell this man everything, I can ask him to help me and beg him to believe me in one last attempt at getting my life back.
Callum let’s out a loud exhale as he grips the phone in front of him. “I’m calling my father.”
“No.” I take a step forward and his eyes instantly snap up to mine. “Please he cannot know we spoke.”
Callum sends me a questioning look and I feel the need to explain myself.
“He will be angry with me. He will punish me.” My voice cracks from the weight of my confession.
“Punish you?”
“He doesn’t know I speak English,” I let out.
He has no idea that I mastered the Rosetta Stone he gave me within a few weeks. He doesn’t know that I watch television religiously, not because I'm bored and want some mind-numbing entertainment, but because I'm studying the language. Knowledge is power and I knew I would need lots of it if I were ever to escape this place. Escape him.
“Callum, please,” I beg. “Please do not tell him we spoke.”
I feel my body waning as my hopes diminish. He’s going to tell his father. He will tell him everything and then he will tie me up for days. My legs are like jelly beneath me. I slump onto the cold tiled floor and Callum watches me fall, a look of concern on his face. This surprises me.
For the first time in a long while it feels like someone actually gives a shit about me. I kneel on the ground before him, my hands clasped together as if begging for my life.
And that’s exactly what I feel I am doing. “I beg you,” I utter.
His eyes meet mine, their icy blue depths study my face, but he doesn’t say another word.
Chapter 3
Callum
I feel like I’ve stepped into a dream. I know my father has struggled since my mother’s death, but there is no way what this chick is telling me is true. No way.
There has to be something more to it, something she’s not telling me and I’m determined to get to the bottom of it. But as she kneels before me, her eyes filled with tears that threaten to fall at any moment, I notice for the first time how beautiful she is. Her skin is the color of caramel and her eyes like deep pools of chocolate. Her deep brown hair frames her face perfectly and falls half way down her back. And don’t even get me started on her body—it’s close to perfection. Curves in all the right places and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed her ample cleavage peeking out of the dip in her robe.