Chapter 16
I’m still angry as dusk settles in the sky, still irritated from my earlier conversation with Beth. It doesn’t matter that she appears to have dropped her interrogation so she can go laugh with Claire upstairs and play mother. She’ll probably sing her a lullaby, won’t she? It’ll be perfect, I should think. That’s making me mad, too. I can still feel my hackles standing on end, ready to tear a limb off something if it speaks out of turn. It’s an oddly comforting feeling, as if I’m more potent somehow than the lesser being I used to be. Sharper.
“I need to see you downstairs,” Alexander says, snapping his damn fingers at me as he walks past the lounge, looking far too ravishing in casual jeans and a cheque jacket.
When I look up in shock at his sudden materialisation from nowhere, I find him pointing down to the floor beneath his feet and smirking about something. Downstairs? I didn’t even know there was a downstairs.
“Dungeon.” Oh. My ears prick up at the word, regardless of the fact I’m slightly pissed with him for watching me have sex. I could use a dungeon now. Maybe I can get rid of some of this irritating frustration.
“Where’s Pascal?” Because I need him down there, not Alexander White and his teachings.
“Busy.” Right.
I lift myself up begrudgingly as I watch him walk away from me towards the stairs, carrying a large package and turning the corner into the hall. He opens an old, heavy-duty door that hides behind the sweep of the stairs, and then disappears through it. My body quivers slightly, given the last dungeon I was in.
“What do you need?” I ask, walking through the entrance and nearly falling straight down a flight of concrete steps. Thankfully, a rather strong pair of hands braces me before I go too far.
“You’ve put on weight.” Thanks. Bastard. I pull myself out of his hold and smooth my dress down, checking my waistline as I do and wondering how to solve that problem.
His shadowed form turns from me, still grinning, and then begins to walk down the steps again. I sneeze instantly as I move forward and balance myself on the walls, brushing cobwebs off it as I do. The air smells of decay and dirt. Maybe it’s just hardly ever opened and aired. I don’t know, but I get the feeling it’s not going to be terribly luxurious down there. He clicks a lighter at some point on our descent, and manages to light an old torch he picks up off the wall. Very medieval. I giggle a little behind him, imagining white knights and suits of armour as I follow him, still bracing myself on the walls for safety’s sake. No heels next time.
When we eventually turn through a small door at the bottom, I’m greeted with, well, nothing. It’s a large space, not dissimilar in size to the dungeon at Eden, perhaps a bit bigger, but it’s completely empty apart from the dust and grime, and another small door at the other end. There are layers of it climbing the walls and blackening the old stonework to the low ceiling above us, making me consider the foundations of the building in its entirety as I imagine the aged grandeur on the upper floors. My arms wrap around my body, either in protection or revulsion. I’m not sure which as I gaze at a tiny window, shedding only the smallest glimmer of the rising moon outside.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Not particularly. Passable at best. “I found it yesterday.”
“Lovely.”
He throws the package he was carrying at my feet and wanders off around the room, lighting various torches until he finally puts the original one into a metal hanger on the wall. My odd giggles apparently know no bounds as I stare around the room. It’s like being on a film set somewhere, waiting for Merlin to walk in and cast spells.
“Are we doing magic? Top hats at the ready?” His face flattens. I’m not funny, it seems.
“Open your package.”
I pick it up from the floor and fuck around with it until I can get into the end without emptying the contents onto the floor. When my hands eventually delve in, I can feel the leather of my corset immediately. My shield? I flick my head up to him, wondering why he’s bought this with him.
“You left it at the apartment. I need you to put it on.”
“What? Why?”
“If I’m honest with you, will you hear me out until I’m finished without shaking your head in fear and running away?”
“Yes,” I reply as I look into the package, yanking at a glove I’ve found beneath my fingers and pulling it out. Fear isn’t something I feel all that familiar with anymore, interestingly enough. It doesn’t appear to rattle or confuse me. Perhaps logic has taken over completely now, which could be stupendously stupid, I suppose. Placing the brown paper and its contents by my feet, I slide my hand into the glove to try it on. It feels slightly sticky inside, wetsuit like but much thinner, as if once it’s on there’s no way it’s going to move again.
“I need your help. It’s your turn to pay up.”
I look up at him again, watching the way his frown descends, as if he’s not entirely at ease with the conversation we’re about to have. I’d like to say I’m nervous about that, like normal people would be if a sadist looked uncomfortable in front of them, but I’m not. If anything, it makes me feel stronger somehow. Perhaps it’s the thought that he’s prepared to bare his soul to me in some way, or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s well enough to do anything, and I made that happen.
“You didn’t help out of kindness then? You just need something in return?” I eventually say, rather than explaining that actually, I don’t owe him damn thing anymore. I saved his life and am still keeping his secrets, irrespective of the disturbance it’s causing Beth and I. If anything, he owes me a favour or two. In fact, I’m not entirely sure I’ve ever heard the words ‘thank you’ from him. He needs to say that at least once for fuck’s sake.
“I’m not kind, Lilah. You know that.” I could beg to differ, but if he wants to continue on in that vein, then okay. I’ll wait until I hear whatever he has to say before I make that call.
I nod rather than answering as I gaze at his now slightly aggravated frame and see the tension building in it. He was smiling when we came down here, jovial. Now he’s beginning to turn to the cold wind I’ve seen in him before as he puts his hands in his pocket, slightly nervously. Interesting. I reach down and delve into my bag again, searching for my other glove, for some reason feeling bare with only one on.
“Get on with it then,” I say, finally managing to locate the other glove and fingering my way into it. It snaps as I shove the last of my wrist into it and let the material ping against my skin.
In fact, it barks so loudly it ricochets around the room, making me snicker at the sound bouncing around. It’s only after my fascination with the echo subsides that I realise he’s still not talking. Strange.
“What are you afraid of asking me?” He raises one of those damn brows at me, indicating that he’s not afraid of anything and then takes his jacket off.
He is. He’s scared of asking me whatever he’s trying to, anxious. He’s not one for mincing his words. It wouldn’t normally bother him to spit anything into the room at me. I step towards him, narrowing my eyes and wondering what he has up his sleeve, apart from obviously disruptive hands. He doesn’t budge as I wander around the back of him, too, savouring his discomfort a little and feeling all the more powerful for it.
“Surely you’re not scared of little old me?” He snorts, but it’s not quite as arrogant as it sometimes is. It’s hesitant. Slightly tentative. “What is it, Alexander. Hmm? What do you need from me?” I keep wandering until I’m back in front of him again, daring to nudge my face a little closer to his and waiting for his reaction. He’s not here to hurt me. He needs me. I have something he wants, not that I know what it is, but that puts me very much on the front foot, and him on the back. It’s not a place he spends much time, I assume. He snarls a little, growls, widening feral blue eyes at me to remind me who I’m here with. It’s astonishingly seductive. Not that I’m interested in that way. Maybe it’s just that Beth got me all wound up and frustrated. Maybe I could employ the whip in that br
own paper packaging a little more readily now. His skin could take it, I’m sure. I find myself licking my lips at the thought. It’s not an option, but I titter at the thought nonetheless, trying to imagine him on his knees for someone. It’s a wholly inappropriate vision—one that continues to make me smile as I wander around the back of him again.
“Why so scared, Mr White?” I whisper into his neck, watching his pulse beating. “Do I make you nervous all of a sudden? This is what you trained me for, isn’t it? To find myself, to dominate? Or is it the confines of the room? Is it too small for you, too cramped? Is it encroaching on you? Making you fearful? Poor Alexander.”
His hand is so quick to yank my arm over his shoulder I almost trip over my feet with the realisation I am not as in control as I assumed. My other hand shoots to his shoulder for support, bracing myself on his back to stop me from tumbling.
“Stay still,” he says, gently tugging at my right glove to remove it from my hand, then kissing my wrist. My whole frame stiffens in response to the feel of his lips on my skin. It’s confusing and irrational, which immediately informs me of who’s really on the back foot. I try to pull away from him, only to have him bite his fingers into my skin, giving me no room to budge. He wraps his other hand around my back to hold me against his. “I said stay still. I’m trying to get used to you there.” What?
“What is that supposed to mean?” I snap out. I’m not staying this close to him. We’re not lovers. Friends, maybe, but we’re not doing piggyback rides round the room, for fuck’s sake. “Let me go.”
“No. I told you I need your help.”
I feel my eyes rolling at his words. What does he need? Someone to hang around on his back for a while? Is this some kind of kink thing I’m not aware of? Christ. Funnily enough, though, I do stay where he puts me.
“Are you helped enough yet?” I spit out, uncomfortable with being so close and not entirely happy about the irritated sensation that’s beginning to course through me. I’m not learning anything here. We’re just standing still, doing nothing as far as I can tell. I lean my chin on his shoulder because it’s actually quite a stretch to get myself around his body.
“Dig your nails into me.” What, and wind him up for a giggle? No. I try to pull my arm away from him. He isn’t a masochist. Even I know that. He doesn’t let me. He just turns his head towards me and kisses my cheek instead. What the fuck? Another shiver curls its way around me that I’m not happy about. “I’m not going to hurt you, Lilah. I need to know what it feels like when you stab your nails in and hold me. You’re not Elizabeth. I need you to feel different than she does.”
Wow. This is getting way to odd for comfort. I tug at him again, feeling a strange sense of dread creeping in to confuse matters even further. This isn’t right. Something’s happening I’m not going to like.
“Come on, Lilah. Do you need revving up?” My face screws up as I lift my chin from his shoulder and try harder to pull away. The moment I do, he starts moving backwards quickly, and it’s all too late that I realise what’s happening. My back slams into the wall, sending pain radiating down my spine and through my ribs. There’s no room to move as he pins me further into it, lifting and dropping me to increase the pressure and grate me against it more. My hands let go, hoping to dislodge myself somehow as I push against his back and brace myself off the ceiling rather than him. It’s a useless attempt. The wall of muscle in front of me just drives back harder, forcing my head to the stone above.
“Where’s that little devil? You must have more than this in you,” he says, chuckling and holding my hip still to thwart its attempted escape.
“Get off me,” I mumble as I wince at the sensation and feel myself trying to disappear into my black hole. He moves forward then shoves back again with such force that tears prick the backs of my eyes. “Fuck,” I grunt as my hands keep shoving at him, hoping something will get me out of this in one piece. “What the hell are you playing at?”
“He wouldn’t be interested in this pathetic display. It’s slutlike. Fucking useless, weak,” he says, somehow managing to rip at his own shirt to open it. My temper rises as the pain intensifies on my skin and his words sink in. It flows through me, throwing visions of loathing at me as I hear ‘pathetic’ ringing around my ears over and over again. There’s nothing pathetic about me anymore. This fuckers made sure of that. I scratch out at his neck, smiling a little at the wheeze that leaves his mouth as he tips it away from me. Bastard. How fucking dare he?
“Is that all you’ve got?” I question, my voice full of malice as another grunt leaves me on impact. “He hits harder than you do. Come on, you prick. What have you got for me?” My hand snakes back over his shoulder to hang onto his chest, almost not caring about getting away anymore. I care more about not being put down or belittled. I’ll fucking cling on and take it if I have to, defend myself and be more than the feeble woman who lay on the ground uselessly. I don’t give a fuck how big he is, or how strong, or how many obscenities come out of his mouth. I’m in control of me. Fuck him. No one is raping my brain from me again. No one. No one’s holding me down or forcing anything on me that I don’t want. Ever. No one’s getting in, and no one is owning my fear but me.
With little thought for the effect, my nails dig into his chest and drag back towards me. He grunts at the pain they must be causing and stiffens a little, then slams me backwards again. I dig them in harder and tuck my head into his shoulder again for more purchase. I’ll fucking bite him if I have to. I’ll rip into his skin and remind him what he’s helped me achieve. Visions of those fucking men come back at me—their smell, their taste. Pain sears through me again, almost making me disappear as I sense the first one inside me, feel him piercing through my lack of defence. Weak, useless Lilah isn’t here anymore. Fuck them. And fuck this one, too.
A bellowed growl rings around the room as he stills beneath me and pants. My back rests on the wall, still held up by his frame and my clutching, and I realise, as I listen to his breathing and feel his heart hammering inside, that my left hand is around his throat. It’s in a death grip, pinching at his windpipe as the glove locks in place on his skin. My lips are sneering too, wholly comfortable with the position I’ve gotten myself into and quite happy to linger in it some more. I twist at his neck, not convinced its right to do so, but loving the sensation of power so much I don’t care.
“There you are,” he croaks, trying to turn his head a little in my hands. Fuck him. He can stay where he’s put until I’m ready to let go. I pinch tighter, and lever my legs up onto his frame for extra hold, pulling him back to me to hold him still, contained, just where I want him. “You can let me go now.”
“Fuck you.” I tighten my legs and heels around his waist. Let go? I’ll let go when I’m goddamn ready to. My rules. Exactly what I want, when I want it.
I’m so interested in his response to my actions that I squeeze a little more, intently focused on the slight gasp that leaves his lips. It’s nothing like Pascal’s aura when he wrapped his own belt around his throat for me to yank on. That was submissive. Obedient. Compliant with the need to feel pain and relaxed with the thought. This isn’t like that. There is nothing relaxed about Alexander’s frame as he stands beneath me and shakes a little. He’s full of tension, and starting to slide his hands up my exposed thighs softly for some unknown fucking reason?
“Let go, Lilah,” he says again quietly, fingering the back of my knee and then running down to my ankles repeatedly. It’s nice, soothing, but I don’t give a fuck about being pacified. I like the place I’m in right now. I feel mesmerized by its hold on my mind, ready to let it consume me if it wants. He twists his neck in my hand, cracking it, and causing my grip to tighten even more and my nails to embed themselves further into his chest. “I’ll throw you off if you don’t let go of me.” My brow rises. He can try, but he’ll have a hard job, and the sound of my heels rubbing against each other as I lock my legs tighter should tell him everything he needs to understand that.
“Say sorry and thank you.” I don’t know why I say that. I don’t fucking care either. They’re the two things I want to hear from him before I let go of anything. I want an apology for whatever the hell this is, and then I want to hear him be thankful that he’s alive, because of me and my care for him. My lips kiss his neck of their own accord, breathing him in and letting his scent wrap around my senses. He tastes nothing like Pascal either. There’s no beauty flowing through me, no allure or decadence. He’s cold under my mouth, tasteless in comparison.
I don’t know what happens next, or how, but I’m suddenly facing him, my legs still locked around his waist and my hand still attached to his windpipe, albeit awkwardly and without as much force. He just stares at my mouth for a minute then lifts his eyes to mine as his hand braces my neck to hold me centimetres from his face.
“Let go before I do something neither of us wants,” he says, his voice strained, slightly throaty as his eyes darken.
I stare back at him, still gripping tightly and sinking myself into blue eyes that are becoming more impenetrable by the second. Neither of us wants. Yes, but, well, I’m revved up, as he put it. Frustrated. Angry. Horny.
“I need you to control that thought. You’re better than I am, Lilah.” My brow screws up as I watch the words leave his undeniably attractive lips and feel his hand gripping my arse. Better? I’m not sure about that at the moment. I’m in devil-may-care mode if I’m honest, but his words do resonate somewhere, deep down. They make me consider what’s happening here, who’s in control of whom. I suck in a bottomless breath through my nose and close my parted mouth, trying to dispel the inappropriate reaction that’s beginning to consume rational thought. It’s nearly enough to clear the murky visions that are hanging far too close for comfort. The ones I should be avoiding like the fucking plague. Nearly.
My legs have unwrapped and skimmed the hard wall of his body before I realised it, backing me away a step or two before I finally let go of his throat. He cracks his neck around a little, continually watching me and backing himself a step away as well. He smirks, showing me his amusement at my confusion. It’s not fucking funny. Nothing is. Certainly not this feeling in my bones rallying me to get on with whatever was just about to happen. I scowl at him, ready to launch a tirade of abuse in his direction in the hope that it doesn’t happen again.
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