Captive Heart (Club Risque Book 6)

by Poppy Flynn

  The moment was poignant, even as much as it had hurt him to allow it, but it wasn't until very much later that Micah realised just how significantly it had bound them together.

  Chapter 6

  They'd done a lot of talking over the course of the day, but things were quiet as Micah helped her into a comfortable chair in front of the ornate mirror in the French boudoir playroom and started to dry her hair with a blow dryer borrowed from the ladies' locker room.

  "I could do that myself, you know," she offered quietly, studying him with a serious look.

  "I know." He offered a small smile. The truth was he needed something to do with his hands, and the hum of the dryer drowned his turbulent thoughts.

  The silence was companionable enough. They each had their own slew of thoughts, he guessed.

  As he drew a brush through the length of her damp locks, he was startled once again by the length of it.

  "I don't think I've ever seen someone with hair as long as this," he told her. It cascaded down her back all the way past her butt until it brushed against the backs of her thighs.

  "Daddy liked it long. He used to put it in pigtails," she explained then faltered. "After Daddy, there was no such thing as haircuts, so it just grew and grew. I'm surprised he didn't cut it off just to spite me…except he used to like to use it like a rope…" she trailed off and Micah found himself talking to take her mind away from whatever bad memory was skittering across her mind.

  "I've never seen hair this colour, either." Micah examined the locks as he dried them, a frown drawing his brows together. He really hadn't seen hair this colour before. At least not on anyone as young as Melody. As her hair dried, the colour lightened significantly until Micah realised that what he had assumed was pale blonde underneath all the matt and dirt was actually a silvery platinum grey.

  Melody ducked her head and refused to meet his eyes in the ornate, gilt mirror as if embarrassed. "It didn't used to be this colour," she admitted softly. "A few years ago, it just seemed to change. Not exactly overnight, although it seemed like it since I rarely got to look in a mirror. It was quite a shock when I first saw it, and now, it's even worse."

  And it was shock that had likely caused it. Shock and trauma. It hadn't gone unnoticed that there was a raw, bald area on her scalp where her hair seemed to have been deliberately torn out. His lips thinned, but to Melody, he said, "It's beautiful, truly. Quite unique." He meant it, too, and was pleased at the way she peered at him from beneath those exquisitely long eyelashes which, he realised in that moment, were dark, while a tiny smile played at the corner of her lips.

  "Do you know how old you are, Melody?"

  Her face became pensive. "I don't remember a time when I ever celebrated my true birthday," she disclosed matter of factly. "But I know I was almost eighteen when I went to live with Daddy, because I was about to age out of the system."

  "You left before you were eighteen?" Micah clarified.

  "Yes, Daddy went to see the manager at the group home and told them he was offering me a place to live, and they let me go early."

  Micah kept quiet about his suspicions on that account but made a mental note to ask Andy Storer to look into the children's home to see if he could turn up any information that might prove useful.

  "I celebrated birthdays with Daddy," she continued. "But they weren't really birthdays, even though he called them that. They were anniversaries of the day I went to live with him. I was five on the last birthday I spent with Daddy, but it wasn't near my next birthday when the brute came and took me away."

  "So, you must have been twenty-three…when you left Daddy." If she noticed his pause as he chose his words, then she didn't allude to it. "And you said you thought another three summers had passed after that, which would make you twenty-six," Micah calculated.

  "More like twenty-seven, I think," Melody decided. "It's winter now, and Daddy celebrated my birthday in autumn. It was just starting to be spring when I lost him."

  Her words were telling. Whatever manipulations 'Daddy' had applied to getting Melody to live with him before she was legally of age—and Micah certainly had his suspicions—the man had been good to her and treated her well. Whoever he was, he surely had to be the starting point for trying to piece together the jigsaw of Melody's life. Kept as a 'little' with no autonomy or responsibility and then as a slave with no privileges at all, she knew precious little that could point them in the right direction, so they would just have to investigate those parts which they could identify. Since the bruises and scars he had observed when he'd helped her clean up, pointed to long term, systematic abuse and she freely admitted that she had been held against her will, it was most definitely time to call in Detective Storer and hand the reins over for an official investigation. But he'd handle the information gathering, himself, for now, at least until Melody was a little more comfortable with the situation.

  "Do you know Daddy's real name, Melody?"

  "When I first met him, he told me his name was Thomas, but nothing more than that."

  Micah nodded, drawing his fingers through her hair as he continued to dry it.

  "What about the address where you lived?"

  Melody sighed. "I guess I'd recognise the area if I saw it. I'm sorry I'm so little help."

  "Don't worry; we'll piece it all together."

  "He didn't live too far from the group home. Less than an hour in the car," she recalled. "And the group home was called Fairwinds, if that's any help?"

  "That's an excellent start!" Micah grinned and leaned down to place a smacking kiss on her cheek. He caught himself too late to stop it. It was an innocent thing but entirely inappropriate.

  Melody resisted the urge to touch her cheek where Micah had just kissed it. She was being bombarded with so many unfamiliar sensations. Sure, Daddy had kissed her on the cheek, and sometimes he had even washed and dried her hair, too, but only when the mood had taken him, and then it had been a kind of foreplay. It had certainly never felt like this, and she didn't know quite how to quantify it.

  She felt an affinity to Micah. His calm and patient demeanour called to the broken parts inside and urged her to trust him. She did trust him. She wasn't sure why, since they had only just met, but some kind of latent animal instinct had kicked in and insisted she was safe with him. There was no rhyme or reason to it, no logic, and it certainly wasn't rational, but there it was. It wasn't just because he had a pretty face or a well-built body. She knew far better than to trust those kinds of things. No, it was something far deeper—his whole aura.

  For better or for worse, it called to her to relax and share things with him that she'd shared with no one. Perhaps that was the secret. The fact that he spoke to her and asked her questions, was interested in her life. No one had ever cared about that before.

  He saw her, she realised with a start.

  No one had ever seen her before; they had only seen what she could provide for them.

  He said he didn't want her as his slave, and that made her unaccountably sad because she thought she might actually enjoy being his slave.

  In truth, she didn't really know how to be anything else.

  Still, she thought she could actually be happy being Micah's slave. He didn't seem to want to take his pleasure from witnessing her agony as the brute had done, and he didn't want to turn her into a little girl like Daddy did.

  But if she wasn't his slave, then, what would she be? How would she cope? How would she manage? Where would she live? How would she live? Would he help her with that? she wondered. Would he help her find herself and become her own person? The very idea sent a frisson of anxiety skittering down her back. She had never had to rely on herself. She'd never had the freedom to do so. People might think that she should jump at the chance to be what she had never been allowed to be, to make her own choices and decisions, to live her life any way she wished; to be free. In fact, the idea, the reality, just terrified her.

  Just thinking about it gave her the sensation
that she had been cast out into a vast expanse of ocean and set adrift, and the only thing it actually did for her was to make her feel seasick.

  Micah noticed the shiver she gave but misinterpreted the cause.

  "You're cold!" he exclaimed, putting the hairdryer down and pulling the chair out for her. "Your hair's almost dry. Let's get you into some of those warm clothes that Trinity dropped off and find something hot to drink."

  He scooped her up, towel and all, and strode back to the room she'd been in earlier which had the words Employee Lounge on a metal plate attached to the door.

  Melody curled her arms around his neck and enjoyed the sensation of being carried, even though she missed him running his fingers through her hair.

  She couldn't remember the last time anyone had genuinely cared for her like this. Growing up, there had been no comfort or camaraderie, none of the warm affection most children shared with their parents or siblings. There had been no one to soothe or cuddle her when she was frightened or anxious. Well, that wasn't strictly true. Daddy had shown her kindness and consideration. He had looked after her and ensured she had everything she needed, but it hadn't felt like this. Melody couldn't quite work out why, though.

  After setting her back down on the couch, Micah handed her a bag. "Choose what you'd like to wear," he offered. "I'll go put the kettle on and grab the medical kit, so we can check to see which of those wounds need attention." He made his way into the little kitchen annex.

  Melody withdrew the clothing from the carrier bag. There were some comfy pairs of yoga pants and a lovely, fluffy jumper which was so soft, it felt like a huge hug. Next, she pulled out a couple of stretchy vests, a multipack of thick, fuzzy socks and a plain cotton shirt, not the stiff, starchy cotton, but the soft, supple type that felt warm to the skin. The things were brand new, with the labels still attached, and suddenly, Melody felt her eyes filling with the tears that had been so close to the surface all day. This time, she couldn't hold them back, and before she knew it, they were flowing down her face and she was sniffling with the effort to keep them at bay.

  "Hey, what's the matter?" Micah demanded, urgency clear in his voice as he came hurrying back into the room carrying a mug of herbal tea. "Are you in pain?"

  He placed the cup and also some medical supplies on the side table and sat down next to her. Melody couldn't help herself; she turned in the seat and curled into the security of Micah's big, strong body. As she threw her arms around his comfortingly sturdy frame and cuddled up to him, she managed, at least, to shake her head, so he knew she wasn't hurting.

  This entire day had been so surreal, with all these people, who didn't know her and had no reason to bother with her, helping her.

  Then there was the doctor, Xavier, who checked her over and gave her medication.

  The owners she hadn't been awake to see, giving permission for her to stay here.

  Trinity, a woman she had never met, going out and shopping for her.

  Micah, cleaning and feeding and tending to her.

  And now, there were clothes! Brand new clothes that were just for her.

  They weren't hand me downs or charity shop buys like she got in the foster homes. They weren't childish dresses like Daddy had dressed her in, and they weren't slutty lingerie like the brute had sometimes insisted she wear when he invited his friends around.

  They were lovely, proper outfits, especially for her.

  She felt Micah's arms curve around her somewhat tentatively, lightly, like she was something fragile and special.

  "I'm sorry. I should have asked Trinity to pick you up some underwear," he told her remorsefully. "But I thought it would rub too much on your injuries. I thought vests and leggings would be comfortable enough without, but I can organise getting some for you if you like."

  Melody just cried all the harder. "It's not that," she sobbed in between snuffling and blubbering. "It's everything!" She hiccupped and fisted her hands in his tee shirt.

  He smelled good. What the hell was she thinking that for, at a time like this, when she was in the middle of having some weird, emotional meltdown? She laughed at herself, and it came out sounding decidedly hysterical. Oh, God!

  "You all helped me when you could have just left me there and saved yourselves the bother," she muffled into the fabric of his top. "You didn't know me or owe me anything, but you did it anyway!" she bawled in a decidedly unladylike fashion, trailing soggy tears all over him.

  "And now, there are clothes!" she announced, as if that explained it all, before realising that it didn't. "Clothes that are just for me," she clarified, lifting her head and wiping her nose on the back of her hand. "I never had new clothes before. Proper clothes that weren't for someone else's benefit," she explained, trying to pull herself together. "I just got a bit overwhelmed at the thought. I know it's stupid, but it's been an emotional kind of day. I'm sorry."

  She bit her lip as she looked at him through eyelashes spiked with tears.

  Micah lifted his hands, bringing them gently to her face and brushing away her tears with his thumbs. Then he leaned over and grabbed a tissue from a box on the table and encouraged her to blow her nose. Tears welled in Melody's eyes all over again. It had only been a single day, but already, she wanted to stay here forever, with Micah, in this shiny little bubble of both physical warmth and human kindness.

  "I know you haven't seen the best side of humanity, Melody, but there are people in the world who do care enough to help those who are in need. Now, let's have a look at these cuts and see which ones need to be treated before you try out some of those clothes, eh?"

  He plucked the towel from around her, and although he had already seen her naked, several times, up close and personal, and despite the fact that she had spent the past few years kept in naked subservience, Melody couldn't help the unexpected bite of embarrassment which washed over her. She didn't want him to see all the cuts and bruises that marred her skinny, malnourished frame—the flaws.

  For Micah, she had an aching desire to just be whole and beautiful so that he might want to keep her.

  The tears escaped again as he applied salve and dressings to the whip marks and the burn sores on her body, but this time, they were for a different reason.

  There was a new man today. Micah had introduced him as Detective Storer. Melody didn't know quite what she had expected, but the man in front of her certainly wasn't it!

  He had rolled into the room in a fancy, futuristic looking wheelchair with a larger than life character, despite being a dwarf, and sported a brightly dyed goatee beard. Micah had shaken his hand and called him Andy, and it was clear from their relaxed camaraderie that they knew each other well.

  Detective Andy Storer poked and prodded at her memories, from her parents to her foster families to the group home to Daddy. She was a little uncomfortable with some of the questions he asked about the five years she had spent with him, but that was nothing compared with the shame and anxiety she felt talking about the brute.

  Again and again, he asked if she could recall a name or an address, if she could remember details of any of the men who had come to the house, how they had treated her, if they were aware of the nature of her incarceration, whether any of them had tried to help her.

  Melody became frustrated with all the things she didn't know. She could describe them all; they were burned into her memory—tall, thin, brown hair, brown eyes, short, bald, grey eyes and glasses, fat, squinty eyes and slobbery lips. But then, she could just as well be describing any number of men.

  Melody sighed and closed her eyes, rubbing her head against the throb that was starting to push against her temple as she allowed her mind to wander into territories she preferred not to explore, horrific memories that she could only keep at bay if she locked them away and didn't inspect them too carefully.

  "There was one time…" Her voice came out in a strangled choke, just thinking of the scene, the sheer terror. "He strung me up with a noose around my neck and put me on a chair." Melo
dy rubbed at her throat as if she could still feel the scratch and pull of the coarse fibres pressing into her wind pipe.

  "I could just about withstand the tightening of the loop if I stood right on my tippy toes. He just stood and watched, threatening to whip me and asking how long I thought I'd be able to hold my balance."

  She was aware that Micah had come to sit beside her. He was quiet and didn't so much as touch her, but she was comforted by his presence.

  "The telephone rang, but he'd switched it over to the answering machine while he tormented me. I was barely taking any notice; I had more important things to think about," she bit out harshly. "But I remember that he stormed out of the room to intercept the call because the caller was asking if he was there, telling him to pick up the phone. He called him something, but it wasn't a name. He said 'V'…I think. Nothing more, just like the letter. I don't remember anything after that. Maybe I lost my balance, maybe the rope just got too tight, but I must have passed out. All I know is that afterward, my throat hurt, but it wasn't enough to break my neck. I wasn't dead."

  She was quiet for a while, trying her best to stuff the memory back where it belonged, into a locked box within her mind which would allow her to retain her sanity.

  "That was in the early days. The telephone disappeared after that, maybe because he was afraid I'd hear too much, maybe so there was no danger of me trying to use it to call for help. It was gone, either way."

  There was silence when she finished, just the scratches of Detective Storer's pen as he made notes in a small, hard backed pocket book, disturbing the dark pall that hung in the air.

  Melody found she was glad of Detective Storer's pragmatic attitude when he simply continued on with his questions as soon as he'd finished writing. She supposed in his line of work, he'd probably heard and seen it all, probably things that were even worse. She appreciated it, nonetheless, and also the fact that he changed the direction of his questions.