Take Me

by Anna Zaires, Pepper Winters, Skye Warren, Lynda Chance, Pam Godwin, Amber Lin

“What is that?” he whispered. “What are you humming?”

  The enchanting crescendo cut off, and he immediately regretted opening his mouth.

  She cleared her throat. Then he heard it. The a cappella melody of a voice so piercing and peaceful it jolted a chill through him, sparking every cell in his body. The shiver faded too quickly but not for long. Her voice pitched, and an electric surge fired down his spine. He held his breath, spellbound.

  In unerring key, she sang of wishes and stars and souls that couldn’t be saved. Her octave carried a tinkling quality, profound and lonely at the same time. It transported him to the farm, to the isolated pond on a rainy day. Her voice was the pattering of drizzle on the misty surface, infused with nourishment and despair and acceptance.

  She closed with a hum and a delicate exhale.

  “That was…” His tongue knotted, heavy in his mouth.

  “‘Lullaby’ by Sia.”

  “I was going to say exquisite, bewitching.” Carnal. “Do you sing for a living?” He slowed at a stoplight and twisted to look at her.

  “No.” Complex and unflinching, her eyes held his and the key to his secrets.

  The light ticked green, and she broke the connection, pointing at the brick archway on the right.

  Lopsided letters clung to a wooden sign in tired welcome. Two Trails Crossing. He turned in.

  Massive elms darkened the rows of lower middle-class homes. Dated wrought-iron gussied up the doors and windows. A couple left and right turns led them to a cul-de-sac, where she nodded at the small single-story at the end. “That’s it. I’ll go in through the rear.”

  He followed the skinny driveway alongside the house, around the back, and parked in front of the rear garage. The engine rattled, and he willed it to choke and die. He didn’t want to let her go in just yet, and why was that? As the most sought-after bachelor on the football team, he had more female attention than he knew what to do with.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t want a girl. In fact, he was so aware of the way the female body moved with its ample curves and forbidden places that it was often unbearable to hang out with the opposite sex. He was a guy in his prime, for heaven’s sake. His restraint had its limits. So he fended off the handsy girls, accepted dates with the proper girls, and late at night, alone in his bed, he gripped his erection and gave into his primitive needs.

  Something he would be doing when he got home, because Liv was the summation of all those girls, and more. What was it about her? She sang like a choir of angels and didn’t proposition him like the girls at his games, yet her eyes promised experience and indulgences that reached beyond the boundaries of his folks’ expectations for him.

  She licked her lips, and they glistened in the dim glow of the porch light. “Come in.”

  Go in with her? Hell, he couldn’t think past the pull to kiss her. He realized he was leaning toward her when she spoke again.

  “My father isn’t here, and I don’t expect anything unmanageable with my sister, but just in case?”

  The thought of spending more time with her sped his pulse. The uncertainty etching her heart-shaped face decided it. One thing first.

  He closed the final inches and tasted her lips. Her exhale caressed his mouth, and her fingers swept through his hair, pulling him closer. He fought the urgency to work his tongue past her lips and kept it chaste. Since kissing was the breadth of his experience, he’d stolen dozens of lip-locked moments, each one growing bolder but never out of bounds. Though the sensation of her lips whispering over his went beyond that point of contact, spreading south. He cupped her cheek, holding her to him.

  Shuddering waves of need heated his insides and gripped his groin. If the kiss continued one more second, his vow to his parents would be put to the test. He broke the kiss.

  The seam of her lips separated, the delicate lines of her face magnifying her allure. He grabbed his phone from the cup holder and jumped out. He wasn’t a slave to his desires, and she’d asked him to come inside because she needed a friend. That he could handle.

  She joined him at the garage keypad and punched in the code. By the time they reached the interior door, he’d managed to wrestle down his libido.

  A dark hush greeted them in the kitchen. There was a trace of mustiness in the air, the staleness of vacancy, but the red sauce smearing the dishes in the sink appeared fresh.

  He trailed her shuffling pace over the worn brown carpet to the sitting room. A single lamp illuminated dark wood panels, a paisley couch, matching armchair, and a clunky tube-style television. He rubbed his jaw. “This place is familiar.”

  Creases formed in her forehead. She scanned the room but didn’t really seem to be inspecting it, her gaze more inwardly focused.

  “That ’70s Show was filmed right here, in this Temple, Texas living room, wasn’t it?”

  Not a hint of a smile on her distracted face. “Poor people have poor ways.”

  A reminder he didn’t know what she did for a living, and he’d probably offended her, dammit. He didn’t know anything about her. Except the smooth silkiness of her lips.

  “Sis?” She ambled down the hall and poked her head in each of the two bedrooms. “She must be in the attic.”

  The room chilled, and he shivered. “The attic?”

  “She feels safe there.” She paused at the enclosed staircase that led up from the mouth of the hallway and held out her hand.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sure you don’t need a few minutes to talk? I can wait down here if you want privacy.”

  Her hand remained outstretched, her rich brown eyes watching him with a pleading kind of intensity that told him his presence was important.

  He joined her and twined their fingers, her palm cool and damp. What could he do to ease her nervousness? He tightened his grip and followed her up, the unlit stairwell closing in around him. “Where’s the light-switch?”

  She stopped them on the top stair, the darkness as tangible as her silence. Her clothes rustled. Beeps followed. A small red light blinked on the wall.

  Apprehension crawled over him, tickling the hairs on his arms. “Was that a keypad?”

  A door opened, and he squinted into the fluorescent glare escaping from inside. Her grip on his hand tugged him over the threshold, and he followed, compelled, curious…shocked.

  His attention landed on the center of the room, and he struggled to process what he saw. A teenage girl knelt before them, completely nude. Her white-blond hair and fair skin looked nothing like Liv. But what sent dread through his veins was how she lowered her brow to the floor, hands behind her back, thighs spread.

  The door clicked shut behind him, snapping him out of his stunned paralysis. He averted his eyes to the cot in the corner and the steel rings bolted in the wall above it. Dear God, what was this place? His pulse roared in his ears, his voice strangled. “That’s your sister?”

  She cocked her head, a smirk pinned on her face.

  Holy crap. She’d lied. Why? Realization sank his stomach. She lied to lure him there. He spun, yanked the door handle. No give. He slammed a fist on the door, a muffled thump. Solid wood. Reinforced with a steel jamb. “Let me out.”

  “No.”

  No? She was refusing to release him? His blood drained to his legs, leaving a trail of ice in its wake. He pawed at the keypad on the brick wall. His heart rate redoubled. Surely the naked girl was there voluntarily. Maybe they just wanted to have some fun with him, and he’d given the wrong signals.

  He turned, pressed his back to the door, and tugged out his phone. “I’m not into this…whatever this is.” The buttons wouldn’t respond. Black screen. He jammed his thumb against the power switch. Nothing.

  A hard swallow caught in his throat. He raised his eyes, found her watching him with that terrible stillness about her. When she spoke, the voice didn’t belong to the girl with the silky lips and enthralling lullaby.

  “You will learn, practice, and become the twelve requirements demanded by your Maste
r.” She crouched to stroke the girl’s head, who hadn’t moved or glanced up.

  It had to be a sick joke. Just some swinging neighborhood debauchery. He needed to hear her admit it, because imagining the alternative was kicking his heart rate to dangerous levels. “So you lured me here for some kinky game where I play gimp boy to your…your…she-Master?” He released a laugh, and it was strained and desperate. “Sorry, babe. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

  She rose and stalked toward him, her stride commanding, her expression blank. “I am a deliverer. I deliver the strikes that enforce your obedience.”

  Her voice, sweet Jesus, it was so cold, so wrong. He slid to the side of the door, choking on panic, and smacked the keypad. “Open the door.”

  “I deliver the sexual training that justifies your purchase price.”

  If he screamed for help, would anyone hear? “What’s really going on here, Liv? If you’re in trouble, I can help you. I know people you can talk to.”

  She stepped into his space, the wall pressing against his back. “In ten weeks, I will deliver you to be sold.”

  His breath caught. “You’re insane.”

  What he saw in her eyes wasn’t insanity. Deeply-embedded resolve held her pupils immovable.

  “Requirement number three. Slave will keep his eyes down unless Master requests otherwise.”

  The impulse to fight strengthened his spine. He was a linebacker, trained to run and tackle, so he lunged. Grabbed her shoulders. Slammed her chest into the wall beside the keypad. She didn’t fight, didn’t squeak under his rough handling. He pressed against her back and gripped her neck. “Enter the pass-code.”

  Her body slouched, free of tension beneath the brace of his arms. She wasn’t fighting him, and he realized why when the door swung open. He swiveled, muscles heated to bolt, and met the short barrel of a revolver.

  A hulking man strode through, his face shrouded by the hood of his sweatshirt. He kept the pistol aimed between Josh’s eyes and closed the door. “Release her.”

  Josh let go of her neck, his jaw clenching painfully. She’d let him pin her, knowing she held the upper hand.

  He took two steps back, hands up, and searched her face in a Hail-Mary hope her rigid mouth would crack into laughter and say, “Ha, ha. You’ve been punk’d.”

  Her hips rocked in tight circles, slowly, seductively, as if an erotic dancer had taken over her body. She sashayed to stand beside the man with the gun and raised her chin. The chill in her voice stopped his heart. “Eyes. Down.”

  Chapter Five

  “Joshua Carter no longer exists.” Liv gave him a second to absorb that, though the firestorm thrashing in his eyes told her he might need more than a pregnant pause. Her own heart rate threatened to rob the strength from her knees, and that kind of weakness pissed her the fuck off. She gathered control over her features, arranging them into the stoniest expression she had. “For the next ten weeks, your name is whatever I want it to be.”

  “Let me go.” Despite the pallor blanching his golden complexion, he glared down at her with the composure of a fearless man. His maturity was emphasized by the whiskers darkening his square jaw and the carved contour of his rigid muscles.

  She needed to think of him as a boy. Boys were malleable, unsteady, and less attractive. “For now, your name is boy.”

  Standing by the door as if its proximity could save him, he set his jaw, green eyes sparking with defiance. Van kept his position beside her, the gun level with the boy’s head.

  “Eyes down, boy.” Not that she expected him to obey. That progression had to be paved with his blood and tears. The thought stabbed a terrible pain in her chest.

  His unwavering stare continued to press against her skin, and there was so much force in it, she didn’t think she could endure it much longer. She would, though. She would do anything for the hope that awaited her at the end of the night. The hope that would feed her famished heart.

  In the center of the room, the girl remained folded on her knees. Since her training neared completion, she could demonstrate some expectations for the boy. Liv approached her, injecting her command with unfeeling iron. “On the cot, slave. Cuffed.”

  The girl crawled to the cot and lay on her back, hands reaching above her head to grasp the handcuffs on the wall. She locked in her wrists. The cuffs connected to steel eyehooks and were sturdy enough to restrain the strongest of struggling slaves.

  The boy’s glare ticked between the girl and the gun, tension rippling over the hard lines of his body. He closed his eyes, opened them, and met her gaze, nostrils flaring. “I kissed you.”

  Her insides tightened, and Van’s finger twitched on the trigger. Just a twitch. Van’s role that night was to keep quiet and ensure her success in confining the boy in the box. The rational part of her was glad Van was there. If she were alone with the boy, she might’ve anchored her thoughts in the intimacy they’d shared and weakened under the resentment of her betrayal.

  Van’s presence kept her frigid, focused mask in place. But he was undoubtedly raging with jealousy. Too damned bad. He knew the job and what it involved.

  She reached up and slid back his hood, caressing his scar. The affection catered to his possessiveness, calming his inward battle, evidenced in the subtle slackening of his finger on the trigger. But unveiling his expression also served as a warning for the boy. Van outmatched him in muscle and cruelty, and under the fluorescents, she knew Van’s eyes were blades of silver and cut just as deep.

  The boy swallowed. “You said something about—” he gritted his teeth “—you intend to sell me? Like a…a slave? This isn’t a game?”

  No way did the boy fully grasp what was going on. He was probably still clinging to the hope of release when they were done with him.

  Van scratched his neck. “Let him go, Liv. You got the wrong kid.”

  While Van was attempting to win the boy’s trust, it didn’t quite soften his razor eyes. He sucked at being the passive captor, though to his credit, he’d never had to watch from the sidelines before. His sadistic control-freakery was probably tearing him up inside.

  “Just stand there and hold the gun like you’re supposed to, Van.” She met the boy’s steadfast expression with her own. “You will be trained. Then you will be sold for sex.”

  “I can pay.” He raised his stubborn chin. “I can come up with the money and cover whatever they’re paying you.”

  Hell, he didn’t have a dollar, and certainly not two million of them. His illogical offer meant he was still in the panic stage. She remembered the confusion and how the uncontrollable trembling and desire to escape had made her crazed, hyper-aware, and desperate.

  Witnessing him experience the first horrific phases of capture was why she’d avoided conversation in the truck. She hadn’t wanted to connect with him as his equal, as a friend. Connections like that birthed concern and sympathy and other touchy-feely detriments to her arrangement.

  But she’d returned his kiss. At the time, she’d reasoned it was a luring tactic. Until their lips separated, and she was left with a lingering taste of something she’d never have.

  “Follow me.” She didn’t wait for the boy’s obedience. Van’s gun would ensure it. She strode to the soundproof wall that divided the attic into two chambers.

  At the door, she punched her code into the keypad. She and Van had separate codes to move through the rooms within the house, but only she had a code for this one.

  She walked through the long, narrow room. Once her prison, it was now her sanctuary, her bedroom, and the only place she could escape Van. When Mr. E promoted her from slave to deliverer, he allowed her request to hold the only combination to the room. And why not? He could reach through any door with the threat he held over her. But Van could not.

  Tossing her phone on the threadbare mattress in the corner, she moved past the open shower, toilet, and sink along the front wall. Reaching the coffin-sized pine box opposite the unenclosed bathroom, she turned and waited for
the boy to join her.

  There was an illusion that he could walk freely into the room, but it was psychological bullshit. Van wouldn’t shoot if the boy slipped-up, but any number of the non-lethal weapons hidden on his person insured compliance.

  The brick at her back made the attic feel inescapable, as was intended, but the true barrier was the sound-deadening concrete forms veneering the exterior walls. Its effectiveness was tested by her own lungs during her first year in that room. No one had come to save her.

  The boy crossed the threshold with Van’s gun at his back. His arms lolled at his sides, his expression growing more wary and alert with each step. What would he do? What was he thinking? Planning?

  He scanned her room—the room she would be sharing with him—and his gaze seized on the phone on the mattress, flicked to the horizontal box, and returned to the phone.

  “Keypad is locked.” She kept her posture still and straight, her voice detached.

  A storm of frantic ideas churned in his icy eyes. He could try to dial 911, but the modifications Mr. E put on her phone disabled things like the camera and the ability to make emergency calls while it was locked. This allowed her to keep her phone with her, one of his requirements. He used it to track her every call, her every move. At the end of the day, she was just as trapped as the boy.

  Van nudged him with the gun, moving him forward.

  The boy stopped a foot away from her position beside the box. His breath evened in what seemed to be an attempt at deference. Too many emotions clouded his face to predict what he was planning. But his choices were no longer his.

  “Requirement number four. Slave will not wear clothes unless Master requests otherwise.” She exhaled slowly through her nose. This would not go over well. “Strip.”

  His expression emptied. Was it shock? Was he masking his terror? If so, he was doing a damned good job. Maybe he’d already worked out it would come to this. When she was forced to strip the first time, she’d already played out the worst scenarios in her head. Surrendering her clothes had paled next to her imagination. Hadn’t stopped her from pleading for her modesty.