by Bella J
I shifted in my seat, rubbing against the painful hardness in my pants. What the fuck was I doing, sitting around having twisted fantasies about the woman who was the epitome of everything fucking evil in my life?
Pushing back the lustful thoughts that had no place in my mind in the first place, I continued to watch her, study her, to try and figure out who the hell she really was.
It’s amazing what the human instinct for survival would make you do, yet she denied herself food. Why? If her modus operandi was to starve herself to death before I had the chance to take her life, why would she drink the vinegar-water? Why would she crawl on the floor like a pet in search of more water, but wouldn’t eat?
I tried to wrap my head around it, to figure out what was going on inside her mind. This was, after all, about to become the mother of all mind-fuck games. For hours I watched her, but couldn’t figure it out. Until she gave one more glance toward the box…and it hit me. When I was in there earlier, I didn’t tell her to drink the water. I told her to eat. I demanded her to eat. That was it. She was defying me, showing me one giant ‘fuck you’ by not doing what I had specifically told her to do.
Motherfucker.
I smiled. The little mouse I caught seemed to be a fighter after all. I had indeed underestimated her. Lucky for me, unlucky for her, I loved a challenge, thrived on it. It made me push my limits, made me stronger, gave me power.
With the press of a button on the keyboard in front of me, the lights in her room went off, casting her in complete darkness, so dark that she wouldn’t even be able to see her hand in front of her face. But I could see her. With the night vision camera I could see her small frame huddling on the bed as she pushed her face deeper into her arms and legs.
The little mouse wanted to play...so let’s play.
***
TATUM
The lights went off and my heart got lodged in my throat. I saw nothing but black around me, and my lack of vision made the panic inside me spike. I never even realized that I had the privilege of light until it got taken away.
Now here I was, trapped in a room…in the dark. I had no way of knowing what his next move would be, why he felt it necessary to have me trapped in the dark. But something told me that this was all part of his game. A dangerous game that I hoped I had the courage to play.
I pulled my legs closer to my chest and buried my face between my arms. I would make my own darkness by closing my eyes and hiding my face, rather than endure his.
Rocking back and forth I tried my best to ignore my fear, and the hunger pangs that plagued my insides. I’ve never hated my body this much. The way my stomach growled, my throat burning with thirst. I was so damn hungry and thirsty, I felt like I could become a savage at any moment. But I refused to eat. Fuck him. Fuck everyone.
Before he cast me in complete darkness, I glanced over at the gift box filled with bread. My body urged me to grab the bread and stuff as much as possible into my mouth. But with every last shred of self-control I had, I kept myself contained. So secretly I was thankful for the darkness, that gift box no longer able to taunt me with the promise of feeling full again.
I shifted down and huddled together on the mattress, hoping sleep would take me, that I would wake up and this would all be gone. But the more I tried to sleep, it seemed less likely that it would happen. There was too much adrenaline pumping through my veins, my hunger too strong to ignore. I couldn’t concentrate on getting some sleep.
But honestly, what woman who had been kidnapped with the promise of being murdered would be able to fucking sleep?
The longer I lay there in the dark, the more my mind drifted into crazy, scary directions. I tried to find a focus point, a happy place as people called it. I imagined myself in my art studio, listening to music, painting, getting lost in my own little world. The colors, the way it all came together just gave me a sense of tranquility. After Carlo left—which was what I thought back then—I threw myself into my work. The only difference was I added a bottle of scotch into my creative process. The more time passed with Carlo being gone, the darker the colors would get, the angrier the canvases would become. I used my pen and my paintbrush as a way to get rid of the pain, rather than a knife or a razor. With every stripe across the canvas, I would imagine it was a cut through my heart. The paint would bleed down the white background in drops of angry tears, just like the blood would bleed from my body.
After my parents discovered the scars on my skin, they saw me as an addict crying out for help. They forced me to see therapists, tried to figure out what went wrong in my life. But it wasn’t anything like that. Most people got addicted to alcohol, drugs, cigarettes…the slice of a blade, because they needed something to help them escape, something to ease whatever it was that ate at them from the inside. My addiction to pain wasn’t because I needed an escape from a fucked up childhood or a screwed up past. Even though I had to live in the shadow of my father, being the daughter of the famous William Linscott, I had a fairly good childhood. My parents loved me. I had a life of excess and privilege, and never wanted for anything. My addiction for pain was purely because I craved it. It wasn’t something that could be explained. There was no rhyme or reason for the intense need I had to experience pain, to control my body by pushing my limits, by proving to myself that my mind was stronger than my body was. It was just…me.
I tightened my grip around my legs, trying not to think of it, trying not to think about how good it felt to see my body bleed, reminding me that I was alive. Not only did it give me the best kind of relief, but the euphoria I experienced along with the pain was something I couldn’t describe to anyone. No one understood it. Everyone saw it as a psychological flaw, a switch inside my brain which no longer worked right. In reality they were probably right—in their reality. My reality was something far different than everyone else’s.
I don’t know how long it was that I lay there, lost in my own thoughts—thoughts of my life, my family…Carlo…the lies. So far everything pointed to Carlo being a liar, deceiving me by pretending to be someone he wasn’t. But why would he do that? Why would he lie? Even if he was like all the other men, only pretending to love me to get access to my family’s wealth, why would he pretend to be someone he wasn’t? It didn’t make any sense.
Thinking about it let a sadness drop over me like a veil of black. Everything about Carlo and I was a lie. There was no truth in it, no truth in the words and the promises he made.
Damn him. Damn him to hell.
The light flicked on. I jerked up and opened my eyes, closing them as fast as I had opened them, the light stinging my eyes.
“Hello, little mouse.”
My eyes slowly flickered open, adjusting to the light. Castello was standing by the door wearing another one of his designer suits, a whirlwind of power and confidence swirling around him.
“I trust you slept well.”
I sat up straight and rubbed my eyes which were still sensitive to the bright light. “Like a fucking baby.”
“Now-now, Miss Linscott. There’s no need for such language.”
“There’s no need to keep me here like a goddamn prisoner either.”
“Oh yes there is, believe me.”
He stepped back disappearing from the door for a few seconds. I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes, wondering what he was up to.
Then he came strolling into the room pushing a trolley with four silver domes. The second he came to a standstill with the trolley only a few feet from me, I smelled it.
Oh my God.
Food.
There were so many different aromas that I couldn’t distinguish between any of it. It all smelled so goddamn delicious that I had to fist my hands, pushing my nails painfully in the flesh of my palms to stop myself from launching forward to grab anything and everything off that trolley.
“Are you hungry, Miss Linscott?” Castello smiled, before glancing over his shoulder to the gift box with the stale bread pieces and human finger. He turned
back and shrugged. “I guess not.”
Pulling the chair closer, he took a seat beside the trolley and pulled off a silver dome from one of the plates.
I couldn’t stop myself from pushing up straight, stretching my neck as far as it would go to see what was on the plate.
Castello leaned over the dish, inhaling. “Ah, doesn’t that smell delicious? Eggs Benedict is probably the best breakfast dish in the world, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Linscott?”
He eyed me curiously, studying me like he was trying to assess my every move. I didn’t answer. I was too afraid to open my mouth since the scent of food had already completely filled the room, aggravating the hunger pains already consuming my insides.
Castello placed the napkin on his lap before he looked up at me. “It’s a shame you’re not hungry. There is so much food here.”
I watched as he started to lift the other domes one by one to see what was underneath.
“We have some bacon, sausage, fresh fruit salad, some pancakes”—he looked up at me—“which are smothered in syrup by the way”—then lifted the last dome—“and of course, some warm buttered toast.” He glanced at me with a cocked brow, and a smug grin. “You sure you’re not hungry?”
I bared my teeth at him like a fucking animal, like I was about to go head to head with him for the tiniest morsel of food. The hunger pains intensified threefold, my stomach feeling like my throat had been cut off. But I still didn’t answer him.
He shrugged. “Suit yourself then.”
He picked up a glass of what looked like freshly squeezed orange juice, and I watched as he brought it to his lips, allowing a stream of orange liquid to enter his mouth. My gaze zeroed in on his throat as it moved while he swallowed the juice. I imagined what it tasted like. Was it sweet with just a hint of tang? Or was it more tang with just a hint of sweet? And while he sat there drinking the juice, the air of dominance paired with sophistication surrounding him, there was a part at the back of my mind—a very dark part that wondered what his mouth would taste like with the sweet tang still on his tongue. What would it feel like to lick traces of that orange juice from the inside of his mouth, to experience the taste through him?
My throat burned, my body ached, and my head pounded with the need to consume something, anything to get some relief from the torture. But amidst all the torment in my body there was a heat that coiled inside my belly, and I hated it—hated him the second I felt it.
“Why are you doing this?” I whispered, unable to hide the contempt in my voice.
He grabbed the knife and fork and sliced through the Eggs Benedict, and I watched as the egg yolk oozed out, covering the English muffin it was set on.
I groaned and immediately clutched my stomach as the pain threatened to tear me in half. This was agony at its worst, the way my body ached in its demand for food.
He placed a fork-full of food into his mouth, and like the masochist that I am I watched, unable to take my eyes off his face, witnessing the delight that spread across his features as he tasted and ate the delicious looking and smelling food.
He swallowed. “I assumed because you didn’t eat the bread I gave you earlier that you weren’t hungry. But if you are, just say so and I’ll happily share this buffet with you.”
The dark glint in his eyes, the way his mouth curled up in the corners warned me it wasn’t going to be that simple. Nothing with this man seemed simple. He was a predator—a vicious hunter who had the power to entice, ensnare, only to let you meet your doom once he had you in his clutches. Yet he made me curious, wanting to know what exactly would happen if he managed to bait me, to lure me into his trap? Would I be strong enough to survive him? Or would I shatter like glass once he applied the pressure in order to force the life out of me?
He placed the knife and fork down on the plate then turned to fully face me. His dark eyebrows slanted inward, and he licked his lips.
“Go ahead, Tatum. Ask me.” He leaned forward. “Beg me, and I’ll feed you. I’ll give you every last piece of food on this table if you go on your hands and knees, and beg me for it.”
That’s it. That was his game. He wanted me to submit, to beg and grovel like a slave so he would give me what my body needed to survive. Just like I had suspected, this was all a power trip for him, to see me broken and battered crawling on the floor like I was worth nothing. I couldn’t let him have that, let him have that kind of power over me. If I did, I’d be good as dead.
With my gaze never leaving his, I shifted toward the end of the bed. I looked over at the table, stretching to get a good look at all the food. My mouth salivated, my stomach complained, and my throat burned.
Slowly I sank to my knees in front of him, my gaze once again pinned on his. It was all there, the darkness, the need…the hunger—it was all in his eyes as he watched me kneel on the floor in submission. That’s what he wanted, wasn’t it—for me to submit, to show him he had some twisted authority over me?
His body rippled with predatory greed as he eyed me with sexual belligerence, making me hyper-aware of the control he had over me. The power he exuded, the confidence that clothed him just as perfectly as his Armani suit was toxic, my body feeling its poison as it infected me little by little.
I crawled, inching forward on my hands and knees, and he leaned down with his elbows bringing our faces inches from one another.
“Now beg me.” His voice was low, his eyes hooded. If I didn’t know the kind of hatred this man had for me, I would have mistaken the look for desire. His body was rigid with undisguised lust, and it tainted the air around us with tension so strong, I felt its heat spread through me like wildfire.
Fighting the erotic pull that suddenly swirled inside my gut, I bit into my lower lip…before I spat right into his face. Instantly the tension shattered around us, replaced with the cold of hate and the hard edges of our mutual distaste.
He closed his eyes, but didn’t move, my spit dripping off his cheek.
I got up from the floor and glared down at him. “You can take your food and go fuck yourself, Castello.”
It was probably not the wisest thing to do, to taunt and provoke my captor in such a way. But there was no way I would beg for him to feed me like a goddamn animal.
Adrenaline filled my belly, silencing the hunger pains. My heart was beating so fast I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than trying to assess what his next move would be.
He took the napkin and wiped his face clean, before getting up from the chair, straightening his jacket with such confidence, like I didn’t just spit in his face, humiliating him.
Dark eyes met mine. “You might think you proved yourself by doing what you just did, that you showed courage. But you’re wrong.” He started to push the cart out the door before turning back to face me. “The only thing you did was prove you’re not playing with a full deck, little mouse.”
And then the door shut with a loud thud, and the lights went out, leaving me alone in the dark with just the echo of his words.
‘…not playing with a full deck…’ Someone that lacks intelligence.
Oh God. I just turned up the heat in the hell I’m currently in.
8
CASTELLO
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but think of my brother. It was kind of impossible not to since it was his damn face staring back at me. I couldn’t stop wondering what his motive was for dating Tatum and not telling me about it—not telling anyone for that matter. Was she just a fuck twice a week, someone to entertain between his sheets? Or did he actually have feelings for her?
Christ. If he had feelings for her, what the hell would he have said and done if he found out what I was doing to her, what kind of plans I had in store for her and her family?
“I’m sorry, brother,” I whispered as I hung my head, my hands gripping the sides of the bathroom sink.
There was a knock on the door, and I turned my head toward it. “Yeah?”
“I’m all set up, C
astello.”
“I’ll be right there.”
I gave my reflection one final glance before straightening up and squaring my shoulders. I was doing what needed to be done, whether Carlo would have approved or not. Whether he loved her or not, her family killed him, and it was my duty to avenge his death.
Grabbing a towel on my way out of the bathroom, I tossed it around the back of my neck. When I walked into my bedroom, Joey was standing next to the table where he had all his magical art supplies, as he called it, stacked out.
Joey was a local New Yorker, but the best at what he did. With piercings all over his face, tattoos covering almost every inch of his body, Joey showed an extreme commitment to his art.
He eyed me carefully. “You sure you wanna do this? I mean, don’t get me wrong, as it is now, it’s probably my best work yet. But are you sure you want to, you know…add to it?”
I pulled the chair closer, turned it around before taking a backward seat on it. With my back toward him I answered, “Just do it.”
“You sure? It’s kinda permanent, ya know?”
I gave him a sideway glance over my shoulder. “Would you just shut up and do it?”
“Motherfucker,” he muttered behind me before I heard him shuffling around with the tools he had on the table.
I made up my mind about this the day they lowered my brother and father into the ground. This was something I wanted to do for months, and no one would be able to persuade me otherwise.
Joey settled behind me. “There’s no going back when it’s done, my man. Once it’s on there, it’s on there…like forever.”
My silence gave him his reply, and then the buzzing sound filled the room. With the first touch of the needle against my skin, I flinched, but after that…nothing. I was numb to pain, never allowing myself to acknowledge it. In fact, I embraced it, letting my body seep up every last bite, soaking in the tiniest sting on my flesh.