Christine Feehan

by Deadly Game

  “You are a test subject for the laboratory and you follow orders.”

  “Is that what I am?” She moved away from the window, sensing Sean closing in on her. “What are you, Sean? Are you a test subject too?”

  “You don’t exist outside this facility, Mari,” Whitney said. “Get onto the table or I will have you punished.”

  “Are you going to send Brett in? Drug me? Beat me? What will happen to your precious baby if you do that, Doc? Brain damage? Maybe I’ll miscarry. That could happen too, couldn’t it? I’ve never been afraid of your punishments.”

  Sean was close. Too close. He was very skilled, and unlike the other guards, he’d actually trained with her and knew her weaknesses. She changed her body position just slightly, enough to be able to move fast and block whatever he might throw at her.

  “We don’t have to do this, Mari. You can’t win. Even if by some miracle you managed to put me down, ten other guards would be up here helping me out. What’s the point?”

  “I put you down once already. I’ll take my chances.”

  “I let you. I had it coming and we both know it.”

  “How are you going to get me down, Sean? Slug me in the stomach? Knock me out with the syringe you always carry?” She beckoned him with her finger. “Come on.”

  “Wait!” Whitney snapped. “Mari, don’t be ridiculous. No one is going to touch you.” He spoke into his radio and sent her his half smile, the one she detested. “Of course we aren’t going to force you. We want your full cooperation.”

  For a brief moment she was elated. She’d been right. Whitney didn’t want to take a chance on possibly harming an unborn child of one of the Norton twins. She studied his face as he waved Sean off. Her heart jumped. He was up to something.

  “Mari,” Sean hissed her name, just above a whisper. “Get on the table.”

  She shook her head, but her defiance was already ebbing away. Whitney was the only person who terrified her. The more he smiled or looked amiable, the more frightening he became.

  She backed away from Sean. If she could just have a few days, maybe the marks Ken had left behind would fade, and they wouldn’t be photographed and recorded and put in a file for Whitney to show whomever he reported to. It was too intimate, too much as if he had witnessed the insanity of their passion together.

  “Mari, he’s bringing down one of the other women.”

  Mari closed her eyes against the sudden burning. “Are you certain?”

  But she didn’t have to ask. Cami appeared, her dark hair tumbling down her back, her one concession to being a woman. She was a fighter all the way, and Whitney detested her almost as much as he detested Mari. Cami walked with her shoulders and back straight—a soldier who had been taken prisoner and refused to yield.

  “Mari, you made it back,” she said in greeting. “We were worried about you. The word was, you were shot.”

  “My leg. Zenith fixed me right up and then nearly killed me. Apparently when it’s in our systems too long the cells begin to deteriorate and we bleed to death.” Mari smiled at Whitney. “Just one more piece of information that was overlooked when we were being briefed.”

  “So why am I here?” Cami asked Whitney.

  “I’ll let Mari explain it to you,” Whitney said.

  Cami turned her vivid blue eyes on Mari. “It’s all right, Mari.” Her voice was gentle, calm. “Whatever he’s making you do, he can go to hell.”

  “I would expect that from you, Camellia.” Whitney continued to smile at them in his usual cold way, his dead eyes regarding them with interest.

  “It isn’t worth it, Mari,” Sean repeated. “In the end …”

  “He always gets his way,” Mari finished. “He’s right, Cami. He’ll torture you, I’ll give in, and my little rebellion will be for nothing.”

  Cami glanced at her sharply. “It isn’t for nothing, Mari. We’re a team and we provide for one another. It’s what we were taught and how we work.”

  Mari turned away to hide her sudden desire to smile. Cami was good, feeding Whitney’s ego. Of course he’d love to hear how the training he’d given them all was working. They were a team, and as a team, they looked out for one another. He would feel elated by that, as if he had brainwashed them into such loyalty they would endure anything for one another. He was so vain, had such a huge ego, it was the one weapon they could use against him. They were all careful to use it sparingly, but they pulled it out when they wanted to defuse a situation.

  Whitney always used their deep affection for one another against them. He tried to point out that it was a weakness, that they should be a unit without the emotional attachment to one another. He told them that they would be stronger, and he was probably right in some ways. If they had adhered to his philosophy, he wouldn’t be able to use them against each other.

  “Cami is ready to take your punishment, Mari,” Whitney said. There was no inflection in his voice, but when he looked at her, his eyes shone with a fanatical glee. He enjoyed these moments—the decisions they had to make. It was all very interesting to him to see how far they would go for one another.

  Mari’s stomach rolled. She would have to find a way to endure the humiliation. It was all part of the dehumanizing process. Treat them like lab specimens, and not only the doctors and guards, but the women, would begin to view themselves as objects.

  She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She could face hand-to-hand combat, being shot, could run for miles, and be dropped in the middle of enemy territory, and not flinch—but this, this was her own personal hell. She backed up until her legs hit the table.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Sean said softly as he caught her arm and drew it over to the strap. “You know I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

  She didn’t look at him. “How many times have you been stripped naked and examined in front of the world, Sean?” she asked.

  “I know you two are whispering,” Whitney reprimanded. “That’s not permitted.”

  “He was calling me an idiot,” Mari said. She laid back, trying not to look as hopeless as she felt. Where are you? Do you even care? And that’s what was so utterly stupid. He probably didn’t care. They’d had sex. Great sex, but still sex. It wasn’t love. He didn’t know her enough to love her. She didn’t even know what love was. Maybe there wasn’t such a thing. He was probably hundreds of miles away. She reached out anyway, because she had to find a way to get through this.

  Of course you don’t care. Why would you? It isn’t like we’re the kind of people in the movies. It was sex. Only sex and nothing else. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed as they locked the leather straps over her wrists and ankles. Sean pulled off the gown and left her exposed to the bright lights, Prauder’s leer, and Whitney’s dead eyes.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mari would not cry. She would never give Peter Whitney the satisfaction. She heard Sean’s swift intake of breath and knew he was looking at the marks on the insides of her thighs and breasts, virtually all over her body. Could it be any more humiliating? Cami was still in the room. They were all staring at her. She could hear the whir of the camera and the distinct click as the doctor took photographic evidence. It was like a vile pornographic film with her as the star.

  “Are those teeth marks?” Sean burst out. “The bastard attacked her.”

  “Sean, if you cannot simply observe in silence, call in another guard,” Whitney snapped. “Men display sexual passion in all sorts of ways. This is an interesting puzzle. Now stay quiet so I can process.”

  Cami touched Mari’s hand in an effort to comfort her. A fresh flood of tears burned behind Mari’s eyelids, and she struggled to hold back, to keep her face composed when she needed to go to pieces.

  “I think we can dispense with Camellia’s presence. Take her back to her room.” There was an edge to Whitney’s voice, as if his patience had worn thin.

  The doctor began talking into his recorder, a slow and thorough description of every in
ch of her body. It was a dispassionate, clinical narrative that only served to make the situation seem worse.

  She felt breath along her neck, a whisper of a touch against her throat. Screw them, Mari. Think about me. Think about us. I can take you far away from that room and those dirty old men. It’s probably the only way they can get off, having a woman tied down and exposed to them that way. You’re so beautiful they’re too afraid to touch you, which is a damn good thing right now. I’d have to kill them and that means blowing the big plan. Now, if I tied you down, I wouldn’t be sounding like a dead reptile, I’d be so fucking hot I’d probably disgrace myself. And I probably shouldn’t have used the word blow. Hell, woman, I can’t even think about you without getting the hard-on from hell.

  Ken’s voice slid into her mind, a teasing whisper that made her want to laugh.

  She struggled to keep the energy only on one single path, away from all the others, but even if they detected it, they would suspect she was communicating with the other women. Can you really take me away from this room while they’re doing this?

  Ken rested his head on his arm. What could he give her to hang on to while Whitney and his pathetic doctor tortured her? There would be a reckoning, but it wasn’t going to be today. Their team had to be in place. Now that they’d uncovered the devil’s lair, they had to come up with a plan to get the women out alive. Whitney wouldn’t hesitate to kill them and destroy all evidence of his research. Ken had no doubt that the entire compound was wired to blow should they be discovered.

  Ken? Her voice was unsteady. His anger was beating at her, pounding in her head the way it was pounding in his.

  Sorry, baby, I just focused a little too much on your situation.

  They couldn’t just go in there with guns blazing—but Peter Whitney, in spite of everything that Lily had said, needed to die. He couldn’t be allowed to continue with his vile experiments. He could only imagine how Mari felt. This place had been her home, that man her only steady guide, and yet she was treated the way Ekabela had treated him. Stripping him naked, dehumanizing him, stripping him of pride and decency and reducing him to less than an animal.

  Mari smelled the jungle, felt heat and humidity, raindrops on her skin. The sensation was vivid, so much so that she heard the cry of a monkey and the persistent call of birds. She kept her eyes closed, knowing she was seeing a memory of Ken’s inadvertently triggered by what she was feeling. The smell of blood assailed her nostrils and she tasted the coppery flavor in her mouth. A face was there, a man with the same dead eyes as Peter Whitney, and the knife in his hand was covered with blood. Ken was stretched out, tied so tightly the thin wires cut into his skin.

  Mari hadn’t noticed if he had scars on his wrists and ankles, but with this small glimpse into his past, she was certain he had them. Why hadn’t she noticed something that important?

  Baby. He whispered the endearment like a physical caress. You couldn’t notice with all the other scars. I’m sorry I took you there. It was an accident.

  I know that. I wish I could touch you—comfort you. Because beside the things he’d endured, Peter Whitney’s humiliating punishments were child’s play. And this was a form of punishment even more than a collecting of documentation for Whitney. She had left the compound without permission, and this was the one thing he knew she hated. But he wasn’t crouching in front of her, dispassionately slicing a razor-sharp blade through her skin while others gathered around laughing and urging him on.

  Woman, I’m supposed to be comforting you, not sharing memories.

  The memory steadied me. I can get through this. I hated the idea of him seeing the marks you made on my body and knowing how you put them there. I thought it would turn something special to me into something altogether different, but I’m proud of the marks you put there. Screw Whitney. He isn’t going to take you away from me.

  Again she felt the brush of his fingers along her neck, as if he stroked her like a kitten. Good for you. That man can’t take away anything we did or have together. He’s nothing, Mari, nothing at all. I’m with you. Right here. He can’t separate us now, no matter how much he wants to. I took you to the jungle, and I can take you somewhere much better. But, sweetheart, I’ve got to be able to picture you with clothes on. You’re killing me here.

  Again she wanted to laugh and had to keep her expression exactly the same. It took discipline, but she managed. She couldn’t believe that he would make her want to smile when she was exposed and vulnerable and Whitney and his doctor were dissecting her like a bug—well, maybe not dissecting her. Ken had been dissected, cut into little pieces, stripped of his dignity and then the skin on his back. She couldn’t imagine the pain or the rage or the utter hopelessness. That was the worst to her—the despair one felt when totally helpless.

  Whitney was a madman. It had taken her years to admit it fully—for all of them to admit it—because they were totally dependent on him for everything. They had no real contact with the outside world and nowhere to go to escape the endless demands and experiments. With the glimpse into Ken’s past, she felt more connected to him, and the connection felt intimate. She clung to his mind, wanting him to keep her centered.

  Sex is a big thing to you. She was glad it was—after all, they’d had great sex and she hoped to have even more—but on the other hand, she wanted to matter to him on more than that level.

  Yeah, sex is a big deal as long as you’re my partner. I haven’t exactly had a lot of any other lately. I didn’t think I could.

  There was such raw honesty in his voice, she felt tears burning again and had to struggle not to betray herself. He didn’t have to tell her that, but she could understand. He’d been so damaged, the slices everywhere, and when he was fully erect, it had to hurt. Is it painful?

  There was a small silence and she found herself holding her breath. She knew he didn’t want to answer, that he was weighing his words.

  Ken sighed and stared up at the sky. He had known there would come a time he would have to explain it all to her—admit that it wasn’t just his face revealing the monster, that Ekabela had brought that monster into every aspect of his life. He damn well wasn’t going to lie to her—not with her stretched out on a table and some son of a bitch photographing the strawberries he’d put on her inner thighs.

  You don’t have to tell me.

  It isn’t that. I don’t want you running away from me.

  There was the impression of laughter. I’m tied up at the moment.

  He sent her the impression of a groan. Don’t say tied up. You know what happens to me the minute you say that. The things I could do to you—the way I could make you feel.

  The laughter in his mind was like a caress, stroking through his body until he felt it everywhere—until he felt it in his soul. Nothing—no one—ever choked him up, but he found himself doing just that. Yes, there’s pain, but in a good way. There isn’t a lot of sensation as a rule, and when I’m full and ready, the skin stretches so tight pulling that it takes a lot to stimulate me. I’m rough and I have to be. The thing is, Mari … He felt like a sick pervert. The last person she needed around her was him.

  Just tell me. I’m not exactly a virgin here, Ken.

  His hand knotted into a hard fist and he thumped the ground beside him. Yes, you are. You don’t know the first thing about making love. Someone should be making love to you. Gentle, tender, slow, and easy. A man should treasure every moment with you, savor it and make certain you’re screaming with pleasure. He wanted those things for her, desperately wanted them for her, and yet he would never be that man.

  The impression of laughter came again. Like you did.

  Ken frowned. She wasn’t getting it. Not exactly like I did. I was too rough, Mari. If you’re with me, I would always be rough. I’d want things from you; I’d want you to learn to have the kind of sex I need, and that’s not the best thing for you.

  He felt like an idiot trying out each word in his mind before he sent it to her. What the hell cou
ld he say? He wanted to make her his sex slave? He did. Ever since he’d touched her skin, he’d wanted to do everything there was to her, bind her to him so no one else would ever do for her. He wouldn’t mind tying her down and having her at his mercy. He could love her for hours.

  He shoved his head into the palm of his hand. She was tied to a table, and he was thinking of how he could bring her such pleasure she’d drown in it. Maybe he was as sick as Whitney—or Ekabela.

  Don’t be ridiculous. No one is as sick as either of them. And I’d fantasize about what you’d do to me if you had me tied down—or better yet let you tell me yourself—but I’d get all hot and Whitney would know you’re here with me. So no sex on the table and no thinking about tying me up. You can do that another time.

  Again her soft laughter swept through him. Tears burned in his eyes and in the back of his throat. Damn her. She was killing him with her acceptance of him. He couldn’t accept himself—how could she? He was going to fall in love with her. It was a long, hard fall and scary as hell. It didn’t make sense and he didn’t want it to happen. What the hell was she going to be getting out of the bargain?

  Mari? It wasn’t just sex.

  Her heart accelerated. She knew Whitney would be puzzled over that spike, but Ken made her feel alive again in a way she hadn’t in a long time. He gave her hope—and she needed hope right then.

  If it wasn’t just sex, what was it? Because I don’t know what to think. None of the men paired with any of the women appear to feel emotional about them, other than possessive. They could care less whether or not we derive any pleasure from them touching us. What happened between us seemed more than something Whitney did, or was I reading more into it than there was?

  She waited for his answer, her mouth suddenly dry. She barely felt the doctor’s probing fingers as he poked at her. It seemed he spent more time examining the bruises and red marks on her skin than the gun wound or wrist break, but Ken’s answer was more important than her modesty. She held her breath—waiting.