by R. J. Lewis
I shouldn’t have, but I looked at his hands as he cleaned me, and they were large and strong. My gaze crawled up his thick arms still corded in veins and to his face. His blood-red lips were wet, his face angled to me, showing me how nice and cut his profile was. I felt the strangest tug between my legs just then, followed by a shiver that gave me goose bumps.
He paused, as if aware. His thumb trailed the bumps along my thigh. He glanced up at me, those lit eyes narrowing curiously as he worked my other inner thigh, never going near enough to where I felt the tug, and the scary part was…I wanted him to. What the fuck? I was insane and embarrassed, especially at the way my blinks slowed without my intention.
I reluctantly roused myself out of the strange feeling, trying to push it back. Shame and anger burned my stomach. I loathed myself for feeling like this. For being so…human and fucked up. From the way his face gentled, I thought he did too.
I narrowed my eyes at him. “No more,” I whispered to him slowly, my voice hard as a rock.
It was quiet enough his lapdog couldn’t hear, and while he may not have understood my words, my expression was enough for him to catch the hint.
Suddenly, looking equally angry, he whipped the shirt in my face. I angrily grabbed it and threw it over his shoulder. His hold on my thigh tightened, and he leaned in, staring at me so intently, forcing me to look back with equal animosity…and something else.
He was so close to me, Jesus Christ. I could feel his breaths, and mine too; they combined and were shared, a small detail that wasn’t lost on me. My chest constricted. That tug was felt again, and I swear to god he knew. His hand tightened even more, bordering on pain, but it wasn’t a bad sort of pain, it was a satisfying sort of one. I didn’t let him know what I was feeling. I did all I could to mask my face, but I didn’t know how well I was doing.
He slowly spoke, loud and clear, the words piercing me like tiny little knives. I didn’t need blondie to translate. I caught the gist through the way his eyes looked down at my bodice and thighs spread apart. Her voice rang out anyway, his words made crystal clear.
“I take what’s mine, and you’re in the contract.” When she finished, he let go of me and stood up. I looked up, swallowing hard as I took in the width of his shoulders, the veins in his neck, and the burn in his powerful gaze. He might as well have been the sun burning me the way my body heated, roasting beneath his penetrative glare.
“You’ll break,” he continued through her, his voice wistful and deep. “You might as well just give in.”
I clenched my teeth, refusing to respond. He would retaliate because he couldn’t not, and I’d have kept the cycle going. We were winding each other up for the sake of it. A constant push and pull that resulted in nothing more than two stubborn heads seeking to resist.
I watched him leave the room. I was all kinds of fucked up. I felt touched all over. Violated. I stared down at my legs, red from his rough cleaning job. That tug between my legs hadn’t yet dulled, and now I was equally confused as I was all kinds of fucked up.
“What are you doing, trying to rile him up like this?” Christy said, frowning at me. “It’s not going to change anything.”
Truthfully, I didn’t know. I supposed a part of me enjoyed the rebellion, especially when I saw the way his eyes lit up every time, like he didn’t mind it either.
I looked at her. “Why are you so interested?”
She looked insulted. “I translate for him, if you haven’t noticed, and all you’re doing is running around in circles. It’s pretty annoying repeating the same shit.”
“You didn’t answer me,” I retorted, eyeing her curiously now. “Why are you so interested?”
“I don’t have to answer you.”
“Don’t be petty. You get to insert your bullshit opinion upon every exit, why can’t I ask a question?”
“I’m saying I don’t have to answer you.”
“I think Reaper’s little lapdog is jealous.”
“Jealous of what? Of you?”
“You say that like it’s impossible to be jealous of me.”
“It is. Look at me and then look at you.”
I raised a brow. “And what of it?”
“I’m the one coming and going, and you’re locked up in here because he doesn’t want to deal with you.”
Ouch. “So why does he keep coming back to me then?”
“He wants you to agree.”
“He doesn’t have to want me to agree, does he?”
This time she pursed her lips, holding back her anger. She began walking back, her shoulders tenser than they were moments ago. “All I’m saying is, you can’t keep this up long,” she warned, her back to me now as she opened the door and took a step out. “Reaper always gets his way.”
I was sure he was that kind of man, but it wasn’t about that. It was about fighting back. My spirit was lit up, and it needed the fight like my next breath.
I pretended not to care about what she said, though my heart was thumping harder as I relived his touch. I looked down at my acrylic nails, all busted up, trying not to swallow or show emotion. With a defeated sigh, she slammed the door shut, and I finally let out that trembling breath I’d been holding.
Thirteen
Liv
I demolished my food and stalked Reaper again. I kept busy watching everyone move, hoping he would come into view. It was addictive watching this massive man strut around – a man my father had deemed to be my new husband. There was something about his movements I couldn’t look away from. He was always alert, his eyes scanning the jungle around us, but his body was relaxed too, like he wasn’t afraid of what might come out of it.
Twice he turned his body in the direction of my room, and twice he caught me staring at him. Twice I leapt back, feeling my skin flush red-hot with embarrassment. Then twice more I built the courage and returned to the barred window, seeking his mammoth frame.
Christy came in and out of view too, always maintaining her distance from him, yet watching him like a hawk when he had his back to her. They communicated a lot, and if they got close, it was only because he’d either motioned her to him or he had gone to her. I found their dynamic strange. There was tension there I couldn’t decipher, and part of me wondered if maybe there was history, but…he never glanced once at her unless he had to. He treated her like he did everyone else. He disappeared from my sight in the afternoon. He must not have been near because I didn’t hear his voice at all.
It had gotten dark when dinner was finally delivered. I was sitting on the ground with my back against the bed, stretching my legs out when the door opened. Christy appeared, holding a tray. She was late. Everyone had already eaten. She put the tray down on the ground beside the door and grabbed the other tray I kept there for her. Then she closed it straight away, like she didn’t want a thing to do with me. I didn’t care. I wanted nothing to do with her. It kind of annoyed me she understood Reaper when I didn’t. It annoyed me more when she smirked at his words and looked cocky translating them. Maybe she was rubbing in that she could communicate with him and I couldn’t, or maybe I was just angry we couldn’t have a goddamn exchange of words without her being there.
I crawled to the tray and grabbed it. Then I crawled backwards to the same spot and dejectedly sat there for a few moments, stirring the food around. It was so quiet, with soft rain pattering the roof. For a while there I absorbed the sounds, staring off into nothing.
I felt so alone.
“Mom, want to play Operation with me? Please?” I whispered aloud, my voice barely audible to my ears. I looked up, trying to envision her before me, and I kind of did, but her face was all blurry.
“I will, baby,” she answered, in the voice I was pretty sure was hers. “I promise.”
I barely smiled, remembering the feeling of hope every time she promised that. Then I looked back down at my food, and watched a tear fall into my rice. This was what isolation was doing to me. Turning me into a headcase.
F
ather caught me talking out loud shortly after he found me. He appeared genuinely disturbed. I felt a little bad for him. He didn’t anticipate his daughter would end up traumatized and fucking weird. I learned to stop doing it because he would get angry every time and order me to stop. Years of therapy and I was still imagining her talking to me. Money couldn’t buy everything. Except maybe a better daughter. If he’d been wise, he would have just adopted and neither of us would be here in this fucking mess. His perfect daughter would have already obliged to Mr Jungle Man’s sad excuse of a proposal, and off she’d be, whisked away to the nearest closet to get locked up in.
Speaking of Jungle Man…
I heard Reaper coming. His steps were heavy and loud, nothing like Christy’s mousy, quick footsteps. The door opened quietly. My eyes slowly climbed the body of the large figure that stood there in the doorway, gaping at me for a couple beats. I felt tense straight away, still adjusting to his presence and never seeming to manage it. He stepped in and shut the door. Then he turned back around to face me. His hair was wet and loose around his shoulders. His black tank was soaked too, like he’d been standing in the rain for some time. I could hear the drops of water fall to the ground around him, and I could see his wet face looking at me as the moonlight flooded in.
I expected him maybe to storm at me. This morning was still fresh as ever, and I didn’t know if this was going to be another round of forcing me into submission. To be honest, I didn’t care. He couldn’t have come at a better time. I sucked in a breath, rattled by his abrupt visit, but also happy because I didn’t want to be alone.
His eyes trailed over me as he moved, sliding down the wall so he was directly facing me. He got into a comfortable position, crossing his arms, his long legs out and crossed at the feet. I could smell him from here. Rain and musk wafting to me, a strangely nice combination.
Why was he here?
He glanced at the bucket beside my bed and then he looked me over. I felt a flash of annoyance.
“No, I didn’t clean myself,” I told him, lifting my chin. “I’ll be smelling hell of a lot worse.”
It was secretly eating me up inside, feeling this disgusting. But I wasn’t about to smell decent for him, not with how close he was tending to get to me. The man obliterated my personal bubble like it didn’t even exist, and I wasn’t about to smell like roses for him the next time he did it.
His lips rose into a ghost of a smile. He looked me over, taking his time, his eyes growing a little heated before he met my gaze. That cocky, self-assured stare said a million words to me. It said he didn’t give a fuck how filthy I was. I could be defiant all I want, it wasn’t going to change anything. Not the impending marriage, not the way he looked at me lustfully, not a damn thing.
Or maybe I was reading too much into it.
We really needed to learn to communicate.
“Are you here because of your little victory earlier?” I wondered, scoffing. “There’s a common saying you probably know. Something like you’ve won the battle but not the war. Well, that’s what it is right now. You can have your small battles, but I’m winning the war.”
His expression was blank – so painfully blank – and I was so glad he couldn’t understand me. When you sounded like a petulant four-year-old, the last thing you wanted was an audience. The cringe was so strong.
As I looked him over, it was then I noticed he had something in his hand. I looked at it for a few moments, prompting his attention. He held it up to me, and I squinted to make it out. A can of soda. He tilted his head to the side, questioning me. My throat instantly felt dry. I glanced at the drink and nodded. He set it on the floor and motioned me over. I hesitated, half-tempted, half-resisting. I didn’t want to be near him.
We stared at each other for some time. I wondered if he was challenging me. My bones felt less tired. I sat up straighter, enjoying the opportunity of another push and pull session that ended with both of us losing. He wasn’t going to win. I wouldn’t let him.
When I looked down at the drink, he raised his brows, questioning me again. I smirked darkly at him and shook my head once. A flat-out no. Now he was amused. He opened the drink and took a big gulp. I went tense, hypnotized for a moment at the gulp his throat made, at the strong jawline he had when he’d tilted his head up for it. He set the drink down, so I could see it, and looked back at me. It was a can of Sprite.
Sprite was my favourite.
This was definitely a challenge.
I smirked darkly. “I’m not going to have it. You can’t make me say I do with a can of Sprite, but you’re on a good start.”
His eyes narrowed curiously at me, and then he responded in his own tongue, a smirk of his own planted on his lips. I resisted laughing. What was he trying to do? Make me just as curious of what he said?
Because it was working.
My eyes narrowed equally in return. “I don’t care for what you have to say,” I lied, shrugging. “I really don’t.”
He responded with something else and shrugged like I did. He’d copied me, and he had looked hilarious doing it. This time, my laugh erupted out of me, foreign to my ears. His face softened in return, appearing thoughtful now.
What are you thinking? I wanted to ask. He said so much and yet so little with his different looks. I needed to learn Spanish.
Life began to stir again outside. Movement and voices. Music went on. Spanish songs played, the kind you danced to in a club, not understanding a word, but enjoying the infectious beat all the same. For some reason, it added to the mood in the room. It made me feel a little high, or maybe it was really the way he was staring at me, his sole focus drawn to my face, to my eyes, to my mouth.
When he lifted the drink back to his lips, my throat went dry. I was thirsty, but also deeply affected by how he looked when he took a swig of it. Then he said something. I tilted my head like he had in question. He raised the can and gestured me to him.
I could lie and say I didn’t want it, but I really did fucking want it. I extended my hand out to him, nodding slightly. He ignored my hand and continued to gesture me over to him.
I didn’t want to be near him. He’d invade my personal bubble I was so desperately trying to keep. He could fuck with my senses again. Make me tingly in that one special area.
He seemed amused of my inner conflict. My hesitation was obvious. I felt another bolt of irritation at that cocky glint in his eye. He thought I was too chickenshit, didn’t he?
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I whispered to him.
It wouldn’t bother me to get up to get his stupid soda. I wasn’t afraid to be near him.
I wondered how I would win this little round between us. How could I surprise him? Staring into his eyes, at the way he looked me over, I knew how to make him react.
I crawled to him.
He didn’t expect it. His jaw clenched. His eyes dragged along my body as I went, slowly, aware of how shaky I was getting the closer I got to him. I tried to be sensual. I tried to move my hips. Honestly, I didn’t know what I was doing, but it was working, because his face had darkened. He looked at me, reading the victory in my eyes. I stopped in front of him and gestured to the drink.
He set the drink down in front of me, watching me carefully. Smirking, I went to grab it when his hand suddenly shot up. He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me into him. I gasped, shocked at the abrupt move. He was so close, I could feel his breath.
His eyes roamed my face, his mouth edged closer. I could practically feel his lips brushing mine, but he wasn’t going the whole way. He waited, wondering if I was tempted.
My blood rushed through my body, heating every inch of me. Of course I was tempted.
For a moment, I lingered. He moved in a bit too. And just as he began to, I roused out of my urges and backed away, rejecting him stone cold.
The look of surprise was there, but also a look of…foolishness. His jaw clenched, his nose flared. He nodded once at me, with this resolute look on his face.
In other words, he was pissed.
I quickly grabbed my soda before he changed his mind and backed away, smirking at him as I went, delighting in the way his eyes stayed on my ass. I got to the bed and was about to take a sip of my drink. Turning around, I was ready to shoot him a cocky smile while I did it when I was shoved back into the bed by his body, the drink knocked from my hand.
His chest was pressed against my chest. He breathed rapidly, looking down at me. My heart beat hard in my chest. I was shocked. This was not expected. He gripped my hair and kissed me once. A hard kiss. He forced his tongue into my mouth, pressing it against my own. I gasped at the feeling, moaning, feeling that kiss all the way to my core. He backed away abruptly, leaving me panting and…aroused.
He got up and coolly walked out of the room without a single glance backwards. My can was on the side, empty. Then I tasted the soda on my tongue, and my fists clenched.
He won that round.
Fourteen
Liv
They didn’t get me breakfast. The tray from last night was still there, collecting flies. I didn’t ask for food, not even as lunch came and went. I got the gist of what was happening. He was strutting his power again, torturing me with hunger.
“Hunger’s an old friend,” I whispered to myself.
I crept to the window every so often, but there was no one around either. I could hear them talking from a distance. More music blared, the same ladies from before howled louder the drunker they got. But I couldn’t see a damn thing. It was like Reaper had known they were my secret entertainment and moved them somewhere else. Even the firepit lay abandoned, unused. I didn’t see Reaper one bit, and I HATED that. On top of that, I HATED that I HATED that. I was raging inside, completely unused to the emptiness inside me. It was a twisted sort of one; not the usual kind. At least growing up I could find ways to distract myself. Here, I was confronted with my thoughts. There was nothing to distract myself with. No people to watch. No powerful man to intrigue me. The hours felt like days. Every second was felt, and it was m-i-s-e-r-y.