To pass the time, I think of Garrett. I wish I could say I miss him, but this whole situation has put certain things into perspective. It only took getting kidnapped and almost murdered to realize that I deserve better. But, I do miss the feel of him against my skin. He was an amazing lover, and though I’ve had years of experience, he’s by far one of the best I’ve had. He was born in San Juan, and he definitely has that Latin lover thing going for him. The man can dance like Enrique Iglesias and make love like Antonio Banderas.
I pee again a couple of hours later. This is getting ridiculous. Where is Ben? My stomach churns with hunger. The sun begins to set. I try to keep the panic at bay, but it’s not working anymore. I hate—no, loathe—not knowing when he’ll be back. It eats at me, one isolated second at a time. Tick, tick, tick. I didn’t even realize there was a clock in here. I have no idea where it is, but the ticking is driving me crazy.
Once the darkness permeates the room, I begin to rock back and forth, whimpering in the dark. A storm begins, and the rain pelts down and chills the room.
Tick, tick, tick.
“Beeeh,” I cry out, my voice muffled by the bandana. My heart begins to race, my hands get clammy, and though I’ve never had one, I know I’m in the middle of a panic attack. “Beeeh!” I shriek. I don’t care if the Coast Guard hears me. I want out. I just want fucking out. Long, torturous waves of panic seize me, and I begin to sob, feeling crazed. “Beeeh!!”
Nothing.
It’s the nothingness that terrifies me. Ben wouldn’t leave me. He wouldn’t leave the island knowing I was chained up. Or… would he? If he couldn’t trust me, if he couldn’t leave me unbound and free to hide as I pleased, why should I trust him? Am I that naive, to think we trusted each other? He’s right. Seventeen years is a hell of a long time. You can turn into a different person in weeks. I have no idea what kind of man he really is. After all, the guy tried to choke me knowing who I was. Did he leave me here on purpose? Was this his way of getting off easy so he wouldn’t have to kill me himself?
Chills prickle on my spine.
A monster. That’s what he was.
He’d known. He’d known it was me that night. What sort of person can do that? What sort of person can turn off their empathy like that and kill in cold blood?
He murdered someone.
He murdered someone, and dumped the body. Then, he kidnapped me. Why am I calling out for him? He is not my savior. He is my downfall.
My mind is flooded with questions as the panic abates and flows, back and forth, like the tide of the ocean outside. I piss myself again. My mouth is like sandpaper. I pass the time by counting to one hundred, out loud, to the tempo of the clock. The sound of my muffled voice distracts me enough to ease the panic.
The island is deserted. If by chance a boat of tourists comes, which Ben says happens from time to time to see the lighthouse, only then can I dream of being freed. When the light begins to peak in through the window, I feel sick from panic—utterly, frighteningly ill. I vow never to visit another zoo in my lifetime. If I can feel this much dread at being locked up, imagine how animals must feel day in and day out?
Thirsty and hungry, I lie down inches from my urine. Crying softly, I try to sleep but the adrenaline coursing through my body is too much for slumber. The rain has slowed, and I hope wherever Ben is, that he’s in a lot of fucking pain. And if he ever releases me, there won’t be enough punches to hurl at him for putting me through this.
Suddenly, I hear another boat motor. I sit up, relief washing over me. Not two minutes later, it fades, leaving again.
“Elllloo,” I cry, sobbing. “Elp!” I begin to hyperventilate, which isn’t awesome with a bandana tied around my mouth. They left. I had a chance to be freed, and they left. I wonder what it will feel like to die? Will it be dehydration? Most likely. The thought causes fresh tears to spring from my eyes. My throat is raw from the lack of water, and I wonder if I’m starting to die. I feel weak.
In a flash, the door to the cellar flies open. I sit up quickly. I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and I know in an instant that it’s Ben. He rushes around to where I’m curled up around my knees.
“Nina,” he coos, his voice gentle and concerned. “Oh my God, Nina.”
I break down into a crying frenzy, hyperventilating. My face is soaked with tears. He unlocks my wrists, but they’re too stiff to move. He undoes the bandana, and he strokes my face gently with the pad of his right thumb, his turquoise eyes searching mine. I pull away from his touch instinctively.
“Where were y-y-you?” I ask, pulling away and trying to steady my breath. “I need to shower. I peed my pants four times,” I say between ragged breaths. It hurts to talk.
“Nina, I’m so, so sorry,” he says quietly, pulling me up and into him. He’s hugging me, clutching me tightly. I let him, mostly because I’m too weak to fight him off. Also, I’m fucking freezing and wet. His warmth is nice. However, I must reek of pee. “They noticed that I never filed an official permit after I built the cellar. I had to go into San Juan and file the paperwork. They offered to take me, and I couldn’t say no. It would’ve been too suspicious. I’m so sorry. It was killing me, knowing you were locked up here with nowhere to go. I got back as soon as I could, but the storm held me up for a few hours. I was going fucking crazy.” His breath is warm against my neck.
He was going fucking crazy?
He releases me and I pull away. I see him stand and he bends down to scoop me up, reaching under my legs and carrying me up the stairs. I feel anesthetized and weakened.
“I… I thought you left me.” My voice is hoarse from crying. Everything hurts. Ben carries me into the bedroom, careful not to bump my head or feet on the doorframe. Once in the bathroom, he sets me down on the edge of the bathtub and quickly begins to fill it up. I wrap my arms around my chest. I’m half relieved that he’s back, half embarrassed that he has to see me soaked with my own urine.
As the bath begins to fill, he drops down to his knees and my breath hitches in my throat. “I would never leave you,” he says quietly, tracing a hand up my right leg. I smack it away.
“Don’t touch me. I’m disgusting.” I wipe the residual tears off my face.
He shakes his head and places his hands on his thighs. “Even if you were covered in dog shit, I’d still think you were exquisite,” he assures, watching me raptly. His comment sinks into me. I’ve received plenty of comments from various men over the years, but him—him I believe, for whatever reason. He never commented on my appearance as a kid, but around the time of his faked death, I did catch him looking at me from my peripheral once or twice. Hearing him call me exquisite—a word reserved for rare and beautiful things—fulfills me in a way I’m not used to.
Blushing, I take in his appearance. His hair and beard look brighter, the tip of his nose red from running in the sun this past week. He should really wear sunscreen. Redheads burn quickly. His eyebrows are pulled together, and his forearms bear freckles and corded veins that I want to touch, to trace…
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Prince Harry?” I ask timidly, using the time it takes for him to answer to study him closer. He has a smattering of small, light freckles feathering his roman nose and, at twenty-nine, I can see the beginnings of grey beard hairs on the bottom portion of his chin.
He chuckles lightly. “All the time. I used to get stopped in Syria every day, and don’t even get me started on the time I went to Tokyo. Those Harajuku girls are obsessed with the royal family. I practically got mauled.”
“I don’t blame them,” I reply, my voice surprising me with its breathiness.
He seems to notice too, because without speaking, he reaches back over and places his hand on my thigh. I suck in a breath of air as he traces it up, over the boxers, to the waistband. With his other hand, he slowly grips the band and begins to pull my shorts down, one excruciating inch at a time. His eyes don’t leave mine for a second. When he pulls them past my knees, they fall
to the floor. Luckily, the shirt is large enough to keep me covered.
“Arms up,” he says, his voice husky.
I stare at him. “You’ll see me naked,” I declare.
He makes a minor movement with his head, as if saying duh. “I’m going to bathe you.”
My eyes go even wider. “Bathe me? What am I, a dog?”
He sighs. “Jesus, Nina. I’m just trying to make up for what I did to you. If it helps, I’ll turn around.”
I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I’m not a prude.” Without another word, I lift my arms up, waiting for him to pull my shirt—my shield—off.
He leans forward and pulls it off slowly, his fingers leaving a heated trace where they touch my skin. He throws the shirt off to the side. Ever the gentleman, his eyes don’t leave mine.
“In,” he commands, gesturing to the tub.
I climb over the railing and sit down in the blue water. Bubbles. I need bubbles, otherwise he’s going to see everything. My eyes flit to his, but he’s busy tossing the clothes into the hamper. I cover myself. He doesn’t seem to notice, and instead tugs his shirt off. Holy mother of God. The man has a body. Up close, it’s just as sculpted and tight as I saw from afar a few days ago. I’m curious about the trail of hair leading downwards. I have to wonder if the carpet matches the drapes…
“Are you coming in with me?” I squeak, bending forward. I’m ashamed that I don’t really mind—in fact, is it bad that I’m hoping he’ll get in with me?
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Nina. I’m keeping my shorts on.” He walks over to the faucet and turns the water off. I scoot forward and squeeze my arms together, trying to keep my nipples under wraps. I feel him get in behind me. This is weird. He’s acting like this is totally platonic, yet here I am, naked, in front of him… in the bathtub. I feel his hand reach over for the bar of soap. “Lean forward,” he rasps.
I lean even more forward. A warm hand begins to massage soap onto my shoulders. I pull my hair to the front, and he suds up my whole back. It feels extraordinary. His hand dives lower into the water to massage my lower back. I let out a moan. He keeps going, the pressure perfect as he moves up over my shoulders and down to the top of my chest.
I gasp. His breathing becomes louder as he massages the tops of my breasts. I let my arms fall to the side, engulfed with sudden need. He’s not actually touching my nipples yet, but—
“Ben…” I whisper urgently. It comes out strangled and panicked, but rooted deep inside of me is a raging fire ready to explode. I’m not sure if I say his name to stop, or to continue…
“Sorry,” he mumbles, pulling his hands away. “Shampoo?” he asks, clearing his throat.
I can’t answer. I’m on fire, and I decide that I need him to keep going. But, how? “Sure,” I manage to say.
He unscrews the lid to the shampoo. We’re running low. Half the time, I use the bar of soap just to save the shampoo. Months’ worth of soup, and we only have a tiny, travel-sized bottle of shampoo…
Men.
I can’t see him, but I can hear him rubbing his hands together. “Lean back,” he instructs. I do as I’m told, not even bothering to cover myself. He holds me up with his legs as he works the shampoo through my scalp. It feels amazing, and I wonder if he can see my breasts from where he’s sitting?
And… is it awful if I want him to?
I close my eyes, the water lapping on the tips of my nipples, and I let the feel of his large hands consume me. When he’s done, he takes the cup we keep for shampooing and sends the warm water down my scalp, shielding my eyes with his large hands. It feels so good.
Too good.
He runs the water through my hair four times, and after he sets the cup down, I close my eyes. His hands move my hair off to the side, and he begins to massage the fleshy area between my neck and shoulders. I don’t mean to make noises—sexual noises at that—but it feels so good to release the tension from the past twenty-four hours.
“Ben,” I murmur, as he kneads the worry out. “Harder.” I have to bite my lip at that. Harder? He may as well be pounding me over the desk in the bedroom.
“Be quiet,” he orders, even though I catch a tinge of amusement on the edge of his voice. “For the love of God, please stop making those noises.”
His declaration sends me reeling, and I have to bite my lip to keep quiet. I want him to hear me… I want to make him uncomfortable.
He massages harder. A few minutes, he drops his hands. I open my eyes and look at him over my shoulder. “Thank you. I feel a lot better.”
He gives me a weary smile, like something’s troubling him. “No problem. It’s the least I could do.” He looks uncomfortable.
“We should probably get out,” I say, smiling and showing him my wrinkled hands.
He closes his eyes and sighs. “Gonna need a minute.”
Realization dawns on me, and I try to hide the satisfied smile. “Pervert,” I mutter, standing quickly and stepping over the side of the tub. I don’t care if he sees me naked now. In fact, a small part of me wants him to. I reach over for the towel and turn around, catching Ben staring at my naked ass. His eyes quickly shoot up to mine. He gives me a guilty, lazy smile.
“What? You expected me to not look both times? I’m only human.”
I laugh. “I’ll be getting dressed,” I say, sauntering out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Sighing, I sit down on the bed and process what just happened. I am practically vibrating with need after that encounter. Why does crossing this boundary with Ben fill me with glee? Shouldn’t I be preventing these kinds of things, subduing my emotions, trying to figure out what the hell I’m still doing here? It’s obvious I’m affecting him the same way he’s affecting me, but how much longer can we stand the tension? How much longer until we break? Nine days ago, the concept of sleeping with my kidnapper, with Ben, would’ve been grossly out of the question. Just a few hours ago, I thought of him as a monster. He murdered someone. He took me. The feelings I had the day of my fever return.
Monster.
You’re both monsters.
Perhaps being around him has skewed my moral compass. Only a depraved woman would lust after her captor.
My captor. My Benny.
Of course, only a smart woman would take this opportunity—the opportunity that presented itself with two consenting adults—and really think about what she wants. All my adult life, I only ever wanted one thing.
Ben.
T W E N T Y - T W O
Nina—Present
Isla Culebrita, Puerto Rico
SINCE I GOT zero sleep last night, the second I get dressed, brush my teeth, and wash my face, I’m totally zonked. Even my hunger has subsided, but I do take a few sips from the water bottle on the bedside table. Ben can tell too, because when I come out of the bathroom after having freshened up, he’s sitting on the bed, waiting for me to crawl in. We don’t mention our moment from before.
“Why are you being so nice?” I mumble, as he pulls the comforter over me. Do you know that feeling when you’re so tired, and you feel so refreshed and clean, that the second you close your eyes, you’re out? Yeah, that totally happened to me.
The last thing I remember is him brushing my damp hair out of my face, and whispering in my ear. “I promise to make it up to you.”
I don’t even have time to think about what his statement means before I’m pulled under by slumber.
I awaken a few hours later, totally alone. Disoriented, I use the restroom and chug an entire fresh bottle of water, kindly left on the nightstand by Ben. I get up and stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. In the ten days that I’ve been here, my appearance has changed. I’ve lost a little bit of weight, thanks to the portioned meals and swimming most mornings. I feel stronger, and my skin is more golden from swimming in the nude, though I’m still pale by all accounts.
I’ve acquired more freckles. Speaking of skin, I’ve always had nice skin, but I’ve never been blemish-free. Now, my skin
is glowing, which is weird, considering all we eat is processed food. I think it has something to do with the salt water and the constant sun. My grey eyes are brighter somehow; more lively. And my hair… long and dark red, I usually wear it straightened and up in a ponytail. I’ve managed to leave it down and wavy, and I have to say, the loose curls flatter my oval face. Other than the too-big clothes, I feel really good.
I decide to make a few outfits for myself using a pair of beard-trimming scissors I found in the medicine cabinet. We’ve already had to do laundry once, using the small container of detergent and a bucket. Ben has gracefully donated half of his wardrobe to me. It’s about time I make these clothes cuter. Rolling the boxers up three times is sufficient, so I leave the shorts. On the shirts, I cut the collar off of a few of them, making them fall off the shoulder. I turn two into tank tops. I don’t know how long we’ll stay, but I want to be prepared with other wardrobe options. Eyeing the discarded fabric, I cut a few pieces into loops to use for hair ties, and the other sections I decide to use as washcloths in the bath. I comb my hair back using Ben’s comb, and it feels so luxurious throwing it up into a bun. I feel so much more like myself already.
When I’m finished, I head down to the cellar for some lunch. I can tell by the sun overheard that it’s the early afternoon. Ben is probably swimming or jogging, so I heat up a bowl for myself. It’s strange how accustomed I’ve become to this life in a little over a week. It feels completely natural to be doing this, like I have no other choice; almost like I’ve been living like this my whole life.
I’d consider living like this for my whole life, if my life could include Ben.
Shaking my head, I let go of that notion. It’s not realistic. Chances are, he’ll be in a lot of trouble once we decide to leave. Maybe even before we decide to leave, if they find us first. But what if they didn’t find us? What if we could go somewhere together, start a new life, like we always talked about as kids? It wasn’t meant to turn out like this. We were supposed to be happy. Maybe we should’ve been together all along. We were never supposed to spend seventeen years apart. We might’ve avoided all of this…
That Which Binds Us Page 14