Camille, Claimed (Blue-eyed Monsters Book 3)

by Ginger Talbot

Most people stammer and cringe when I’m angry, but Robert is made of the same stuff I am. His indifferent, cold blue gaze meets mine. “Our family doesn’t let in just anyone, nor do we trust just anyone,” he says. “I technically didn’t have the go-ahead to invite you here. It’s a bit of a fraught time for us.” A shadow crosses his face. “They wanted me to wait until after…well, never mind.”

  “Boo hoo. Would you like a handkerchief to wipe away your tears? I’m done with these games, Robert. Give me answers or stop calling me.”

  He arches his eyebrows, looking at me with cool appraisal. “I’m not going to give you everything just yet, but I can show you something. Do you trust me?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Smart man. I was going to offer you a ride, but you can follow me in your car if you prefer.” He flashes me a fierce grin. “I’m parked right behind you.”

  Reluctantly, I follow him to the edge of the park, then climb into my car. He’s in a little red Porsche, and he drives like a speed demon, repeatedly attempting to lose me. My respect for him diminishes considerably, and I’m disappointed we crawled out of the same gene pool. If he wanted to lose me, he should have picked a subtler car, but he loves showing off too much. Insecure, easily manipulated. I’m taking mental notes, filing the information away in case it’s useful at some point in the future.

  We drive for about an hour, the city giving way to suburbs and then long stretches of country roads, until we arrive at a faux antebellum-style McMansion with tall columns, a wraparound porch on the first and second floor, and a row of dormer windows peering out at us like hooded eyes.

  We park in the brick roundabout out front, and my earlier elation creeps in, slowly edging out my annoyance. I bested a man in combat earlier—and now I’m about to get a little closer to finding out the mystery of my life.

  Chapter Eight

  Bastien

  I barely spare a glance for the four men standing on the front porch with their arms crossed over their broad chests, guns dangling visibly from their belts, earpieces clipped to their ears.

  They puff up and bristle at me, rolling their shoulders, eyes narrowing. Too much flash, too cocky, just like their friend whose body I left cooling in the grass. Easy to manipulate, to bluff and feint. One of them moves his shoulder to deliberately bump into me, but he’s too slow—everybody’s too slow. I see it coming and swing my shoulder to meet his, hard.

  He bites back a curse and his hand shoots down to his holster. The other three men follow suit. I pause, bored.

  “Right here, right now? Fine with me.”

  “Some other time,” Robert says impatiently, and the guards slide back and make room for me, glowering at me and grunting under their breath, trying to reclaim their dominance.

  I follow Robert through the front door and into the bland confines of the house. Oil paintings of hunting scenes hang on the walls, and the floor is tiled with marble. He leads me through a few hallways, moving quickly, not glancing back. The furnishings are sparse and feel impersonal.

  We come to a doorway with a panel at eye-level, and he slaps his hand against it. It opens. We descend a staircase and repeat the process at another door.

  That’s where the fun begins. He repeats the process, pressing his hand against another panel, and the door silently opens, swinging inward.

  We walk into a well-lit basement. A slim, pretty brunette stands in the corner of the room, with her arms chained behind her. The chain trails down to the floor. She’s naked, and there are whip marks slashed across her round, perky tits and bruises splattered across her face. The smell of urine burns my nostrils. There’s a puddle of piss at her feet, and a wail of terror peels from her throat as we approach. Her face contorts in misery, and tears stream down her face as she flattens against the wall.

  And I’m instantly hard.

  This is the real thing. Real fear, real pain.

  Not the manufactured moans of the whores I pay. Sure, sometimes I hurt them until they cry, but they always know they can say their safe word at any time and walk out of the door.

  This woman will never see the sun again, I’m sure of it.

  There’s a sink with a long hose next to it, far enough away that she couldn’t reach it. I also see a tray full of implements. Pincers, knives, pliers, hammers, butt plugs, a row of dildoes, paddles. On the wall, there’s a rack of whips.

  In the middle of the room sit two leather chairs angled and pointed at a coffee table. There are also a few restraint stations, including a St. Andrew’s cross and a padded pommel horse with cuffs attached to it. At the other end of the room, there’s a big rectangular wooden box that looks like an oversized armoire, with a grate in the door.

  Robert walks over to the sink, grabs the hose, and turns the water on. He walks over to her and points the hose at her, blasting a stream of water at her crotch and legs, then at the puddle of piss on the floor, washing it down a drain. Apparently bodily fluids are spilled here in large volumes, and on a regular basis.

  “Dirty whore,” he says scornfully. Still in that soft, caressing Southern accent.

  “I’m sorry!” she wails. “I tried to hold it. I tried! I’m so sorry!”

  He grins at me. “I made her drink so much water she almost puked, then I told her that if she pissed before I got home, she’d be punished.”

  “Who is she?” I ask with mild interest. “Where did you get her from?”

  “She was a snotty little cock-teasing bitch who was working with a partner, rolling guys for their wallets, but they screwed up a few times and the guys choked to death on their own puke.” He walks over and grabs her whip-slashed breast and twists hard. “Did you screw, up, though? Or did you do it on purpose?”

  “It was an accident! I didn’t mean it!” she shrieks. “Please, please!” He lets go but slaps her breast, wrenching a shriek of anguish from her. His pants are tenting and he’s flushed and breathing fast. I can’t judge him; excitement burns through me as well.

  He reaches up and tangles his hand in her dark locks.

  “Once is an accident. Three times…that’s starting to feel like a deliberate choice.”

  He flicks a glance at me, a smirk twisting his face. “One of my cousins owns the nightclub where these bitches were working their magic, so I went there one night and flashed a lot of cash at the bar. Then I let this little whore climb all over me while her partner tried to slip a roofie in my drink. We were in a VIP room. My cousin and I subdued them and carried them out the back.”

  He jerks her head back. “You were a Sinner, weren’t you, Slutbucket?”

  A Sinner? Interesting. I haven’t seen any indication that Robert is religious, and if he is, he’s living out an entirely new interpretation of the Bible.

  “Yes, Sir,” she sobs. “I’ve repented, Sir, please!”

  He shakes his head, mocking her with his gentle, chastising voice. “I’m sure that’s an enormous comfort to the families of your victims.”

  Still holding her hair, he bends down and bites her nipple so hard that she howls in agony. She arches back, trying to get away from him, but his teeth stay clamped on her like a bear trap that’s snapped shut. When he lets go, there’s a perfect impression of his teeth in a circle around her tortured nipple.

  If ever I needed confirmation of my evil nature, this is it. Her pain and terror are an aphrodisiac. I search within myself to see if there’s a scrap of pity anywhere, but if so, I can’t find it. Just a vast icy wasteland, and a craving to see Robert hurt her some more.

  Then he releases her hair, grabs her by the arm and spins her around, and I see that her back is a mass of whip marks.

  “We have certain traditions in my family,” he says to me. “We don’t do courtship. We claim our women.”

  “So I’m looking at the future Mrs. Robert?” I say. I still don’t know his last name, which pisses me off.

  “Oh fuck, no. This dumb whore? She’s future compost.”

  The woman starts cr
ying hysterically. “Please, I’ll do anything you want! Please don’t kill me, please, please, please!”

  “You already do anything I want. You’re just not very good at it.” He walks over to the rack of whips. Her sobs rise in a crescendo, and it makes him smile.

  Damn.

  We are indeed cut from the same cloth.

  He selects a riding crop and walks back. “When I claim a woman, she’ll have to be worthy of bearing my children.” He stares at his crying prisoner as he speaks, his cold gaze roving over her pale flesh. “Intelligent, from a successful family so I know she’s got a good gene pool. College student, most likely. Not a criminal fuckup like this little skank.” He smacks the whip on his palm, and she lets out a little shriek.

  Then he returns his attention to me.

  “Her friend’s here. Want to play?”

  His piercing blue eyes are fixed intently on me, and I know I’m being tested.

  “I don’t know,” I say with a trace of impatience. “I don’t fuck on command. I haven’t seen what she looks like yet. And I’d want to wear a condom.”

  “Of course.” He nods graciously.

  He gestures at me to follow him to the end of the room, to the big wooden box. As we approach, I hear the sound of sniffling. Robert yanks open the door, which isn’t locked.

  A skinny, naked blonde is crouched down on the floor, chained by her ankle. She flails wildly in panic when the door opens, gulping for air. She’s got delicate, pretty features, bleached blonde hair a little dry, and there are circles under her eyes. She blinks frantically in the light, her eyes watering.

  “Not the highest quality snatch,” Robert says, and it’s amusing to hear the filthy words wrapped in his velvety Southern accent. “She looked better when I first grabbed her. She sucks some decent dick, though.”

  “Please don’t hurt me any more, please!” Her voice is raspy and her eyes squinting.

  Thief. Murderer.

  I know she’s going to die at Robert’s hands, and she’ll be raped and abused before then.

  I feel empty at the thought. And I also feel really good right now. Once upon a time, I would have cursed my lack of empathy and wondered for the millionth time why I’m so fucked up inside. Now, I know that this is somehow part of my legacy. It’s not that I particularly like Robert, or enjoy his company, but knowing that I’m not alone has set me free.

  “I’ll just have her suck my dick,” I say.

  Robert gestures at her, and she crawls out of the closet. The chain goes taut as she reaches me. I start unbuckling my pants.

  Robert slaps her face, hard. “If he even thinks he feels teeth, I’ll peel the skin off your face,” he grits out. Her head bobs frantically.

  “Yes, Sir, yes, Sir,” she blubbers. When he walks off, I shove my dick in her mouth. She gags, then wraps her lips around my half-hard cock and sucks frantically, as if her life depends on it.

  Robert is at the other end of the room, doing something to the brunette that makes her scream and scream. I hear his grunts of pleasure and flick a quick glance his way. She’s facing the wall, and he’s fucking her in the ass.

  The blonde’s tears splash onto my shoes, and I close my eyes and think of Camille. Those are Camille’s hot tears running down her cheeks, this is Camille’s warm mouth sucking me, tongue swirling… I explode inside her mouth. I hold her head so she has to swallow every drop.

  Finally, I let go and take a step back, my dick sliding out of her wet mouth. She stares down at the floor, hopeless.

  “Please help me. I have a family,” she whispers in a very low voice.

  “They raised a murdering thief. They must be so proud.”

  She lets out a low, hopeless moan and crawls back into the closet, crouching in the corner. I zip up my pants and go sit down on one of the chairs, watching as Robert pulls out and sends jets of semen spraying all over the sobbing brunette’s ass.

  The room stinks of blood and semen and sweat. Robert tucks his dick back in his pants, zips up, and heads for the door without so much as a glance behind him. He leads me upstairs without a word, then takes me to the front door.

  “That’s it for now,” he says. “I’ve given you a glimpse into our lifestyle and our belief system. We take calculated risks in our family. I’m taking a risk with you. I’m going to trust that you won’t tell on me. Come back in three days, and I’ll consider telling you a little more.”

  “I want to know one thing. Why did you approach me and no-one else in the family?”

  He smiles. “You were the one who was most like us.”

  That’s true. Or is it? I don’t know what my father is really like. What would he have done if he were confronted with a scene like the one in Robert’s basement?

  I’ll probably never know. I can’t imagine speaking to my father again, after he betrayed me on every possible level. I leave the house, walking past the glowering, posturing guards, and get in my car.

  And that’s my first real introduction to the family I never knew.

  I suspect that if I did call the police, Robert would know before they approached his house, and he’d have a way of quickly disposing of the evidence. And then he’d come gunning for me.

  That’s not why I plan to keep my mouth shut, though. I’m intrigued. I want to meet the rest of my family.

  Everything I did today felt sickeningly right, and the twisting tension that usually clamps on my heart and squeezes still hasn’t returned. I look forward to the future, for the first time in a very long time.

  Chapter Nine

  Camille

  There’s an enormous bouquet of pink peonies in a blue vase on the doorstep when I get home from work. Peonies, my favorite flower. Pink, my favorite color. Landon made it a point to find that out very early in our relationship. That’s the kind of guy he is.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right,” the note attached to it says. “I promise I will not call your mother again. Forgive me?”

  I carry the vase inside the house and turn off the alarm.

  It’s a sweet gesture, but I still feel the sourness of his betrayal burning inside me like acid. He called my mother and told on me like I was a naughty child, even though I’ve begged him to leave her out of our relationship.

  He respected my wishes by not calling me back yesterday or today, so there’s that. My mother tried to call me eleven times, but she didn’t leave a single message.

  I know I’m going to forgive him eventually, but I’m not going to call him for a couple more days. I need to let him know I’m serious.

  I set the vase down on the kitchen counter and put my purse down next to it. There are goose bumps pebbling my arms, even though it’s warm inside my house. I feel as if I’m walking through a storm of static electricity.

  Why?

  I have a strange sense of uneasiness.

  There can’t be anyone in the house. They would have triggered the alarm. I walk from room to room, just to reassure myself, and my heart is thudding. Nothing is out of place. Windows closed and locked, blinds down, curtains drawn.

  I get to my bedroom upstairs, and when I walk in, I immediately notice that my phone charger is gone from the nightstand by my bed. A wave of cold sweeps over me. I never move the phone charger; why would I?

  Did Landon take my charger? It was there when I left this morning.

  I’m really starting to worry.

  It’s happened several times lately. Little things missing, things moved around. I’m a neat freak. I put things in the places where I’m going to use them, and I always notice.

  Dare I even ask myself—is he gaslighting me? Trying to make me question my own sanity?

  No. That’s ridiculous. He loves me. He would never.

  Suddenly I hear footsteps thudding downstairs, in the living room right below me, and I go faint with terror, freezing where I stand. I should have a gun at my bedside. Why didn’t I get one after the burglary? Why am I such an idiot? Am I going to be raped, murdered? What kind of
burglar breaks into a house at six o’ clock at night? The kind who wants the homeowner to be home. Or were they here all along, hiding in a closet, waiting for me? Messing with my head?

  My cell phone is downstairs in my purse.

  Something crashes downstairs, and I hear shattering glass.

  I stifle a cry. Oh God, oh no, I made a noise. Did the burglar hear me? I hurry to the door and shut and lock it very quietly, but the lock is just the small one in the doorknob. Anybody could kick that open.

  I have a fire escape ladder sitting on the floor next to my window. I tiptoe quickly over to it, and unlock it and try to slide it up, but it’s stuck. How? Why? It slid open like a dream yesterday. The footsteps are thudding back and forth downstairs, someone pacing loudly, deliberately. The person wants me to hear them. They want me terrified, panicked. The sick bastard.

  Silent tears of terror slide down my cheeks, but I force myself to focus.

  Stop being the stupid girl in the horror movie. I’ve made a million mistakes already. Ignored my instincts, don’t have a home phone or any kind of weapon in my bedroom, didn’t bring my cell phone with me as I walked around, didn’t get a good lock put on my bedroom door after the break-in… No more dumb mistakes. I need to think logically.

  I look for something to break the window.

  There’s a big geode on my bookshelf. But smashing the window will make noise, so after I shatter the window, I’ll have to move fast.

  I tiptoe to my desk, grab a chair, and wedge it under the doorknob.

  Then I grab a sweater from my closet. I wrap the sweater around my arm and smash the window pane. The footsteps start heading my way, and I’m hysterical with terror, smashing and smashing, and pieces of glass are flying, my arm and my face sting, and the steps are coming up the stairs and oh God, I’m going to die…

  The doorknob rattles, and I’m nearly crazed with fear now. I’ve smashed through two panes, made a huge hole, knocked all the dangling panes of glass out. I throw the ladder out with shaking hands, hooking it on the sill. I’m bleeding. Someone’s banging my bedroom door so hard that it shakes.