by Mara Black
I don't know about that.
But maybe he had a point. And really, the last thing I needed to do was bring a man like Birdy in the midst of the only people who were actually trying to bring about real change.
Joshua was frowning at me. "You are all right, aren't you? He's..." Suddenly, he cleared his throat, glancing at the woman. "Would you leave us alone for a minute, Mary?"
Mary nodded, obliging. I felt a cold grip of fear for reasons I didn't understand.
Joshua's eyes pierced me, and goosebumps rose when I remembered the way he'd looked at me in that little bedroom at Stoker. But this wasn't quite the same. He'd been playing a role then, and he wasn't playing one now - I thought. Or maybe it was the other way around.
I couldn't be sure. If there was one thing I'd learned in my twenty years of life, it was that you could never be sure. Not about people. Never.
"I've been a mole in Stoker for a long time," he said, finally. "I've had to play the part to the fullest extent, including many, many things I'm not proud of - I tried to stay away from the worst of it, but it wasn't always possible. Whatever you think Stoker is doing, I promise you the reality is much worse. You're very lucky to have escaped like you did."
Am I?
"We've always known Stoker had a weakness. Somebody who understood them better than anybody. Somebody who'd been to the bowels of hell under that billion-dollar skyscraper, and seen it all. Someone with a grudge. He's a legend. They called him Tate the Viper. But we just call him Tate."
Tate the Viper.
My goosebumps weren't going anywhere.
"Did..." He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. "Did Tate tell you anything about his history with Stoker?"
Shaking my head, I looked down at the floor. "I get the feeling he doesn't like them."
He let out a soft bark of laughter. "Yeah. You might say that." I finally looked back up at him, and his eyes were warm. I wanted to believe it was real, I wanted so badly, but I could feel Tate's shadow on me, even from many rooms away, and I was afraid. But I couldn't show it. What if Joshua did mean well, and what if he found out what was happening? What would happen to me?
"Tell me," I said, finally. "Please."
The more I knew about Tate, the more complete my picture, the more I could work this situation to my advantage. Supposing Joshua was honest, this might be one of my only chances to really learn about what kind of person my master was.
His eyes flickered. "I know the story," he said. "Whether it's true or not, I couldn't say."
"Tell me." I leaned forward. "Please."
"Tate used to be one of the headhunters," he said. "Like me. Well - like I pretended to be. He was one of the first."
Headhunters. I'd never heard the term before, but I instantly understood - or thought I did. But then, the driver went on.
"I don't know how he came to be with them. Or when. But I've talked to the other men there, heard their stories. Stoker finds them huddled in cardboard boxes, under bridges, in gutters. Desperate. Close to death. Same as they do with the girls. Stoker only works by preying on the weak."
My mind was racing. It had never occurred to me that these sleek, well-dressed figures had once been holed up in shantytowns and abandoned bus stations, just like I was.
"At first," he said, "they feed us the same story they feed everyone else. At first it's just about going to pick them up, doing the cursory examination, asking a few questions, leading them around. We're told to give orders. Bark at them. Snap our fingers. So they'll learn to obey without questioning. And that's how it starts."
His mouth twitched.
"Small things," he said. "At first."
I held my breath.
He went on. "Then, inch by inch, their demands increase. We're told to hurt them. Debase them. Treat them as less than human. We're told it's a kindness. They need to be trained. They're practically feral, they need to be made to heel."
My throat was like a desert. I tried to swallow.
Tate broke slaves. That was his purpose. To cause pain. To harm them. That was the darkness I saw in his eyes - the cold disregard he felt for me. I was nothing more than an object to him. Something that needed to be broken in.
"Tate was one of the best," Joshua went on. "Scratch that - the best. This was years ago, but people are still talking about it. The big boss at the time, his name was Mr. Holland - he was particularly proud of him. You have to understand, they break people down. I trained for months to resist their techniques, so I could retain some semblance of my sanity. It's so subtle, and so flawlessly done. You always hear about things like this - the Milgram experiment, the Nazis, the Manson family. And you like to think you'd be the one to push back. But these were just ordinary men, feeling lost and desperate. No one likes to think it's possible. I'm here to tell you that it is.
"If you push back, if you try to protest - well." His mouth twitched again. "That's when they bring you in the boardroom to have a private conversation. It happened to nearly all of us, at some point. Even the sadistic bastards who enjoyed it at first, who justified it, at some point they'd be pushed too far. They'd say no.
"And that's when they offer you the choice."
My hands were trembling in my lap. I tried to keep still, but it was impossible.
"They offer each one of us the same choice." He sucked in a breath, eyes darting around the room, like he was afraid we might be overheard. "They can sell our bodies, or we can help them sell the girls'."
My heartbeat pounded in my throat. "No," I said. "That's..."
Joshua's mouth was a thin line. "I made the choice I thought would serve my work. I told myself it wasn't cowardice. I had to be close to the upper echelon, and I couldn't do that as chattel. But every day, I felt like I chose wrong. Even though I know it doesn't matter to them. One way or the other, the girls will come. One way or another, they'll be broken. Whether it's me or someone else, who cares? Why should I suffer when someone else can suffer in my place?"
My ears were ringing.
Joshua was sitting there silent, staring at the floor with hollow eyes. But he wasn't finished.
"What else?" I demanded. "There's something else. I can tell."
"I don't know if it's true," he said, very quietly. "I don't know if I should. It's not my story to tell."
I shook my head, confused, frustrated. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"
"It's just a legend," he said. "I don't -"
The floor creaked, moments before Tate appeared again.
"I'm sorry," he said, not sounding in the least bit apologetic. "But I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Joshua. You're upsetting her. She needs her rest."
The sound of his voice chilled me. Putting on a show of being a normal person, who actually cared about me. Who cared if I was upset, or tired, or needed rest.
Joshua's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Tate. It was almost a challenge. I didn't like the way the room suddenly crackled.
"What is her name, by the way?" Joshua asked. Very clearly addressing Tate, not me. "I don't believe I caught it."
Tate's arms stiffened at his sides. "How do I know I can trust you?" And then, a very pointed look, aimed at me. "How does she know she can trust you?"
It was a warning. For me. And it made my blood run cold.
He turned and came down the stairs, quickly, and I held my breath while he herded Joshua and Mary out of the room, out the front door, pulling an impressive assortment of locks and bolts shut behind them. Anger flashed in his eyes when he turned to me - and it warmed me from the inside out, spreading through my veins so quickly that I almost shuddered in relief.
I had almost forgotten what he looked like when he was angry. Frightening, but human. Even with his fists clenched and his eyes blazing, he was far from the cruel and domineering professional I pictured when Joshua told me about his past.
"You've been very bad." He spoke through gritted teeth. There was nothing flirtatious in his tone, but something deep insi
de me still responded. Quivering. With an elegant gesture, he beckoned me closer and pointed to the floor at his feet.
I wouldn't do it. I wouldn't. But inside, I melted.
God, what was wrong with me? Even knowing what I knew now, I still wanted him. Every dark, twisted part. I wanted him to control and hurt me, the way he'd once done...
Correction. My body wanted that. My brain obviously knew better, and no matter how enticing I found the idea of tempting him back into his old ways, I couldn't. The idea made me sick.
Except that it didn't.
So many things made sense, now. No wonder he seemed so conflicted - almost as if he were slipping into another personality when he gave me orders. No matter how much they might have brainwashed him, there was a part of the old Tate was still alive inside of him. Holding him back. Drowning him in guilt.
He stared me down, his fingers twitching just slightly. Aching to force me, but wanting something else. My willing submission. He already knew he could overpower my body; he wanted to overpower my mind.
The realization came to me in a rush, almost knocking the breath out of me. It was so obvious, almost like he'd said it out loud. I felt the connection again - that little tug, like an invisible thread between us.
I wanted to rip it out of my chest.
"Why did you leave me alone with them?" I demanded.
Instead of telling me to shut up, that I wasn't allowed to ask questions, he just pointed to the floor again. Our eyes met, and I made no attempt to hide that I knew exactly what he wanted. But I wasn't going to indulge him. Not now.
"What if they had guns?" I went on. "Knives?"
"They didn't," he said. "I have a metal detector in my threshold."
Instantly, I remembered the feeling of his hands on my body, frisking me in the front hallway. My face went bloodless.
"Why?" I whispered, staring at him.
"Because." He smiled. "I enjoyed it. Didn't you?"
I was trying hard to remember the picture Joshua painted, of a young Tate, starving on the streets, desperate. But it couldn't excuse the way he was treating me. Nothing could.
"Why didn't you just tell me to come upstairs?" I asked.
"I shouldn't have to," said Tate. "Which brings me back to this - you've been a very disobedient girl." Once again, he pointed to the floor. Once again, I ignored him.
"You didn't want them to know." My fists were clenched at my sides. "You're ashamed of yourself. The way you've treated me."
"Clearly," said Tate, with a smirk. "Don't I look it?"
My face burned. Anger, embarrassment, fear, everything was rising inside me and threatening to burst out. "That's not an answer," I gritted. "Your advanced degree in sarcasm isn't nearly as charming as you think it is, Sir."
His eyes flashed. Tate the Viper.
"Be careful," he snarled, taking a step towards me. "I let you get away with far more than I should, because it amuses me to hear you ramble on about things you don't understand. But you're playing with fire."
I opened my mouth, and venom dripped out. "So burn me."
Tate stared, his breathing quickening.
"Teach me a lesson," I said, taking a step closer, a sneer in my words, if not on my face. "Give me my punishment. Don't you want me to learn? Don't you want me to shut my fucking face? Stop being defiant? Keep acting like a good little slave, scraping and bowing across the floor?"
Swift as the snake for which he was named, Tate's hand darted out to grab my wrist. His grip was bruising.
"Don't taunt me." His eyes were like an abyss, and I wanted to lose myself in them. I should have been desperate to get away, but somehow I felt I was safer here. Close to him. In the eye of the storm, while the world fell to ruins around us.
I stared at him. Taunting. Defying. He might say otherwise, but I could tell he liked it.
"I gave you three chances," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "Two more than I should have. You could have kneeled. You could have shut your mouth. Now, you have to wait longer. Your punishment will be ten times worse."
"No." My blood ran cold, and my knees buckled, bringing me down where he wanted me. "Please, no. I'll take my punishment now."
I couldn't stand to wait any longer. I couldn't. It was too quiet in my room, filled with memories and fantasies and no relief from the burning need to touch him and be touched by him.
I didn't care what the punishment was, as long as it ended the silence.
"Get up," he said, disgusted. He turned away from me, walking back up the stairs. "You're fucking pathetic."
I stumbled to my feet, tears spilling from the corners of my eyes.
CHAPTER NINE
The Basement
I hated him.
I hated him so much that I thought about destroying all the books in my room, ripping the pages out of their spines, shredding all the yellowed pages into confetti. I wanted to create a mess of his house, the way he'd created a mess out of me.
Nothing made any sense. My feelings would swing wildly from one extreme to the other, liked I'd just gone through a breakup, or something equally inapplicable to this situation.
I wasn't sure anything I'd ever read, or experienced, or imagined, could have prepared me for this. The exquisite torture of waiting for the other shoe to fall. Minute after minute, hour after hour. I was pretty sure that it shaved a few years off of my life expectancy, which I already didn't have the highest hopes for.
Day seven.
We were back to the old routine. I waited and waited, desperate, my heart pounding every time I heard a sound near my door.
Finally, when he came to drop off my food, I spoke.
"Wait," I said. "Please."
This wasn't against any of his rules. In a way, this felt like losing - worse, like letting him win, giving in to his mind games, admitting I wasn't strong enough to wait for whatever he had planned. But I couldn't stand the silence anymore, the isolation. Anything would be better than that.
His face was carefully impassive. There was no hint of that wickedness in his black eyes, but in the dim light of my room I almost couldn't tell where his pupils ended and his irises began.
He was dressed in another one of his dark, perfectly-tailored suits. Did he wear them all the time? Who the hell was he dressing up for?
The crispness of his clothes, his perfectly smoothed hair, the smoothness of his strong jaw, all of it belied whatever lurked inside him. Maybe it was an attempt to cage it all - his anger, his lust. As if a veneer of respectable haberdashery could rein in the wildness I'd seen firsthand.
"I'm ready," I told him. "I'm ready to accept my punishment."
His eyebrows lifted, just slightly. "That's good to know."
He was turning to leave when I reached out, in desperation. My hand clamped over his arm, and his body jolted like he'd touched a live wire.
"Please," I said.
"Let go of me," he said, quietly.
I did.
"That's not a rule," I reminded him, desperately, my heart hammering in my chest.
"I know," he said. "But it should have been."
With a sigh, he turned back and faced me. "What?" he demanded.
"I told you, I'm ready. You don't have to keep me waiting anymore." I swallowed thickly. "It's not fair. People go crazy from this, you know."
His mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "So I've heard."
"Then you must know," I said, grasping onto the tidbit of information he'd let drop so casually. "You've been treated like this before. You know what it's like. Nobody deserves this - I'm sure you didn't, either."
He laughed, pushing me aside to step into the room. Conspicuously, just as I expected, he left the door open behind him.
"I don't understand what you want from me," I said, finally.
His eyes glittered. "Isn't it obvious?"
"Yes, but you won't take it. So there's something else. You want me to give it up willingly."
He shook his head, a cruel twist at the
corner of his mouth. "Try again. You really think that matters to me?" Snapping his fingers so abruptly I jumped, he took a few rapid steps forward. "My house. My rules. You agreed to that. I can take whatever I want from you."
"But you won't," I said. "You want me to want you, without reservations. Just like anybody else. Just like an ordinary man."
At that phrase, he cringed. Spinning abruptly on his heel, he turned and paced away from me.
"And that's what doesn't make sense," I said, his reaction telling me I was hitting too close to the truth. "If you really wanted me to like you, why didn't you just show me a little kindness? Why did you..."
A low growl came from deep inside his chest.
"I don't need a recounting of my crimes from you," he said, whirling back to face me. But I wouldn't let him derail me.
"If you'd just treated me like a human being," I breathed, looking up at him with every bit of hurt and betrayal I felt for my treatment at his hands, "you wouldn't have been able to keep me out of your bed."
He laughed, ringing out loud and harsh in the room.
"You're wrong," he said, his voice low and rough. Dripping sex. "Compassion isn't what you crave."
God damn it. He was right. If he'd acted like that, I still would have been struck by his dark, savage beauty - it was impossible not to be. But I never would have been captivated like I was that first night. Naked and afraid, my heart pounding fit to leap out of my chest. I would have gone to him willingly, if he'd been my hero - my rescuer - if he'd taken me in and made me feel welcome, instead of holding me at arm's length, like a broken toy. But he never would have lit that fire inside of me.
And I burned.
"This isn't about what I crave," I insisted, standing up, my eyes flashing defiance. "That's not your business to tell me, Viper."
Instantly, something changed. Both of his hands clenched into fists, and he advanced on me, so fast I had no time to react. He came to a stop centimeters from my body, so I could feel him, breathe his scent, almost taste him. He smelled like old books and polished wood.
"Never say that word to me."