by Zoe Blake
“Why?” she whispered, her wrists twisting in the cuffs.
He stroked her, his fingers playing with her for a long minute in silence before he withdrew. Then he lifted her effortlessly, tossing her over his shoulder to carry her through the dim apartment. “Because.”
It was a blithe answer that made her brows pull together as she bounced on his shoulder. When he set her down by the front door, she slumped against the wall and her mind focused on it.
Because?
She wanted to scream at him, rage that she’d done nothing—but there was definitely something wrong with her, a fuzzy feeling in her head like it had been stuffed with cotton. A languid feeling in her muscles that made them feel weighted and strange. A shaft of light from the hallway poured across the tile when he opened the front door. His large body briefly outlined by the pale gold, all dark clothes, broad chest and shoulders—and that mask over his face. So dark. All darkness.
Run, her mind urged her. She should be running, but her body wasn’t responding except with stilted shivers.
The rattling sound of a cart wheeling in made her lift her head, but she hadn’t even realized she’d closed her eyes. Hadn’t realized that in her efforts to move, she’d only slid to the side.
You’ve been drugged. Stay awake. A tiny, urgent voice was there in the white noise of her head.
Stay awake, Rebecca.
With more effort than it had taken in her entire life, she forced her eyes open again and sat up to look. The thing looked like a janitor’s cart. A trash bag on one end, and a larger section by him with drawers for cleaning supplies. Without a word he pressed something and the whole set of drawers opened like a single piece—because they weren’t drawers, it was a door. Dread pooled in her stomach, far below the emptiness of her thoughts. There was an empty space on the inside. An empty place meant for her.
“Please?” Her voice was slurring, her brain and body lethargic. There would be no more running, no more fighting—but somewhere deep down there was a spark of survival instinct, that tiny voice asking if she were going to die. Begging her to satisfy it with a comforting word.
But she didn’t have an answer.
“Time to leave The Tower, Rapunzel.” The man knelt down by her, lifting her into the space as if she weighed nothing. Folding her legs against her chest, he looked at her and she finally saw the fierce, tawny brown eyes behind the mask. There was no mercy in that gaze, only hate, and then they disappeared as he shut the door.
Darkness surrounded her like a suffocating blanket.
She tried to shift but her muscles wouldn’t respond at all as the cart started to move. Her wrists were pinpoints of pain in the dark, and she tried to hold on to them, to consciousness—but then the black behind her eyes swallowed her whole like some ancient sea monster. Sending her down deep where no thoughts, no pain, no panic could reach her.
Chapter Two
Everything came online slowly, first her mind, head pounding like she’d had too much to drink, and then her body lit up in sections. Pain pinged reminders across her skin, forcing her out of the daze of sleep. Rebecca knew she was awake, knew her eyes were open, but the room was pitch black. No difference whether they were open or closed. Blinking, she tried to lift her hands and heard metal clatter as the cuffs dug into her already aching wrists. “Shit,” she hissed between her teeth as the pain spiked and then ebbed.
Oh God.
She had been taken. It wasn’t some horrible nightmare.
Her heart started to race, beating too loud in her ears as the panic threatened to take over, but she pushed it down and tried to breathe, to evaluate her surroundings. ‘Think’, her mind urged. ‘Survive.’
There was a hard chair under her, her arms run through slats in the back so she couldn’t sit up all the way, and something was holding her legs wide to the outsides of the chair. Not cuffs, rope?
No. It felt smoother than that, sharper on the edges.
Worst of all she was completely naked now. She could feel the absence of cloth over her breasts and the brush of cool air across her skin. The memory of the man sent a threatening chill down her spine, but she was bound to a chair and—even though she was quite sure she knew who would answer when the darkness finally abated—there was nothing she could do but call out.
Swallowing against the dryness in her throat, Rebecca raised her voice into the black, “Hello?”
Instead of light, a huge television suddenly blinked to life in front of her. For a moment it only showed a blank screen behind the plastic shield that surrounded it—then a video started. It was her, in a black and white image from a high angle, sitting on the couch in her apartment. She watched as her mouth moved, but no sound could be heard. She watched as she set the wine down and started to mess with the remote. Then the dark figure of the man walked into the frame from the right, standing just behind her as she leaned forward to cue up the news report.
No, no, no… he’d recorded it?
It was eerie the way he stood completely still while she leaned over the remote, fidgeting with it. When the figure on the screen suddenly grabbed her and yanked her over the back of the couch, she clenched her eyes tight. “Stop! I don’t want to watch this!” Screaming into the emptiness, she tried to forget the sensation of his hands on her skin, of the things he’d done.
Even unable to see the video her mind was filling in the blanks, tracing the aches across her body like a transcript. Dropping her chin to her chest, she shook her head, her long hair falling like a curtain against her cheeks as if she could shut off the movie inside her own brain. But her eyes snapped open when the sound of her father’s voice bled through speakers into the room.
Dad?
Snippets of interviews from over the years started to play. Daniel Sinclair, always smiling and well dressed, dimples punching into his cheeks when he laughed. It flashed through clips of him at public premieres of new software and technology, discussing business on what should have been private virtual stockholder calls, and too many others. Then they grew shorter.
Quick, abbreviated snippets of his voice over, and over, and over.
His smile, his laugh, and just as the videos started to speed up to a dizzying rate—the videos started to zoom in on her. Always sitting just to his left or right, her waist-long blonde hair cascading behind her as she appeared in a variety of designer clothes—Daniel Sinclair’s voice always running over the top of it. It should have been soothing to hear him, but the videos were all of her and too strange. Slowed down clips of her half-smiling during press conferences, her staring down at her hands in her lap, her standing in elegant heels to clap. Just her, over and over, and it only made her tense. “STOP!”
The last image of her clapping and smiling in a skirt and blouse froze. Hands almost touching, she looked like she might have been praying.
Finally, the television went black for a moment, and then a single scene played on the screen at normal speed. It was her father standing outside The Tower, speaking to a gathering of reporters. “My inspiration for what I do with Monarch Systems?” He chuckled, all charm and wit, blue eyes sparkling as he nodded at the microphones. “Well, I want a better world for my daughter. She’s my everything. Without her—I’d have nothing.”
The television clicked off and bright lights instantly flared to life from either side of the television, effectively blinding her. “Dammit!” She flinched, closing her eyes tight as she heard a door open somewhere to her left. It shut again, the sound heavy and metal. Rebecca tried to look, but the bright lights were impossible to see through.
“Did you hear that, Rapunzel? You’re his everything.” The low voice was slowly moving behind her, and then a large hand wrapped around her throat and squeezed just enough to make her heart stumble over itself in an effort to speed up. “Tell me, how do you think he’s going to feel when he gets that first video?”
“Fuck you,” she spat, and he yanked her head back, tilting her chin up so she could see the mask ag
ain.
“I already fucked you, and you came like the little whore you are.”
She tried to struggle, but only rewarded herself with pain as the cuffs tore at her skin and his grip tightened further around her throat. “What do you want from me?” she whispered through the strain.
“What do I want? I want your father to suffer. I want to see him ruined like he’s ruined the lives of so many others.” He grabbed her chin and forced her head back further, making her back arch painfully. “And you’re going to help me, Rapunzel.”
“My name is Rebecca,” she hissed.
“Oh, but daddy dearest always calls you Rapunzel, doesn’t he?” It sent a shudder through her that he knew that fact. How long had he been watching them? Watching her?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie to me, I know everything, princess. Remember that. Now, you have a task to perform.” He let her go and she rolled her neck to ease the ache as tiny red dots sprang to life in the ceiling. One directly in front of her, two in the corners, and as she turned she saw they went all the way around. Every angle covered.
This can’t be happening.
The man stepped behind her again, leaning down to speak directly into her ear, “Go on, talk to him. Tell him how much you want to come home.”
She pressed her lips together, clenching her jaw tight, and he sighed.
“Now,” he hissed, a large hand gripping the back of her neck.
“No.” She pushed the word through gritted teeth, and he dug his fingers into her skin for a moment before he released her with a shove. His footsteps were heavy across the floor, as if he were still in boots, but she wasn’t playing into the kidnapping game. She wouldn’t beg for him.
The door creaked open, and then slammed hard.
Swallowing, her eyes blurring against the fiercely bright lights, she tried her best to twist and see the rest of the room. Concrete, empty concrete everywhere, and corners cast into dark shadows. Pulling in a deep breath, she grabbed onto one cuff and tried to force her hand through it, but as she strained, the pain became too much and she stopped with a whine.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The man returned almost immediately, anger radiating off him even as he stayed silent. Her eyes had adjusted enough to identify his outline as he moved closer—still wearing dark clothes, still masked. Smooth leather caressed her bare shoulder, sliding forward until she could see the dull black of a riding crop. She swallowed hard as he slowly slid it between her breasts, inching it down her body, leaving shivers in its wake.
Forcing herself to stillness, she committed to not moving, refusing to reward him with a reaction, but then he tapped the crop directly between her thighs. With a nudge, he used it to separate the lips of her pussy, brushing against her clit, insistently rubbing the little nub in purposeful swipes with the flexible tress. Shame washed through her as she realized she was growing wet again, her chin dropping to her chest as she dug her nails into her palms to try and stop it.
“Last chance, Rapunzel. Tell him.” The words were quiet, meant only for her.
A curt shake of her head was her only response, and then he brought the crop down hard on the inside of her thigh. She couldn’t bite back the yelp of pain just as he delivered a matching line of fire to the other side. The burning marks made her whine under her breath as the heat spread, but she steeled herself. No.
“Do it,” he hissed against her ear.
“Go to hell.”
He stepped to her side, a looming shape in the light, and brought the crop down hard across the tops of her thighs—once, twice, three times and the bright red lines showed up fast even on her tanned skin. When she bit back the scream, he landed the next lash across her breasts. There was no stifling the cry then, and she found herself whimpering and yanking on the cuffs as he snapped the keeper of the crop against each nipple in fast succession. Back and forth, each new blow making her scream incomprehensible pleas, begging him to stop.
Finally, he pulled back and she sniffled, desperately trying to halt her tears as the sharp ache bloomed over her skin. His fist wound into her hair, jerking her head up so she was facing the camera again. “Speak.”
“Please, just let me go.” Her whine was answered with a vicious slap of the crop directly between her thighs, the bright lightning strike of agony making her hips buck. “God, please!”
“Talk.” The single command was rough, and she kept her eyes low, trying to be brave, but then the whistle of the crop lifting in the air forced pleas past her lips.
“Stop! Please, I want to go home. Just let me go home.” She sniffled, hating herself for caving to the pain, hating that she was so exposed. “I don’t want him to see me like this, please, don’t –”
The masked man stepped around her and slapped her hard, her head snapping to the side as she gasped in pain and shock. He leaned down, his words hissed through a filter of rage, “Do you think I care what you want?”
“Please, let me go. You can still just let me go, I don’t know who you are, I don’t—” Another sharp slap silenced her, and then he moved behind her again. She was crying hard now, the ache in her cheeks overwhelming the pain in the other parts of her body.
His breath brushed over her hair before he spoke, “Good girl, cry for him. Tell him to do whatever it takes to bring you home.” The crop snapped across her thighs again and she sobbed. “Say it.”
She was weak. Tired, in pain, and terrified. So, she obeyed. “Dad, I’m so sorry. Please just do what he says. I just want to come home. Please, Dad, help me. I just—”
A gloved hand covered her nose and mouth, pinching off her air so that she panicked and jerked against the bindings. “Perfect,” he cooed against her ear as she struggled. “Now we get to see if he really loves you, Rapunzel.”
Rebecca waited for him to release her, but instead he simply dropped the crop and wrapped his other arm across her throat. Terror took hold, tearing the skin at her wrists as she struggled against the cuffs, making pathetic, muffled sounds.
“Shhh…” His voice whispered against her cheek, and then she felt the black closing in again, fear warring against the inevitable. Desperate, she tried to stay conscious, to fight—but there was no fighting this.
Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair to me.
Memories were clashing inside her as she fought her way free from the depths of sleep, strange and twisted flashes that surfaced and disappeared as fast as they appeared. Her father’s voice reading the story from memory as he brushed her hair as a child. Small hands turning the colorful pages of the book. The twinge when one of her long strands caught in the brush as a woman’s voice overwhelmed the story, crying and screaming just out of sight. Whispers. A door shutting. Another page turning as her father’s baritone washed over her. Rapunzel, Rapunzel…
With a groan, Rebecca tore herself from the haunting dream and turned over on the cold cement, opening her eyes to dim light. Still naked, but no longer bound. The chair was gone and the room was empty now. Well, empty except for a recessed corner that held a toilet and the kind of water faucet usually found outside. Her eyes wandered up—every one of the red dots in the ceiling were on.
Damn him.
He was watching her.
She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest to hide her nakedness—not like it mattered—he’d seen every inch of her, and so had the cameras.
Tenderly, she touched the raw skin of her wrists, the flesh broken in places, already scabbing. Nothing to be done for them. Her ankles were reddened but otherwise okay, however the welts across her thighs and breasts were impossible to ignore. Angry and red and raised on her skin. She wanted to scream, to rant and rave, but there was no use. The only one who would answer was the one she didn’t want to.
Rebecca wrapped her arms around her shins and curled up tight, rocking slightly as she tried to make her mind work. She was smarter than this. Smarter than this damsel in distress act. Assholes always un
derestimated her, never looking deep enough to figure out that she might actually know something. It had happened during her double major in Business and Art History, and she dealt with it every damn day at Monarch Systems—but unlike all of that bullshit, in this case being underestimated might just save her life.
Think. Fucking think, Rebecca. What information do you need?
Too many questions assaulted her at once and she forced them into categories and then prioritized them.
First, who is he? She made herself remember the outline of him, the rough timbre of his voice, but she had no idea. His voice wasn’t familiar, nothing about him drew on a memory, but he obviously knew too much about her already.
Not a good start.
Okay, why is he doing this? That was at least a question she had some data behind. He had said her father had ruined people, but what had he meant? As far as she knew, the company had never done a lay-off, Monarch Systems had expanded too fast for that. In fact, they were actively recruiting. And how the hell would a software developer ruin anyone? Malware? More bullshit. He was probably just insane. After all, sane people didn’t kidnap other people.
Move on, Rebecca.
She started to braid sections of her hair, an old, nervous habit that let her focus as her eyes traced the room. There were thick metal rings embedded in the concrete in seemingly random places—the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Their presence was subtly threatening considering what he’d already done to her, but she couldn’t afford to think about that for now.
Ignore it and find a way out. The television was off and useless, especially behind the thick plastic case surrounding it. Near the door a small tray caught her eye, but she stared at the door first. Heavy, industrial in nature, and likely locked. A guaranteed waste of time.
A shiver rushed over her skin, goose bumps appearing in its wake, and she tried to curl tighter to preserve warmth as she continued to think. There had to be a way out of this. Did he want money? No, money was too simple. He’d asked her to convince her father to do what he wanted, not pay. As her mind spun in circles, her eyes drifted back to the door.