She had been so young—what would trauma like that do to an impressionable mind?
(He didn't rape me.)
Was that true? Did it matter?
(It's just that I'm too selfish to be alone.)
The bastard had tried to kill her and all her friends. If he could do that, he could do anything. (I'm a terrible person.)
The sadness written on her face could fill entire volumes.
(I thought you wanted me.)
His penis jerked at the memory.
(Not like that—like this.)
How could one girl—one person—go through so much and still live?
“Valerian has vanished from the public,” he read aloud, shifting his legs, “out of concern for her own personal safety.”
“Oh my God.” Mary's voice startled him; he had forgotten she was there. She was pointing at a picture, an old school photograph. The girl on the screen had red hair instead of black, green eyes instead of blue, but her face wore the same haunted expression.
(My name isn't really Valerie Klein.)
“It's her.” Jade reached out to the image, wishing it was the real thing. He dropped his fingers, and the hand made a fist as it hit his thigh. “It's really her— fuck.”
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
She awoke to the silvery-blue light of the predawn alone.
For a moment, she thought it—everything—had just been a horrible dream. A wonderful, horrible dream that she could one day forget. She might even have been able to convince herself that it hadn't happened, like she did so much else these days, but then her eyes landed on the sheets in their various hues of rose, now dappled by peculiar brown stains.
Bloodstains.
Her blood.
And then she realized that she was naked, her clothes lying tattered on the floor like rags. What remained of her clothes. It was the second-worst thing in the world. The first was the act that had precipitated the ache of her ill-use; her memories of the night before were coming in on a tide that bore insanity and made her want to scream.
She wasn't quite sure how she had managed to fall asleep, though she must have because the bedside clock read 4:55 A.M. She remembered him collapsing, slinging an arm over her waist with an easy possessiveness. She had tried to slide out from under him after several minutes, because she had thought he was asleep, only to find herself trapped. He said, coldly, “I don't recall saying you could leave.”
Then he ensured that she couldn't.
After he finished—more quickly this time, since her cries of pain seemed to spur him to climax—she had lain there, mute and paralyzed with fear, while he caressed her trembling, unresponsive body and whispered terrible things in her ear. He had told her in that soft seductive voice generally reserved for sweet nothings exactly what he had done to each one of those girls.
She had wept. The thought of those families, puzzled and bereaved, broke her heart, and she wept because she alone knew why they had been killed— she and Gavin, both. She wept, because she knew that those families' grief would explode into hatred, because they, too, would blame her as everyone else had. As Gavin himself did, after each horrible recollection while stroking her hair and licking the salty tears from her face.
How dare you run from me. Did you think I would let you get away? I let you run as far as you felt safe, and then I hunted for you. You are mine. Your heart is mine. Your body is mine. Your flesh, and your blood—all mine. You are my trophy, Val, and I will mount you as I best see fit.
And then he'd laughed.
Until Gavin, she had never seen a man's naked body. She had never realized how overpowering the male form could be. How much of a weapon it was. The female form, by comparison, was naught but an open wound, easily hurt unless carefully tended.
The tiger lily, now limp, was pressed against her cheek. Leaves of basil were plastered to her body, and a few star-shaped jasmine flowers were scattered over her breasts. There were roses now, too. Yellow ones. He must have stolen them from the front garden; drops of dew still spattered their velvet petals.
Yellow roses, for infidelity—and for dying love. Festering love. Love turned wicked and spiteful and cruel.
She started to sit up. That tenderness made her sob, and she clapped a hand over her mouth before the sound could escape because she saw now, in the gloom, that he was up and sitting at the chessboard, which he had righted upon the broken nightstand and set up for play.
Val hugged the sheet to her chest when he rose, silently, bringing the chess journal with him. Had he added her name to those long lists of wins and losses? No doubt which column she would fall under now. He caught her looking and closed it with a muted thump that brought her eyes to his face.
“You always struggled so in chess,” he said, “I wonder if that gave you a taste for it.”
“I hate chess.”
She had to force herself to remain still as he approached. He bent from the waist to kiss her, raking his nails lightly down her bare back. She could taste vintage on his tongue; it was port, and the metallic taste of the tannins, which reminded her so much of blood, made her want to gag.
“I was not referring to the game itself.”
Val inhaled sharply, and saw his eyes darken as his pupils dilated to consume the iris.
“I want to leave.”
“You want to resist me. Feel the need for it, in fact, because as long as you resist, you are innocent. Blameless. A lost little lamb for the slaughter.”
“I mean it. You can't keep me here. You can't—” She broke off, choking, when he crawled onto the bed. “Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”
“I wasn't—”
“You were.”
She backed away and in doing so, forgot herself. Pain spliced her, cleaving her in twain, and her legs, now as weak as a newborn colt's, became entangled within the sheets. The smell of roses grew suffocating as the petals were crushed by their bodies.
He hefted her upright, and pulled her damp hair back from her neck. “Perhaps the lamb wanted to feel the bite of the wolf's teeth.” He traced the freckles on her throat from ear to shoulder, before letting his hand fall back to her waist. “Sometimes the body has trouble separating terror from ecstasy. The sensations are so very similar. Context is everything.”
Val stared ahead and the bed creaked as he leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the wisps of peach fuzz on her neck.
“How easy it would be for a lamb to lose herself in the eyes of a wolf that first time. She would be unprepared. She would be frightened. Her little heart would pound. Blood would flow to her limbs. Her breathing would catch—and quicken.”
He inhaled against her skin.
“Perhaps the wolf would consume her. I think in most cases, he would. Yes. But this lamb possesses something that arouses his curiosity—and makes him hunger for something more than flesh or blood.”
She felt his lips against her pulse.
“And so the wolf lay with the lamb.”
She shuddered violently, hating the way her stomach jerked, knife-like, with warmth seeping into her loins like blood. “That's not how it goes.”
“Mm, well, I've always considered myself rather…unconventional.” He paused. “I got you something.”
“I don't want it,” she said automatically. A cold weight settled at her collarbone.
He's trying to strangle me.
She grabbed at his hands, before he could pull the metal cord taut. He batted her away. “If I were going to kill you,” he said, “you would not be breathing.”
She tried to twist around to look, and he tilted her head towards the mirror. It was a necklace, heavy, probably silver Liquid silver. Thin strands of metal links designed to feel as fluid as oil. The metalwork was lovely and delicate and spangled, with a large thin circle worked prominently into the pattern. She hooked her finger through it, tugging at the metal.
It was no less possessive than the arms around her waist.
“You feel th
e desire to struggle,” he said softly. “I, too, have things in which I wish to be indulged.”
“This…this is a collar. You think you can own me —like I'm…some sort of pet? You're sick.”
She wrenched her shoulders, lashing out with an elbow. Her hand, still hooked in the necklace, pulled harder as she prepared to snap off the ring which now served as the hitch for some kind of gruesome leash or chain in her imagination.
He grabbed her wrist. “Don't start games with me that you aren't prepared to lose, Val; it will quickly devolve into something that I am sure you will not enjoy. I believe we were speaking of indulgences. Well. On the matter of control, I stand firm. I will not tolerate your attempts to 'top from the bottom,' as it were, and if you persist in this manner, I may have to hurt you to prove my point. Animals have been killed for less in the wild.”
His grip, which had been painful, slackened to a pressure that was tolerable. He touched her necklace with his free hand. “It's subtle, tasteful. If someone is astute enough to recognize its significance, all it will tell them is that you are mine.
“Here is what you are going to do. You will change into something more appropriate for civilized company and then the two of us are going to have a nice glass of wine. We have much to discuss.”
“We have nothing to discuss. I'm not going to be your plaything!”
“You will be whatever I tell you to be.” He looked at her, harshly. “I thought we had gone over that lesson sufficiently, but if you need reminding I suppose we can postpone your change of attire for a few hours—”
She released the necklace as if it had caught fire. “Where are the clothes?”
“I'll get them for you.” He slid off the mattress with an ease that would have made her loathe him if she hadn't already been pulsing with hatred. She watched him produce a shopping bag that she had somehow missed before, during her initial cursory inspection of the room. Unless he went and got it later.
And with that thought she fled into the bathroom, taking the sheet with her.
Her eyes were stinging. With tears, she thought, until she remembered her contacts. They were cosmetic and not intended for prolonged wear. Her salty tears and running makeup had caused them to chafe horribly. Val washed her hands and prized out the tinted silicone disks. They were good for a few more wears at least but she tossed them into the trash.
After a pause, she wet a piece of tissue and began to clean herself up. When she reached her thighs she had to stop because the room had begun to tilt and blur. She grabbed onto the faucet, clinging to the porcelain like a sailor to the mast of a sinking ship, and splashed her face with cold water.
Bitterly cold. Ice cold. Frozen, like his eyes. Over and over, until her cheeks lost their deathly pallor and the stinging sensation receded to a comfortable numbness.
The bag contained a pair of expensive jeans, a silk blouse, and undergarments—all in her size.
Val wasn't sure which unnerved her more: the fact that he knew her most intimate details offhand, or the possibility that he had procured these items in advance. She had not seen them, true, but if he had not wanted them to be found then she wouldn't, would she?
That someone could be so cruel, to deliberately and methodically plan out such debasement— Do you even hear yourself right now?
Val fell to her knees in front of the toilet and retched, but her stomach came up empty. She hadn't eaten—had thought she was starving. She smoothed down the shirt and wiped her forehead. Apparently not. Bleakly, she looked at the mirror.
The blouse was fitting and molded to her curves, with a neckline lower than one she would have chosen for herself. But not so low as to be unseemly, she could almost hear him say.
The jeans, by contrast, were a loose boot-cut that showed off her streamlined legs to great effect. It was his style.
She felt nakeder than she had in just the sheet. When she turned her head, regarding herself from another angle, she saw the marks he had left on her throat like scarlet letters. She ran her fingers over the bruised skin, clutching the necklace in her fist. She wanted to destroy the damned thing but…no, she didn't quite dare.
Gavin did not turn, though he must have heard the bathroom door open. He was reclining on the loveseat, leaving her the choice of the armchair or the desk chair since she was not about to sit beside him. He watched her seat herself with a lifted eyebrow.
“Now that is a very pleasing effect.”
She looked up sharply. He nodded at her shirt.
“I've never believed that redheads should not wear red. That particular shade of scarlet is quite lovely against your skin, like blood on snow.” He drew a finger down one cheek in thought. “Yes,” he mused, “You look simply ravishing, my dear Snow White.”
Did that make him the Huntsman? She wondered if his word choice was intentional. Ravishing. What a terrible word that was—saying someone looked lovely enough to take against their will. She folded her arms, then lowered them when she realized that the gesture pushed up her breasts for his easy inspection.
“Perhaps too much so. I do apologize for my… avidity. It was necessary to be thorough. Next time, I will issue more self-restraint.”
“Next time.”
Her words fell like stones in the silence.
He caught her expression a heartbeat before she could change it. His lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Did you think I'd only want you once? Oh my, you are more naïve than I thought. Why would I go through so much trouble for a mere tryst? Does a man ride a stallion but one time before condemning it to the abattoir?” He filled a crystal glass and handed it to her by the stem. “I think not. Drink your wine.”
And there it was. His 'apology' was merely a pretext to put this new horror into play, the coup in a chess game that swung the odds in one player's favor.
His.
He didn't care if he hurt her. He was incapable of chagrin, period. He had made that clear four years ago, and yet she signed her heart over to him to be broken time and again. Why? Why did she do that?
“You bastard.” She snatched at the wineglass, sloshing the contents into his face, then let it shatter. “Fuck your wine. Fuck you.”
He was off the couch before she could blink, holding her by the neck of her shirt. “You don't seem to understand. You took me on, and you lost.” The silky rage in his voice made her tremble all the more. “And I intend to make you pay for your hubris. We're playing my game now, with my rules, and I have all your pieces. You, my dear, are a lone pawn with no hope of promotion. However numerous your charms and the extent of the appeal they hold for me, you are chattel.”
Val shook her head as if trying to shake out his words. It wasn't a gesture of defiance and he seemed to know that but he acted as if it were, knotting his fingers in her tangled hair and yanking her head back.
“Oh no,” he said, “you are nothing—and you can't even begin to know what that means, but you will.” He cleared his throat. “In three days' time I will give you a clue. That clue will represent both a piece and a player. You will have one guess. One. Guess incorrectly and that player will die. Slowly, I should think, and rather painfully—just in case you don't find death ample motivation.”
He gave her an arch look.
“How helpful the clue is will vary in accordance with how pleased I am with you at the time.” “You're a monster.”
“Oh, is that right? A monster, am I?” He laughed.
She tried to pull away, but he swept her into his arms. “Ask yourself what a man without guile might do to your body in the dark.” He glanced at the window— the sun was rising, sending golden rays spearing through the shade—and added, “Or in the daylight. It's worse in the sun. It makes it all seem so much more…inescapable.”
Val sucked in her breath. Yes…she remembered… “I would love to see your body burnished in the
golden light of a savannah noon. Or if you are partial to the classicists, the wet drapery of the Romans. Well, the Greeks, actually.
When Rome conquered Greece, they appropriated all the things that caught their fancy. I am very much like my ancestors in that way.”
“You are insane.”
“Rome conquered the Britons, too. Remember that sketch, my dear? The only females permitted to wear togas were the courtesans. History can be so informative—don't you think? Perhaps you would be willing to pose for me again.”
“No.”
Again, she tried to pull away. He caught her by the hand. “Ah, ah, ah—not so fast. There is one more thing. This is a private game, one that is to be kept between you and me. No friends. No lovers. No police. N'est ce pas? I'll be very angry if you defy me. You wouldn't want that.”
“No.” She didn't.
“Then you may go. We're finished here.” He released her hand, gesturing at a forlorn pile of black fabric outside the bathroom door. “I believe your coat managed to escape the fray. See that you don't forget it.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You wouldn't want to catch your death.”
I already have.
Chapter Twelve
Columbine
She stood on the bus ride home even though it was empty, gripping the handrail with one trembling hand. The bus driver looked her way a couple times but didn't say anything. Val supposed if you drove the bus for long enough, you eventually learned to see nothing but the road.
(Did you think I'd only want you once?)
She would be lying if she said she had never secretly wondered what it would be like…to give in. Adolescent fantasies were capricious, and at fourteen, seventeen, she had been helpless in the face of his overt sexuality. Of course she had wondered.
She wrapped her coat more tightly around herself, grateful that the high collar covered most of her throat.
As she walked back to her dorm from the stop it seemed to Val as though everyone was aware of her stiff gait and its significance. Until now, she had never fully grasped the concept behind “walk of shame.”
Now, she did. Oh, now she did.
Mary was not home. Val checked everywhere, even the bathroom. Nobody was home. Small favors. She dropped her things on the floor and fell back against her bed, landing so her back hit the mattress first. Tentatively, she let her hips touch the bed, and then she let herself cry in heaving bursts, crying the red-faced snotty tears they never seemed to show on television.
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