Juniper Unraveling

by Keri Lake

  The pressure against my shoulders forces me to kneel, and I flail my arm, knocking his hand away from me. Stood at the level of his bulging crotch, I glare up at him, fantasizing about those blue eyes clamped in pain as I bite down on his dick.

  He hooks a finger beneath my chin, gently stroking his thumb along my cheek.

  The gesture disarms me, and I stare blankly up at him for any sign that a cold hard smack will follow for my insolence.

  His scent reminds me of rain, the way the earth smells after a storm. Fresh and clean. Fingers drift over my face, and I realize he’s studying my bones.

  Perhaps considering mine for his collection.

  Crouching in front of me, he lifts the chains and tugs at my wrist, securing the lock snug to my skin. He repeats the same to the other arm, leaving me only about five feet of chain for each limb.

  Kicking away from him, I back myself to the wall, allowing some distance between us.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  It strikes me that I haven’t told any one of them my name. None of these people know who I am. Not even Rigs. Names hold power, and I’ll be damned if this one’s getting mine. If everything else is to be stripped away from me in this place, it’s the one thing I’m damn well keeping for myself.

  “Go to hell.”

  His eye flinches over the skull jaw, and I wonder if he’ll wrap those hands at my throat and throttle the life right out of me.

  A knock at the door interrupts our stare-down, and two younger girls, maybe sixteen, enter the room with trays of fruit and a jug I assume carries water. The sight of it has me swallowing a harsh gulp, desperate for one sip after traveling in the desert heat.

  The desire is quickly tamped down as the girls set the dishes on the floor before him, heads bowed as if they’re scared to look at him. The sight of it sends a cyclone of disgust and anger churning inside my gut, and I curl my lip at the arrogance of this man. Asshole probably hurts them. Judging the surrounding macabre, he likely gets off on it, too. Why else would he sleep with skulls?

  I catch a glimpse of one girl staring downward at the scar across his hand. While the other pours water, her eyes remain glued, and they seem to guide her hand, as she reaches out to touch him.

  He recoils and balls his hands into tight fists.

  My muscles tense, waiting for him to swing out at her. I don’t know what I’ll do if the bastard hits her in front of me.

  Fist drawn back into her body, she drops her gaze, rubbing her hands together. “I’m sorry. I … forgot. I’m so sorry.”

  Both girls push to a stand, keeping their gazes directed away from Rhys and me.

  I lift the chain, rattling it against the pole beside me. “Hey! Anyone happen to notice the woman chained up here? Wanna help me out?”

  Ignoring me, they quickly shuffle out of the room and close the door behind them.

  Rhys’s angry eyes turn on me again. I don’t know that they’re angry, for sure, just that the scar makes it appear that way, as if a constant snarl exists behind that mask.

  He twists to face me, holding a fig and the jug, and tugs the mask to his chin, exposing a scar that lifts the corner of his mouth. Tipping the jug to his lips, he kicks his head back and skinny rivulets trickle from his lips.

  The parch sting in my throat invites another swallow, failing to produce enough moisture.

  Lowering the jug from his face, he squats in front of me again. “Name.”

  Ah, I get it now. He plans to torture me until I answer him.

  “Fuck yourself. That’s my name.”

  “Well, fuck yourself, I guess your name is fitting.”

  The hope of water dissipates as I watch him tromp away and kneel beside Trippy to offer a sip.

  Bastard.

  I kick back to the wall and pull my legs tight, resting my elbows against my knees.

  A flare of a burn hits my back and I open my mouth to a silent scream. The flare radiates sending me flying facedown into the ground. Like knives slicing across my back. My muscles tremble to stave off the intense burn, as excruciating pain sears my muscles, moving across my spinal column. Behind it, a cool wash settles beneath my skin, burrowing down to my bones like needles penetrating my flesh. I can’t move. My heart beats wildly, and I can’t move.

  Electricity shoots through my nerve endings as if they’ve been split open like cable wires torn apart.

  Clouds of dust kick up around my face as I scream. It’s all I can do.

  I’ve never felt anything so agonizing in my whole life.

  There’s a shuffling about my head. Movement around me. Someone lifts my shirt, setting a hand against that hot place where the pain is unrelenting.

  “D-d-don’t touch it!”

  I roll my head against the dirt while tears form in my eyes.

  The view in front of me shrinks to a pinprick as the gritty dirt scrapes across my cheek.

  Sounds reach my ears. The distinct moans of a woman, caught between pleasure and pain. I open my eyes, in a dream-like haze, catching sight of a figure moving over me. The blur keeps me from seeing him clearly. He’s big, though. Rhys?

  Sweat glistens off his body, illuminating the scars scattered across his skin. Muscles, defined and chiseled, flex with his movement, his body lean and as powerful as the heady scent that fills the room. Everything moves slowly. Sinuously. As if it really is a dream.

  The moans are my own.

  Waves of pleasure wind tight in my belly, and I lick my lips, wishing I could fight it, but every muscle begs for the sweet vibrations settling into my bones.

  I turn my head to find the line of skulls propped against the wall. Their mouths are gaping, with white curls of smoke drifting toward the cave’s ceiling. The painting on the wall stares down at me, widening and shrinking before my eyes, and the skulls laugh over faint voices that whisper my name. I peer down at myself, fully clothed, but writhing on the floor. Rhys watches me, jaw slack, eyes hooded.

  Those blue eyes tear into me, brimming with a hunger more intense than starvation alone.

  The scene fizzles as sleep tugs at my eyes, and I succumb to it.

  Fluids trickle down my throat, creating a path of moisture that cools my chest. A craving strikes hard, and I lift my trembling hands to a chilled object set against my lips. Desperate for more of it, I hold it there, sucking as much of the water as I can, not caring that it leaks out of the corner of my mouth.

  Pressure at my nape props me upright, cradling my head, as I continue to drink.

  The jug falls away to the darkness of the cavern, lit only by a single sconce on the wall, much dimmer than before. The other female is nowhere in sight, leaving me to wonder if this is when my shift to entertain the bastard begins.

  Rhys’s mask is gone, and I study the sharp lines of his jaw, covered in the short-cropped shadow of a beard, and the scar that distorts his skin. He’s ruggedly attractive … for a bastard.

  “You’re stubborn.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I say weakly.

  The cool water is enough for now, and my body is so lethargic with hunger and thirst, I don’t even care what he does to me. My eyes flutter shut, but open at the first touch of sweetness dancing across my tongue. The flesh of the fig presses against my lips, and I hold it there, sucking the juices that taste like sugary bliss. An ache throbs in my back and itches. Holy hell does it itch. I turn over into the dirt, trying to relieve it, and as if he can read my mind, he scratches it for me.

  In spite of my irritation, the relief is incredible and a soft grunt escapes me when he nails the spot.

  “Tarantula hawk.” He smooths his hand over the ache, and it’s heaven. Sheer heaven. “Found it trapped in your shirt.”

  “The pain. It was so intense.”

  “Gave you some peyote for it. You’ve been hallucinating for the last few hours.”

  Hallucinating? I don’t bother to tell him those hallucinations included him watching me just like he did the other woman. Hell, ma
ybe he was.

  “You’ve been stung before?”

  He nods. “Many times.”

  “Sure one of you assholes didn’t put it on me, as one of your sick tortures?”

  “If I was going to torture you, I’d come up with something more creative than a tarantula hawk.”

  “Like tying me up and offering myself to you? I’ll take the sting any day over that, thanks.”

  There’s a smile in his eyes as he shifts his jaw, as though he’s trying not to laugh.

  Still keeping my head propped, he watches me eat the fruit, seemingly riveted by it, and again, I couldn’t care less what thoughts are brewing inside his mind. Starvation has a way of commandeering one’s priorities, and mine is replenishing my body.

  He lifts the charm of my choker, the one I purchased from Jessie, with a small bird dangling from the leather. “What’s your name, little bird?” he asks for the third time in a matter of hours, and when I shake my head, his lips press to a hard line, tugging at the ruined skin of his scar.

  Just when I think he’s going to steal the fruit away, prompting me to clutch it tighter, he releases my neck and pushes to a stand. His abrupt movements tell me he’s pissed, but he doesn’t say another word as he crosses the room.

  He slides his leather vest off his shoulders, and in the dim light, I can see his muscles, where the shadows leap to the dips and hard lines in his chest and abs. After fumbling with his zipper a moment, elbows bent at either side of him, he pushes his jeans to the floor and kicks them away. Eyes on me, he straightens to a stand, cupping his manhood. His body is chiseled and perfectly proportionate, his thighs as powerful-looking as his broad chest.

  On the floor, a few feet away from me, is a bed of blankets, on which he lies down. Not the big comfy bed, but a pile of blankets no bigger than the mat below me.

  For the next twenty minutes, or so, I watch his back expand and shrink, expand and shrink, just like the skull on the wall. Slower. Slower, until I’m certain he’s fallen asleep. Below his scarred back is a muscled ass, complete with the indentations on the outer cheeks, and I have to order myself to look away from their distracting effect.

  I crane my neck back toward the chains, and careful not to rattle them, I tighten my muscles and pull. As if I could yank the pole right out of the ground.

  Trembling muscles and a cramp in my palm tell me I can’t.

  With a huff, I forfeit the effort and stare at the cave’s ceiling.

  It takes a while for me to fall back asleep. I hate the sounds in the cave. The cold and stagnant air. The hollow echo of voices from the main cavern. The suffocation and desperation of being trapped. Again.

  Just as exhaustion tugs at my eyelids, a moan snaps me awake.

  Dreaming?

  I blink to make sure I’m awake, and a grunt reaches my ears. Sharp breaths fill the silence, as if Rhys is having a nightmare, and his body jerks with every exhale. The animalistic sound that thunders from his chest is a cry of pain, and I lift my head from the mat. Hopefully, this isn’t one of his blackout moments that’ll end with my skull propped on a pole beside his bed.

  He flails an arm through the air, an action that sends him sitting upright, and he scans the room, looking back and forth as if confused.

  His eyes zero in on me, chest rising and falling with deep, rapid breaths.

  He turns to face me, lying back on his pile of blankets, and stares at me in the flickering light. Taking deep, easy breaths, he watches me with such intense focus, I can feel the hairs poking up from my skin. Though it’s not easy to discern, I can just make out the shape of his manhood, lying erect in front of his muscled thighs.

  Lying back down on the mat, I screw my eyes shut, doing my best to shield them from the one place they seem drawn to. Frustrated, I roll over so my back is to him, ears piqued for any movement that might suggest he’d try to rape me in the night.

  Instead, his quiet breaths tell me he’s fallen back to sleep.

  Chapter 31

  “Get up.” A woman’s voice tears me from sleep, and at a tug of the chain, I open my eyes to a redhead, not quite as bony as the other women, but lithe. Her torn flannel shirt reminds me of Jessie, and the red bandana she wears on her head adds a toughness to her small build. “I’m going to unlock the cuffs. You try any bullshit, and I’ll gun you down.” Amber colored eyes lift to mine. “And I’m a damn good shot. I wouldn’t chance it.”

  My body is sore and achy, as if I toiled out in the garden all day and ran across the desert after. A stuffiness fills my skull like a coating of cotton on my brain. “Who are you?”

  “The million-dollar question is, who are you?”

  Rubbing my temples, I roll my eyes at her. “Forget it.”

  “Fine. You want to act like a slave, you’ll get treated like one. I’ll call you Girl, how’s that?”

  “Rolls off the tongue better than slave, don’t you think? And last I checked, that’s why you idiots kidnapped me.”

  “You serve a purpose. That’s the only reason you’re here. Rigs thought you might be of use.” Her gaze sweeps the room and returns to me, as she tips her head. “He let you sleep in here?”

  “Let?” I twist back to the pole where I was chained. “As far as I know, I wasn’t given a choice.”

  “He doesn’t let anyone stay with him through the night. Doesn’t like to sleep with anyone. Particularly women.”

  “Lucky me.” I jerk my head toward the pile of empty blankets on the floor, where he slept. “You forgot to chain him back up last night.”

  “The chains are only a precaution.”

  “So, you sacrifice the unsuspecting females to the monster and lock the door behind you, is that it?”

  Ignoring my question, she pushes at my arm, nudging me forward, and I shoot her a glare as I step toward the door. “C’mon. You’re going to love what I have in store for you today, Girl.”

  “Where’d asshole go, anyway? Off to get his knob shined by some poor naïve cock groupie?”

  “Shut your fuckin’ mouth. And for your information, he’s out gathering food. For all the cock groupies here, including you.”

  “I haven’t touched his cock.”

  “Good for you. They’re handing out medals in the banquet hall, if you’d like to grab one.”

  “Is everyone a smartass, or just you?”

  “Only the ones who can’t stand pretentious and ungrateful bitches like yourself. You think because you come from the other side of the wall that you’re so much better? So pure? I’ve got news, sweetheart. We all pull the same weight around here, and we all share in the fruits of our labor. Equally.”

  She leads me to an open space, where four women sit in a wide circle, each carving the innards of a watermelon with flat stones. Six uncracked watermelons sit off to the side, and she gestures for me to sit.

  On a log, beside an older woman, I take a seat, resting my elbows on my propped knees. Red hands me a tray with a slice of bread, a mixed variety of fruits, and water. “Eat. And when you’re done, grab a melon and hollow it out. I catch you eating it, and you’ll be thrown into the pit.”

  “Pit?”

  “It’s where we throw the carcasses for the mountain lions and bobcats. Keeping them fed on the dead ensures they leave us alone.”

  “Got it. Don’t eat the watermelon.”

  “When you’re done, you’ll smash the watermelon into juice. Remove the seeds and set them aside.”

  “What do I do with the juice?”

  “Serve it to everyone.”

  “Slaves, or the asshole bikers?”

  “Everyone.” Hands on her hips, she tilts her chin up. “And no one here is a slave.”

  I set my glare on Red, as she spins away, and turn to the aged woman beside me, who sits hunched over herself, scraping melon. “Did they buy you, too?”

  Without so much as a blink, she keeps laboring, her lips pursed to a tight pleat of wrinkles.

  “She thinks you’re a witch.” The voi
ce comes from behind, where Red has magically appeared once again. “No woman has ever slept through the night with him. She thinks you’re devil spawn.”

  “D’you read that from her mind, or what?”

  “She told me.”

  So she does talk. “If I’m a witch, Rhys must be the devil himself, right? She ignore him, too?”

  “She respects him. And fears him.”

  “You all have a serious case of Stockholm syndrome. You know that? I could never respect a man who instills fear.”

  The corner of Red’s lip kicks up, and she tips her head. “You ain’t been livin’ out here long enough, princess. They’re all predators. Some just happen to be more loyal than others.” She saunters away with her hand set on the hilt of a blade, and I turn my attention back to the old woman.

  “I’m not a witch. Kinda hard to get away when you’re tied to a post all night.”

  For the first time, she looks up at me, eyes studying me for a moment, before she goes back to her toil.

  I finish breakfast and set to carving the watermelon with a flat, dull stone, emptying the contents into the bowl as the other women have done. I separate the seeds as instructed, adding them to a growing pile in the larger bowl placed in the center of our circle. Smashing the fruit, I grind it with the rock until it’s a frothy juice, the whole time wishing I had my sling.

  The other women pour the juice back into the melon shell and grab a cup. I follow their lead and approach each person in the cavern—the old, the young, and a couple of the bikers—offering a cupful of the juice. My gaze remains glued to the mouth of the cave as I move, to where I know freedom lies beyond. If I can get past the guard, I can make a run for one of those vehicles in the building. I’ve never driven a motorcycle, but I’m willing to take a crash course to get the hell out of here—a place I’m struggling to figure out.

  No one seems unwilling to be here, except for me. And from what I’ve gathered, the plan for me isn’t to play kitchen maid to the rest of them. I’m going to be used to get into Szolen.