by Amy Isan
I should have known. I should have walked away.
But he was there. His camera made me blush, and his erection made me cum. I can't deny I wanted him. But I wanted the man I thought I ran into - a charming Italian gambler, not a crooked psychopath. I'm all bruised up and worn out, and I have no idea why. Did he rape me while I was asleep? Did he fucking touch me? I try something new and I end up shackled to a bed like I'm in some medieval dungeon.
What about him? Didn't he climax, too? That couldn't have been part of the plan, the way he hurried off clutching his pants like he had done something terrible. He grunted in a way I've never heard a man grunt as he's finished. When I saw him again, his pants were a different color, weren't they?
I can't get that image out of my mind, coupled with the feeling of his shaft under his pants. I felt every groove with my hand, every vein and throb. Just as I came, so did he. Ugh. God dammit.
CHAPTER 3
I open my eyes. I must've fallen asleep as some point during my fits of rage. My body feels so empty, like there's a huge chasm in me. I remember visiting the Grand Canyon with my parents when I was a kid. I snuck under the fence and stared off the edge. Just thinking about looking down that huge hole in the earth was enough to make me feel the wind rushing past my ears. My little pigtails streaming past my face. That hole in the earth.
That's what my stomach feels like. It groans and grumbles. I remember not eating dinner the night I drove to the casino. I remember only drinking one glass of wine. I haven't eaten a thing in God knows how long. This room is just like the casino. No clocks and with the windows shuttered, no light that I might use to tell the time with. To tell me how long I've struggled against the metal shackles. How far they've dug into my skin as I've fought against them.
It's either a huge chunk of wood, carved from a single tree, or it's bolted to the floor the same way I am bolted to it. I can't imagine what it must weight, but it explains the stone floor. All my thrashing and screaming and yelling hasn't made the frame budge enough to displace a strand of hair on the floor. Trapped in this room forever¸ unless someone decides to move it and let it out.
At least a hunk of wood doesn't have to experience every aching second.
I hear footsteps outside the door. I've heard them all throughout the hours I've been in here. I've been able to trace them sometimes, hear other doors open and close. The footsteps usually walk right past my room and grow more distant. But sometimes, I swear I hear them stop right outside the door, then start again, like I'm being spied on.
That's how it is this time, too. The feet stop outside my door, and the trickle of light from under the threshold is blocked for a moment by whoever stands there. Is someone going to feed me? I've given up screaming for help - every pair of feet ignore me.
A key slides into the lock and clicks it open. The bright light blinds me. I didn't realize my eyes could adjust that well to such darkness. Even shutting my eyes and covering my face with my elbows isn't enough. It's so bright. I feel sick.
I can smell food. I must be losing it now. I reluctantly open my eyes and raise my arms to see the man himself, Giovanni, standing a couple of feet away from me. I want to lunge out and strangle him with my chains. I want to tie him to this bed and trap him here forever, never telling him when he'd be released or fed or if he was going to die or not.
"You!" I scowl, fury filling my voice and veins. My hunger subsides for a moment as adrenaline pumps through me and I embrace all the rage in the world. "You did this to me!" I point at him, my chains clinking as they move.
He's holding a tray of food, steam curling up out of a bowl. It smells amazing. He shakes his head and sighs. "I thought you might have calmed down after all this time," his accent doesn't seem as thick now, but it's still there. Was that an act too? He sounds cold, not like when he was taking pictures of me. He sounded sincerely enthralled that night. Last night? I don't even know.
Like I am any judge of what genuine emotion is or not. He's a liar, a faker, a thief and a criminal. I'm the one who fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
"I'm chained to a fucking bed! You kidnapped me! I'm supposed to just be calm about that?" I curse, pointing at my shackles as if he doesn't know. I don't curse a lot, but the words feel so good coming out of my mouth. What doesn't feel good is how they seem to have no affect on him. He just frowns.
"I guess you aren't prepared to eat then, either," he says. "Lily Strizke."
I stare hard at him. "How'd you get my last name?"
"Your purse, of course." He shrugs. He gives me a devilish grin, and I want to punch him in the face. "If you're not ready to relax and eat, then I can wait a couple more days."
The word 'days' feels like a stone dropping in my chest and crushing my stomach. I try to shake it off and act as cool and unaffected as he does. "I don't care. I'd rather die."
"It's a painful death, starving," he says. "Besides, that wouldn't be any good for me."
"Like I give a flying fuck what's good for you," I scowl. Flying Fuck, that's a good one. "I don't even know where the fuck I am."
"Italy," he says, matter-of-factly. "I brought you to my house."
Fucking Italy? I want to scream, but my voice is already so parched and hoarse, I can't afford it. I fucking knew something was off, something was weird. We couldn't still be in the desert, at least. There aren't that many song birds. "You mother fucker," I say. I laugh a little. "People will find me, they'll find my car at the casino."
"I assure you," he says, while turning away from me. "They won't find anything. You might as well have not existed in the States."
I glare at the back of his head and wish I had laser vision. I wish I could decapitate him from here, just killing him and somehow freeing myself. It's clear now, all the other people who've been ignoring my cries for help are being threatened by him, or worse, paid off by him. If he was out of the picture, then everything would be perfect.
He moves to the door and opens it again, holding it open with his foot. It must be heavy as it makes a loud creak against his shoe. He still won't look at me. "So, no food then? I guess we'll both wait to get what we want."
"What the fuck is it that you want?" I shout at him, but the heavy door closes on my words. It feels like they just bounced right off it and clinked to the ground, shattering like so much glass. That's how effective I am, huh? Just cracked glass. What the fuck could he possibly want with me? He could have had it back at the casino. He could have even killed me, if he had wanted to.
I immediately regret turning down the food. The savory smell is still trapped in the room. This room, without any ventilation or windows to take away the smell. It's mouth watering, and I keep breathing it. My stomach aches and groans even more. At least I have a possible explanation for the bruises... I was shoved into a plane or something. Maybe a dog carrier was used? Ugh, thinking about it makes me queasy.
Either way, the bruises feel like nothing but cat scratches compared to the pain of my stomach twisting itself into a sailor's knot. What's worse, my heart is still racing from seeing him again. Out of anger and something else. I lock my legs together by twisting my feet and ankles and try and turn over. Facing the wall will eventually make my right arm go to sleep, then maybe I can ignore my stomach enough to sleep it off.
How do those monks and people do it? Choose not to eat? It's torture.
Isn't that the point? It's torture? They have a cause. I don't. I'm just starving for no reason but stubborn pride. God, and they don't have wicked hangovers, either.
When will he come back to offer me food again? Will he? Maybe I blew it. That was my last chance at eating, and now I'll die here. Him, or his servants, will find my body attached to this bed, and they'll unlock the shackles and toss my body in the trash. That's all I am anymore, right?
'Too stubborn to eat,' is what the headline will say.
— — —
The next time I open my eyes, the light that usually creeps out from beneath the door is gon
e. It must be night. Crickets chirp and frogs croak as if the birds transformed while I wasn't listening. Shedding their feathers and wings in favor of green skin and antennae.
I'd eat a frog right now, or a grasshopper. Yeah. Like in those reality TV shows where the contestants have to eat deep-fried cockroaches or something disgusting, I would eat all of it. I'd win the million dollars. I'd win it all.
When I turn my head toward the door, the world swings out of view and back in, like it's bouncing in a playhouse. I shake my head and squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes it worse. I've been so upset about my hunger, I forgot I haven't had any water either.
My lips are dry. My mouth feels like bone. I try to gather spit by squeezing my tongue between my teeth, but they only squeak against the flesh. It's useless. I'm going to die one way or another. I wish I could just do it on my own terms.
The door's lock is opened again, and Giovanni steps inside. His outfit is different this time, much fancier, and he has a stern look on his face from what I can tell. He flips the lights on and blinds me again, and I should have expected it. He must enjoy watching me struggle.
"Does this get you off or something?" I wheeze. I open my eyes and he's digging through the armoire that's between my bed and the door. He finds a blue dress and throws it to me.
"You're going to wear this, and if you do, you'll get to eat."
"Fuck you," I scowl. I choke on my raspy throat, my voice will go if I keep wasting it.
"Plenty of others have fought just as hard, but they always give in to the first offering. You're a bit more stubborn, Lily, so just do it or I will let you die."
Others? What does that mean? He's had other girls here? Fucking Christ. Either way, I bet it hurt for him to admit that I'm stronger than they were. I smile a little and he frowns. He steps up to me and I cower without a thought, fear overwhelming me in a split second. Just being close to him makes me feel confused and wrong. Do I want to wrap the chains around him and kiss him, or strangle his throat. Why? What the fuck is wrong with me? He leans in close with a small key to unlock my cuffs, and he inhales my scent deeply. I'm sure I don't smell very good after laying here for what feels like days. I feel disgusting, at least. He, on the other hand, smells divine. He strokes my cheek and pulls some loose hair and tucks it behind my ear. I shudder because his hands touching my skin feels so wrong, and so right.
He unlocks my wrists and opens the small hinges. I pull my arms out and stretch them. With the light on, I can survey the real damage they did. Deep red bruises and gashes circle my wrists, but I can't worry about that right now. He doesn't seem concerned, at least. He stares at the dress. "Put it on," he commands with a presence much larger than himself.
I obey without a word. I slip the dress on and find it fits perfectly. This... is horrifying. How does it fit perfectly? I stare down at it and tug at it, but it doesn't budge.
"Surprised?" he asks.
"Why does it fit?"
He smirks, and extends his elbow just like he did that night in the casino. I reluctantly thread my arm through it and we walk out of the room together. My legs ache, but walking feels good. Like blood is pumping through them.
How long was I in that bed?
How long have I even been here? Does anyone know that I'm missing?
Certainly my... ex boyfriend doesn't care, since he just saw me storm out. Right now, I kind of wish I had just turned a blind eye, walked back out of the apartment, and just gotten coffee instead. I'd still be upset and angry with him, but at least I wouldn't be out here... with this man. I stare at the side of Giovanni's face and see a silent smile appear. I frown. I hate him.
But it's nice for my arms to be wrapped around something warm, instead of embraced by cold steel. At least I have that little consolation.
We pass through the doorway out into a courtyard. My prison is in the corner of a walled-off garden, where sunlight comes down from the open air above it. Stone walkways square the garden, and large granite pillars are at each of the four corners. I can see two of the hallways extend out from the room, out into two separate wings of the house. There are no doors separating the hallways from the open air of the courtyard. It must be awfully nice here most of the time to have such a fancy house exposed to the elements constantly.
Some people flit back and forth, people I can only assume are servants. The same ones that ignored my cries, now ignore my gaze. But they all look at Giovanni. They all look at him like he's God or something. He sometimes acknowledges them, but other times just ignores them. None of them seem to be affected either way, but just... grateful. That can't be right. A monster like Giovanni?
Giovanni's footsteps are hard and loud on the stone floor, which reminds me I don't even have shoes on. The stone is cool under my bare feet. Giovanni's pace is practically pulling me out of the gardened area, no time for gawking I suppose. My dress feels soft, but I can't help but imagine the layer of dirt and grime that must be between the silk and my skin. I feel wretched, and I'm almost glad that nobody is looking at me.
They must know I'm here. I screamed until my voice was hoarse that first night. They must be used to this. He said there were others. I stare at his profile, his face expressionless, or maybe just determined. What about the woman who came in and told me Giovanni would find me unacceptable? Have I already done that? What happens then?
I breathe to ask Giovanni a question, but before I can utter any words, he stops us in front of a grand door attached to the courtyard. The courtyard isn't that large, but I feel disoriented from my hunger and thirst. He nods to me, and without waiting for any kind of response, he pushes open the door.
Inside, a grand dining hall expands before us. Huge vaulted ceilings that seem impossibly high, decorated with long beams of wood and golden chandlers. This is the man who photographs for a living? Christ.
He continues dragging me into the dining hall, where a large rectangular table dominates the center of the room. His elbow isn't a gentle gesture anymore, but a death grip on my arm, I'm realizing. Every time I stop to try and get my bearings or look at something, he cinches his elbow down on me and drags me faster to keep up with him.
He takes me to a chair, already pulled out and with the table set for me. There are rough metal rings underneath the table, and I shudder. He takes my hands in his and meets my eyes.
"Remember, you can eat, but only if you behave, Lily," he says, his voice smooth and with a cadence that could lull a baby to sleep. How could a man like this be so... evil? "Which hand is your dominate one?"
Before I can react or say anything in response, he pushes me down into the chair and pulls my right hand forward and under the open ring bolted to the underside of the table. With a flick of his finger, the metal clasp closes and he locks it shut. I stare at it, then up at him.
"How did you know?"
"It's my job to know these things," is all he says. I shudder. He wasn't bluffing about my car... about how I might as well not have existed in the States, was he? What else does he know? My social security number? My foot prints from my birth certificate? Fuck, he probably has a laminated copy of it hanging in his god damn bedroom for all I know.
I pause for a moment, then feel an idea pop into my head like a soap bubble. "How will I cut my food?" I ask. This is definitely something he hasn't considered.
"It'll be cut for you... and you won't be addressing me so casually anymore. As part of your training, you'll only refer to me as 'sir' from now on, understand?"
"Training...?"
"Yes, Lily, your training. It's very important."
I don't understand, but nod slowly anyway. I hang my head down. What's the point in fighting it? My stomach feels like a mine about to collapse, and that'll make me look like some disfigured monster if that happens. I can just see it now, a huge dip from my chest down to my hips. I feel his presence as he leans down near my face, his breath hot on my neck and giving me tingles I hate to admit to feeling. He grabs my chin and makes me face him. Th
e hard look in his eyes makes me shiver in fear. "Understand?"
I nod as best I can against his grip, his fingers digging into my cheeks and almost making my lips puff out. After he releases me, I grab my throat and gasp, then say, "Yes... sir." The word feels slimy leaving my mouth, but if I want to eat, I have to play the game.
"Good." He walks around the expansive table, and since his chair is set across from me, and we're sitting right in the center, rather than the ends. It takes him a while. His place is already set, silver and gold utensils laid on cloth napkins. I stare down at my place. Less glamorous silverware was brought out for me, and I can see a faint bit of blue hue in the tarnished silver. While I'm waiting for him to sit at his place, I take the chance to observe the lock that's keeping me held to the table.
It isn't shiny and polished. It's as old as the locks and cuffs in the bedroom. The metal is rough and pitted, worked over with shiny and dull scratches. I want to vomit. How many people has he had here, locked against this table, against their will? How many women? He said others had broken, but I thought he might have been bluffing. Naive.
The green-eyed monster takes his place directly across from me and pulls his chair in so the table is just barely touching the buttons on his shirt. He isn't a large man by any definition, but there must be some kind of comfort from being that close to one's food. I flit my eyes from him to the room, the huge bay windows behind him bringing in so much moonlight that the chandeliers aren't necessary. I find it hard to focus on anything. When I look back at him, he's grinning at me like I just made a joke.
"What's your problem?" I blurt out, before catching myself. His smile vanishes, but I quickly add the necessary word that might keep me from being eaten alive. "... Sir?"