“It’s time for breakfast, kitten.” He leads me off the bed and to the door. We’re leaving the room. Hope rises in my chest. I wait for the sash, but he doesn’t pull it out. Maybe he'll let his guard down today, and I'll have a chance to run.
He looks back at me as he enters in the code. I bite my bottom lip and look away. Damn it. He grunts a laugh and it pisses me off. At the click he opens the door and reaches out to prop it open with his foot. I consider grabbing the door, swinging it open and running. My heart beats fast and adrenaline rushes through my blood at the thought. But I don’t do it. I watch as he wheels in a steel cart and the door slowly closes. My eyes fall to the ground and I feel like a fucking coward.
“Now now, kitten, stop that.” I look up at my captor, at my dom, with sad eyes.
“I just want to go home.” I say the words again and I'm sure I sound pathetic.
“You are home,” he says absolutely. It crushes something inside me and I have to work hard not to cry. I stand there while he wheels the cart over to the sofa and sets up covered dishes on the coffee table. I look between him and the locked door.
It could be so much worse. He was supposed to kill me. I close my eyes and steady my breathing as I consider how many other ways this could have gone. I just need to behave. He can’t keep me here forever.
“Come, kitten.” My feet move toward him before I’m even fully conscious of his command.
I start to sit on the sofa, but he holds his hand up and I freeze.
“On your knees,” he says.
I only hesitate a fraction of a second before gracefully sitting on my heels. I put my hands on my thighs where he placed them earlier. I can do this. I know I can. And I can win his trust and I can get the fuck out of here. I just need to role-play. I can do it. I know I can.
“Let’s play a game, kitten.” He starts talking and I give him my full attention, but I don’t want to play a game. I want to go home. I want to read my books, talk to my clients, and engage with my group of readers on social media. Every hour I’m away from them kills the interaction rates. It’s fucking horrible for business. I breathe in deeply. My books and my work are my life. And he’s murdering both of them right now.
“Between every bite we’ll ask each other a question.” He lifts a silver dome off of a plate and a delicious scent fills my lungs. I inhale deeply, loving the smell of peppers and sausage and eggs. I eye the dish. Omelets. My mouth waters. “Does that sound like fun to you?” he asks.
No, I think, but of course I answer, “Yes.”
“Does it really?” he asks, immediately countering my simple answer.
“Fun? No, it doesn’t. But it sounds like something to do,” I answer honestly out of instinct. I don’t have time to be nervous about it. He barks a laugh at my answer and lays a gentle hand on my hair.
“Thank you, kitten.” He leans down and plants a kiss in my hair and strokes me gently. It’s soothing, and I hate how comforting it is.
I look his body over as he moves to cut a piece of the omelet. I still don’t understand why a man like him would do this. I want to ask him. But I’m not going there. I think I’ll stick to, What’s the weather like outside, since I can’t fucking see it?
“I’ll go first, kitten,” he says as he stabs a piece of the egg and puts the fork in front of my mouth. I obediently open and wait for his question. “I know what happened with the Cassanos. But I want you to tell me what you saw.” I chew the food slowly as my blood chills. I don’t want to talk about it. I also don’t know if this is a test. Maybe he really does work for them. Maybe this is all a ploy of some sort. Anxiety creeps up on me. As if reading my mind, he reassures me.
“It’s not a trick. I’m just curious how it happened.” He sets the fork down as I swallow.
“Would it help if I tell you what I know?” he asks. I nod my head, still unable to speak. Everything that happened fucking destroyed me. I may have been a sweet, shy, book-loving nerd before, but at least I was strong and confident. Going through that shit robbed me of that. I don’t want to go back to that fucked up place.
“You saw three of their soldiers kill Judge Hawthort. He was killed by Michael Davis, and Joseph and Brandon Becker. And later you were able to identify them all as well as account for their missing kilos of dope,” he says.
I shake my head no and say, “He was alive. I’m fairly sure he was alive.” I didn’t testify that I saw him dead, and I'm confident that he was alive at the time that I witnessed everything. His body was never found though. It’s a very real possibility that he’s dead simply because I saw them. Talking about this triggers the memory. I see the hammers in their hands and hear the sound of Brandon smashing his against the judge’s knee. He was alive. I hear his screams echo in my head. The bricks and the bags are there. My body turns to ice.
He holds another bite to my lips; my appetite is gone, but I take it. “What else did you see?” he asks.
“Nothing. I never saw anything else,” I say.
“They were charged with more,” he points out.
“Nothing that I testified to,” I answer quickly.
“But you testified to attempted rape and kidnapping?” he asks.
I look away and nod.
“I have another question for you and then I’ll lighten it up, kitten.” My eyes fall. I don’t want another question. This game fucking blows. “I want you to be honest.”
I wait nervously for his question.
“Did they touch you?” I know what he's getting at.
I shake my head no. “They tried,” I answer, looking to the floor. “That’s when I left.” Not a single one of them did. Not even Lorenzo. He was having too much fun beating me for sport.
“What about your boyfriend?” he asks. I fucking hate that I ever called him that. Lorenzo helped me escape the pain of losing my mother. He made me feel free and wild. And then he destroyed me. I shake my head no, and I don’t realize until Anthony says something, but my hand moves to my cheek.
“He hit you?” I lock my eyes on Anthony’s. His voice is calm. He’s been calm the entire time. But his eyes spark with a darkness I never want to see directed at me. I give one curt nod in response. I’m ashamed that I let Lorenzo hurt me. I’m ashamed that it all ever happened.
He scoops a piece of omelet onto the fork and holds it out for me.
I take it simply to fill my mouth so I don’t have to talk.
“Your turn, kitten. Ask me anything.”
Catherine
I can ask him anything at all. Anything I want. “Why me?” I ask simply. I want to know what I did that put a target on my back.
“Well. I told you I was supposed to kill you,” he says. The reminder makes my stomach churn. “You were on my list, and like everyone on my list, I did a little digging. In your case, I liked what I found.” He spears a small piece of pepper and puts it to my lips.
“Have you...done this before?” I ask before accepting the bite. I fucking hope the answer is no. If it’s yes, I know what my next question will be, but I’m afraid of the answer. Did you kill them when you were done with them?
“I’ve played before, but it was only play. You’re the first real submissive I’ve had. And the first complete 24/7 power exchange.”
I don’t know why, but I hate that there were others before me.
“What happened to them?” I ask before receiving another bite.
“We weren’t a good fit,” he answers without looking at me. It’s the first time he’s done that, and I don’t like it.
“What did you do to them?” I ask before I can think twice.
He cocks a brow at me. “You mean, did I kill them?” he asks.
My throat closes as I answer in a choked voice, “Yes.”
“No, kitten. I didn’t kill them.” He doesn’t answer my unspoken question. If we don’t fit, will he kill me? He holds another piece out for me to take. But I shake my head. I’m not hungry. The thought of eating another bite makes me sick to
my stomach. Of course he will. I’m already supposed to be dead. If we don’t fit, or once he’s done with me, I’ll be dead.
Tears prick my eyes, but I push them back. I need to be good. I need to be fucking perfect until I can get out of here. And the first chance I get, I need to run as fast as I can. I can never stop running. Never.
His strong arms wrap around me as he picks me up and pulls me into his lap to lean against his chest. “I chose you for a reason, kitten.” He gently strokes my back and I concentrate on how good it feels to distract myself from the pain. He kisses my hair and then pets me as I lay my head flat against his hard, hot body. I hear his heart beating as he speaks. “You fit me, and this is exactly what I wanted. You are exactly what I want.”
For now. I focus on the plan. Survive until I’m given an opportunity. I’ll be as perfect as I can be. I’ll make him want to keep me. I pull back and he readjusts me so I’m sitting in his lap.
I don’t know what to say to move past this, but I really just want to move forward and forget that this breakdown ever happened.
“Do you like your new home?” he asks. I'm grateful to discuss a more casual topic, but I can't forget that the fact he's even asking me that question is fucked up. I didn't need a new home. I loved my cabin, and I want to go back.
I glance around the room again. It’s as perfect as a gilded cage can be. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”
“Do you have everything that you need?” he asks.
“There are a few things I’d like to get,” I say quietly.
“Yes, you told me that. Other than a few trinkets, is there anything important that I’ve forgotten?” I feel like he already knows the answer to his question. Like this is a test.
What’s the one thing I need here? One thing he hasn’t given me is my laptop. I’m afraid to ask for it. It’d be stupid to ask. There’s no way he’d let me go online.
He reaches past me to the cart and my mouth drops open.
“I told you earlier, you only need to ask,” he says.
I stare at my laptop in his hands. My fucking life is on there. I reach out to take it, expecting him to snatch it away, but he doesn’t. Instead he kisses my hair and gently rubs my back. I hug it to my chest and wait for the other shoe to drop.
“Go ahead. I know you have work to do.” I swallow the lump in my throat and slowly open my MacBook Pro. It’s ten years old. I got it in college. It’s really past time to get a new one, but I fucking love my baby.
I type in my password, and the same screen pops up that’s greeted me every morning for the last year. It’s a meme that says, “You can’t read all day, if you don’t start in the morning!” I can’t help my smile. I instinctively look to check the internet connection. I have a few books loaded on here that I need to put on my Kindle, but what I really need to do is catch up with my FB group and my blogs, plus the editor for my column. I also need to check my email, my website for beta readers, my Goodreads account, and the reading groups online. I take a deep breath and click on my web browser and then hold my breath and stiffen as the screen pops up. I quickly hit exit and look back to Anthony self-consciously.
“Go ahead, kitten. I want to watch you work.” I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and look back at Anthony with disbelief.
“I told you I’d give you your life back. I’m a man of my word.” I search his eyes for anything but sincerity, but that’s all I see. I bite my lip and look back to the computer.
I have work to do, and this is going to take me fucking forever. I shift in his lap. This isn’t going to work, but I don’t want to push my luck.
“You typically write on your bed, don’t you?” he asks.
A chill runs through me at the reminder that he watched me before taking me. “I do.”
“Go ahead. I’ll sit here. I have a book I’d like to read.” It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when they do, I take my chances and get my ass up and move to the bed with my laptop. I keep my eyes on him as I put the pillow against the headboard for support, and another on my lap for the computer. I’ve always typed this way. I imagine I always will. It’s a bad habit to break.
I watch as Anthony rises and walks to the bookshelf, choosing a paperback and lying down on the sofa. He crosses his ankles and it’s the sexiest sight I’ve ever seen.
It’s fucking unreal that he’s letting me get online.
Something’s up though. And I don’t fucking like it. Everything is a test. Every last fucking thing. My eyes stay on him as I type in my password. My email is slow to open, but it does. I click on my emails one at a time and type my responses, but I keep looking back to Anthony. He simply turns a page, appearing fully engrossed in his reading.
I feel so fucking uneasy. He’s not at all what I expected, and the thought that I’d be able to do this is just...insane. He's fucking insane. Not just mentally unstable, but certifiably insane if he thinks I’m not going to message someone--anyone--that I’ve been taken. I don’t give a fuck that he’s been nice, or that he’s hot, or that this is literally a fucking dark dream come true for me. There’s no way I’m not going to try to get the hell out of here.
I click on a new tab and bring up Facebook. Cheryl’s my personal assistant and my go-to gal for everything. My cursor hovers over the box to message her, but she’s already sent me five messages. The third one was her freaking out that I didn’t respond at all yesterday, but the fourth and fifth are her fixing my shit and wishing me well because she refuses to believe that I’m dead and I better fucking message her back or she’ll find me and kill me. Yeah, that’s Cheryl.
I type in a lame excuse and don’t mention shit. Yet. I want to. Every fucking voice inside of me is screaming to do something and tell someone. But I’d be stupid to think I’d get away with it, right? I watch Anthony for a minute as I copy and paste an email to send to another reader.
What would he do to me if I did? Kill me. The answer is obvious, but he hasn’t hurt me yet. My ass smarts at the thought. It still fucking hurts, although the cream he rubbed in did wonders for the worst of the pain. I don’t know where I am. I’m not sure that there’s any way they’d find me.
Hey, Cheryl. Some psycho took me, I’m not sure where. Could you figure out a way for someone to rescue me?
Yeah...that’s not going to fucking work. My heart races and my fingers itch to type something, anything to help me get the fuck out of here.
I will be good. I will not email the police and post all over social media that I’ve been kidnapped. 'Cause that would be fucking obvious. But I could sure as fuck sneak in some clues.
I type in, Busy with Comfort Food, hoping she’ll catch on. It’s a classic book where the heroine is kidnapped. I hope she understands and catches the subtlety. Maybe she can help me. She can relay information for me, and I can figure out where the fuck I am.
She instantly replies, Whatcha eating?
Jesus, Cheryl. I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. As I consider what to type next, Anthony’s phone pings in his pocket. He takes it out and looks at it and then right at me. My heart stops. But he merely gives me a tight smile and goes back to his book.
I can’t help but think that message was about me. That I’d been caught. My skin prickles with goosebumps and my hands shake. What would he do if he caught me? What good would it do for people to know I’d been taken if they had no way to find me? It takes me a moment, but I’m finally able to type back, Omelets, brb.
No more of that shit. I go back to checking all of my notifications. I post a few memes, along with a fun pic of a hot man with a question for the readers to answer about Linda’s new book release. I download four betas to my Kindle as I message three authors that I’m a day behind. The hours tick by as I make small dents in my work.
I only look up when I see Anthony rise and stretch. I hold my breath and wait for him as he strides toward me.
“I’ll be back, kitten.” He leans down and looks over my computer for only a second
and then gives me a smile. I feel that sexual tension between us, the need to lean forward and kiss him.
But instead his brows furrow and he looks back at the screen, reading over the posts in my group. After a moment he breaks the silence. “I wonder what your group would suggest, kitten,” he says, taking a seat next to me. His arm wraps around my waist. Like this is normal, like we’re a couple.
“Ask them this.” It’s a command.
I click the box and prepare to type in a question. My heart beats chaotically in my chest as he tells me what to write. “What would you do if you woke up in a basement and a man gave you two choices: die, or be his?” I type in his words and hover over the submit button. It’s fucking insane that he’s having me ask them. But it’s also a common thing I do. I pose a question by picking a scenario from a common trope to engage them. I already know what most will answer.
I hit enter, and it doesn’t take long for them to start commenting. They love these questions, and frankly, so do I. But not this one. Because this is real.
“Well, your friends have some good ideas as to what you should be doing.” I consider pointing out the comment from a reader about gouging his eyes out, but I don’t.
I read down the list of responses. Nearly forty comments already. Most say the same thing.
Be his!
I choose the second option!
Well, if he’s hot--that’s a no brainer!
All their responses seem so natural online. They're meant for humor, and to be cheeky replies. A week ago, I would have said the same. But it’s not real. You wouldn’t really do that. It’s not that easy. I want to yell at Anthony. I’m pissed that he would do that shit to me, that he would make me feel like I’m the one holding back.
“Given that the choice is to die or to be his, it’s clearly a given.” I read the words flatly. It’s one of the comments, but also the truth. I keep my voice even and my eyes on the screen.
I can feel Anthony’s eyes on me, and I regret opening my mouth at all. I can’t look at him, so I stare at the screen. The comments continue coming in.
Bad Boy: Valetti Crime Family (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance) Page 9