King’s Captive

by Amber Bardan

  If she begged him to save her...

  Those big eyes of hers. Those innocent curls. That vulnerable pucker of her mouth when she purses her lips. What living male wouldn’t be prepared to die?

  Fire fills my lungs. He’s a bigger fool than I. Maybe I’d die for her, but at least I understand why.

  My lips still burn from her kiss.

  This could merely be an affair. Bitter possessiveness fills me. I take one last look at her bungalow. Right or wrong I don’t deny the feeling. If she knew, if I could tell her the thousands of things she needs to hear, then everything would change.

  She doesn’t trust me. I can’t tell. But we’re in this together. One way or another it all comes down to us.

  She’s still fighting it, now more than ever.

  Time’s almost up.

  Sound emanates from the inside and I freeze.

  No, it can’t be...

  I turn slowly. My heart gives a thump. My cock responds, still half-hard from not half an hour ago. I creep up the stairs, laying my boots only on planks I’ve learned betray no sound.

  She’s left the shutters half-open.

  The music reaches me. She listens to the disc I gave her. My cock strains against my zipper.

  This one.

  This song is her favorite. The bass is deep. It’s a song for fucking to, and I know exactly what this dirty, wicked girl of mine does to it.

  I’ve watched her often enough to know.

  My hand closes on the windowsill, and it’s all I can do not to tear the goddamned door down and teach her the way I intended her to enjoy this track.

  With me.

  I peer through the slitted shutters.

  She stands by the bed. I don’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed her hand isn’t between her legs as it usually is when I catch this song blaring from her room.

  But the look on her face—she’s getting off just the same.

  She bites her lip and smirks. My blood turns volcanic, inflaming my veins, swelling my cock.

  I almost groan and give myself away. That look, I cannot bear it.

  The real Sarah she’s attempted to conceal from me.

  But I’ll never forget.

  Not her passion. Not her cunning. Not her sass.

  I remember it all. Those things are still there, simmering under her surface, waiting to be unleashed—and in this moment, there’s nothing I desire more than to barge in, deliver the final push required to revel in having her break.

  But there’re a few short weeks left.

  The wait almost over.

  I tug my cock from my pants, and it throbs in my palm.

  She empties a drawer. Green notes flutter over the bedspread, dancing like butterflies. Her bottom lip slides free and she smiles all the way up her cheeks.

  My heart flips over. I stroke my cock. I’ll picture this look on her for many nights to come. She’s so damned pleased with herself. It almost kills me to have to burst her bubble.

  There’s no bribing her way off my island.

  No amount of money she could hide from me with.

  One day she’ll see that and no longer try. Tension builds in my middle. A pressure like a hand between my shoulders, half pleasure, half strain.

  Soon she won’t even want to. Not when she’s finally mine.

  I stroke myself faster and watch her. She takes off her filthy dress, tosses it on the ground, then returns to her drawers.

  Her ass is a perfect peach moving in her plain cotton underwear.

  The tension gathers, rhythmically and pulsing, like the song—a boom, boom, boom, in my blood—and tightens my balls.

  I want to sink my teeth into her ass the way I did her breast. Want to leave my brand all over her. Prove who she is and who she belongs to.

  She returns to the bed with clean clothes, then pauses, her hand moving to the marks on her chest. Her expression morphs. This one I can’t decipher. She strokes the tooth-shaped bruises with her thumb, and I’ve never seen her think so hard.

  Does she lie to herself, as well?

  The force builds, traveling from my shoulders to squeeze my guts. I jerk faster picturing the way her pussy creamed my knuckles. The way she moaned. The way she wanted it and refused to say.

  It’s cruel. So cruel. She’s so cruel to me.

  I’m such a sucker for her games.

  Her hand leaves her breast and she puts on the fresh dress. I fall back, cock still in hand, and move the few steps to the door.

  My palm presses to the wood. The tension breaks, spilling pleasure over me. My balls contract. I come on her threshold.

  Claim my ground.

  The track inside changes, bass replaced by the gentle tinkle of piano, and soft yearning lyrics.

  I shudder, leaning harder against her door.

  Along with the last of my semen, something more of me is relinquished, and I can barely right myself. I tuck in my cock. My heart constricts. I want to cover my ears. Block out this sound.

  Block out her.

  That’s never worked. She’s in me deeper than the ink on my skin.

  I stumble back. A board creaks under my foot, but I keep moving, careless in my pain. I find the path back to the main house, and collect myself muscle by muscle.

  This night isn’t over yet. It’s just beginning.

  It was a risk letting Ash in. Indulging his charade, pretending I don’t know exactly who he really is.

  I’ve had to lose men before. I duck under a branch taking the shortcut back through the scrub toward the house.

  And there’s absolutely nothing I haven’t lost or wouldn’t lose for her.

  Chapter Eleven

  The wise thing would be to wait inside. I stalk the balcony, listen to the night, and to anything that could be happening. I’ve taken the path halfway a few times but always end up back at my own door.

  I’m ready to leave. A pillowcase filled with the cash from my drawer is stuffed under the bottom step. More than enough to manage for a while until I figure things out. That’s not why I end up back here, though. Pacing the boards above my stash.

  The initial excitement for freedom has dwindled. We still have to survive escape. My stomach churns but there’s nothing left to vomit out.

  I’ve spewed up everything there is to purge. Cried everything there is to cry.

  What’s wrong with me?

  There was never a scenario where I could leave and Julius wouldn’t come after me. Where he wouldn’t use the things he has against me. I take the steps all the way down and sit at the bottom. What will Ash do to ensure he can’t?

  I tilt my wrist, try to catch the numbers on my watch but they’re all a blur. Julius took everything from me. The life I’ve left behind has been so obliterated it’s almost impossible to form a picture of how things were before.

  It has to be close to 3:00 a.m. And there hasn’t been a sound...

  What would John Fury do to free me from here?

  I never did listen to that part of the story. Never liked the gory bits.

  An image fills my mind.

  Julius lying in bed. Sleeping. Shirt off. Tattoos stretching across his chest. The parts of him I’ve only imagined. Branches of the tree, the trunk, roots wrapping around his side. His breaths shake the leaves. A shadow enters his room.

  Ash—with a knife.

  I leap to my feet, sprint down the path, run all the way to the back garden. Rocks jab under the soles of my sandals. A silhouette rises toward me, matching me step for step along the path.

  My legs move faster and the shadow streaks closer. My chest heaves. I stretch out my arms, not quite sure who I’m reaching for, or who it is I want to be there.

  “Sarah?”


  My palms connect with Ash’s sturdy chest.

  “Why aren’t you waiting at the bungalow?”

  I pant, lungs straining. My head rushes. “I was worried.”

  “It’s okay. Everything’s going to be alright.” Thick arms wrap around me. So warm. I’ve almost forgotten what it means to be embraced. For a moment I sink into the strength of his chest. Breathe into the sensation of being held.

  “We need to hurry,” he says and lets me go. “I’ve disabled the security systems.” He takes my arm, and we go in the direction I came from. Back toward my bungalow. “We’ll take the speedboat.”

  Our steps crunch rock. My eardrums pound with blood. A wave of sickness hits me. I hold an arm to my stomach. I don’t know what I imagined happening all these years, something different to this. A pirate ship arriving cannons blazing, black flags waving. This seems too easy.

  Julius wouldn’t go down without a fight.

  Julius.

  My stomach clenches under my arm. We round the curve in the path to the frangipani.

  “Wait.” I stop walking. My arm tugs where Ash holds on to me. “What happened to Julius?”

  Gravel grinds under Ash’s feet. “He’s sleeping.”

  “What?” I back away a step. Try to see Ash’s face in the dark. Is he kidding? “What do you mean? What happens when he wakes up?”

  Ash’s slow breath rasps in the night. “What did you think I was going to do, slit his throat while he slept?”

  My jaw clamps down. I see that imagined image again, of Ash with a knife. The knot in my stomach eases, but nothing makes sense. Why wouldn’t Ash—Fury, whoever he is—not be better prepared? “What do you think is going to happen when we get on that speedboat? Do you think Julius is just going to let me get away?”

  He touches my arm. “It’s going to be okay, Sarah. We’ll be on the mainland before Julius realizes anything and I have more than enough resources to protect you.”

  “Resources? Enough to protect me?” I take another step back. “What the hell is going on, Ash, because I need a shitload more than protecting. I need to be freed.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, get you off this island.” He takes my arm again, and tugs me another step under the branch of the tree. “We don’t have time for arguing. We can talk about everything later.”

  “Ash.” I tug my arm and duck under the branch. “Ash.”

  He pauses and releases me.

  “Don’t you think if I could’ve just escaped, I would’ve been slightly more proactive?” I straighten, and rub my forehead. “He has everything over me.” I swallow the rising bulge in my throat. “Please, please tell me you know this. Please tell me you have a plan.”

  “Of course—” A light flicks on behind Ash’s head.

  Julius stands at the top of my balcony, bathed in glow. Moths circle the globe above his head. The world stops still.

  This. Is. It.

  The moment in a nightmare, where you’re shocked awake.

  That lump in my throat gets bigger, broader.

  “Go, get off the island.” I touch Ash’s arm. “Go now so you can come back for me. I can deal with him.”

  Julius doesn’t move, maybe more terrifying than if he came after us.

  It doesn’t matter that we’ve been caught as long as Ash gets away. I can’t leave. Not now, not yet. Not like this.

  “Thanks for walking me back to my room, Ash,” I say loudly and shove him hard.

  He hesitates a moment, then turns and disappears behind me.

  Whatever held my spine so straight lets go. His steps melt away, and with each one I remember that with him there’s hope. Even if maybe I’d thought he’d put up more of a fight before abandoning me. I stare up the stairs, then take them one careful step at a time until I’m under the light too. Bugs hum almost as menacingly as the sound of my heart.

  I meet Julius’s gaze—see that thing that was missing when he faced the Connellys—the fury that sets my bladder squirming.

  Yes, Julius has everything over me, and he’ll use it all.

  “You know, baby, I’m starting to think you’re not very good at keeping your word.” His features remain even but I’ve come to know what gives him away. When it’s really smart to be afraid. With Julius it’s the mouth. The thickness of his lips thins out a little, the dimples in his cheeks come out to play.

  A bug lands on my neck. The prick pinches my skin, but I don’t swat it away. I’ve received worse bites today. Instead, I reach for my door handle, slide it down, then swing open the door and go inside. Don’t bother trying to lock him out. Today, I’m letting Julius in. His steps follow mine. The door clicks shut.

  I stare across my room, which now seems so much smaller.

  “I’ll have the truth from you today.”

  The promise in his words sends shivers scuttling across my skin.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

  But we both know, I never, ever have.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bloody Birthday

  3:30 p.m.

  “It’s time to come home.”

  Home.

  I grasp the soggy, blood-drenched length of my skirt and step back. Away. I need to get away from him. I didn’t think there was an unshaken place left in me, but that word from his lips proves I can still be jarred.

  With him? Home? Never.

  “I won’t do it.” That’s my voice talking, it’s weak but it’s there. “I won’t go with you. I won’t do what you want me to do.”

  I take a step back. Somehow I crawled away from the carnage and made it to the driveway.

  Maybe I can make it to a car like the other survivor?

  His men might have the place covered but no one is going to shoot me. Not like my father was shot. Not like they shot the others. They need me. I could run, I might make it to a car.

  “It’s vile—you’re vile.”

  He squints. My shoe hits embankment. I reach behind me, grasp a rose branch for balance. Thorns cut into my skin. My palm burns, but the pain doesn’t reach me. I’m disjointed. There’s too much blood pumping through my heart, it’s flooding my head. My body’s not connected to my brain like it should be.

  “I don’t want to carry you screaming, but I will.”

  I laugh. Maybe even my brain isn’t connected to my brain.

  “Oh no, you won’t carry me screaming—” I tug down, tear the branch clean off the bush “—I’ll go down fighting.” I leap toward him. Adrenaline-filled blood fuels my limbs. The branch hisses through the air like a whip. He weaves to the side. My arm swings wide, but the rose-covered tip licks his cheek. A red drop forms on his jaw, and runs like a bloody tear down his neck. I hold out the branch as though it’s a blade. Watch the nick on his jaw well again. Now I know the monster can bleed, I know he can die.

  He keeps his distance. Really, he should have learned better than to attempt to bully me by now. That tactic hasn’t worked out too well for either of us.

  “This doesn’t need to be so terrible.” He reaches into his pants pocket and comes out with a handkerchief and a slip of something else, then wipes the length of his neck. “One way or another this is happening. It’s up to you how you get through it.”

  Petals tremble on the stem in my hand. “You won’t get away with this. It won’t work. People are going to ask about Dad. They’re going to ask about me.”

  “Let me worry about them.” He tucks the handkerchief back into his pants. “All you need to worry about is me.”

  I let my arm lower. His words turn in my head, then roll over again with new meaning. “No, all you need to worry about is me.”

  His brow arches, but he listens.

  “There isn’t a thing that you’re pl
anning that can work without me.” I drop the branch. I never really needed it. “You need my cooperation and I have no fucking intention of giving it to you now.”

  His face smooths but the paper curls in his hand.

  I flex my fingers, torn palm stinging where the skin goes taut. A steady calm envelops me. I have the power here.

  He needs me. I don’t need him.

  “So now it’s my turn to offer you a deal, Mr. King.” I direct my finger at him. “Get off my property. Leave here, and when the police turn up, I’ll say I fainted and saw nothing. I’ll say whatever I need to say to make sure you don’t come back.” I press my throbbing hand against my belly and take one small step forward. “And if you do that, if you go and leave me be, I’ll ensure you get whatever it is of my father’s you came here for.”

  He smiles, small, and maybe even a little sad. “The time for negotiation is over. You lost that chance.” His words are hard ones, but the voice he uses is soft. “And you have no idea what I came here for.”

  I try to hold on to that burning conviction from a moment ago, but it seems to be drifting away the same way everything has drifted out of my grasp today. “Then explain so I can make it happen.”

  Julius shakes his head. If he’s experienced any regret after all he’s done, this is the first time I’ve seen anything like it. The way his gaze marries with mine, showing me things I can’t decipher. “What happened between me and your father was between me and your father. I didn’t come here for war, I greeted it.” For a face so hard, his goes awfully soft. “Come with me, do what I ask, and I’ll promise you this—” He opens his hand in front of me, and a bent photo rests in his palm. I don’t need to see it all to know what it is. Don’t need to look twice for panic to grip my throat just as fiercely as when bullets were flying. “You won’t lose anyone else.”

  The photo is the one my father keeps in his wallet. Of my five-year-old baby brother with his still-round cheeks. I haven’t seen him in nearly a year. Almost couldn’t forgive Dad for that. Maybe this is why.

  Why he was sent to school on the other side of the world, and why I live a lot like Rapunzel here.