His Captive, The Unabridged Collection: Billionaire Dark Romance

by Watson, Meg

  I have to get out.

  Wincing, I shifted up enough to prop myself up against the pillows properly and peered through the curtains as they wafted gently in the breeze. The garden by morning light was as serene as a painting. The blank windows across the courtyard showed no evidence of what I had seen.

  No. Don’t think of it.

  I shuddered, hitching my breath and trying to blot the memory out with something else. Anything. French techno music. The sound of rain under taxi wheels. The movie-star glow of Rachel’s hair in the taxicab, before any of this had started. I remembered that I had offered to go home and change when she said my outfit wasn’t working for her. I should have.

  Bitterness surged in me and I stamped it back down. It wasn’t her fault, I had to remember. If anything, it was Bronson’s. Or ultimately, if I followed the thread back far enough, it was mine. Why did I go to the tenements looking for her? I should have been making my own money, not relying on someone else for damn near everything. I knew that was never the right way.

  Wriggling my hips back, I worked my legs underneath me and half-sat, then turned so I was facing the headboard and could gingerly let my arms down. I moaned in relief and rested my forehead for long minutes against the carved wood until I felt like my body was back in working order.

  There were no sounds in the house again. It seemed like that was the way: either silence or a chorus of moans, screams…

  Don’t think of it!

  I shook my head, hard. I had seen something real in him, finally, and I needed to concentrate on that. Some connection that sparked when I let myself fall into his hands and submitted to his will. I had to focus on that, not be distracted by other things. If I was going to get out of this alive, I needed to remember that small victory and nothing else. I couldn’t be set off the path. We had connected, and that was my way out. I knew it.

  Looking around the room, I took note of the simple but elegant furnishings. Someone had been cared for here. And if he had cared for someone, there was room in his heart. Even when placing the bars on the windows, he’d apparently gone to the trouble to have them artisan made and beautiful. That was a strange thing to think about, but a hopeful thing too. He could be thoughtful.

  The only way I'd ever imagined anyone getting out of a situation like this was to make the captor willing and pliable. Make them care about you, trust you. Earn their affection and work your way up and out.

  That's the way Rachel would do it.

  I chuckled to myself softly as I flexed my wrists in the now-loose bindings. She would have been out of here on the first day, somehow. She would have made it off that first metal table, or probably not even been so easily fooled by Bronson on the sidewalk.

  When things got a little too real, Rachel always seemed to have a way to extract herself, even when the solutions were less than elegant. She would have been willing to yell Rape on the sidewalk, warranted or not. I took too much time to get suspicious. I could see that now. Rachel would have been less trusting. First mover advantage, she called it.

  I fixated on the thought as I watched the door, waiting for Rafe. He was bound to be in at some point. From time to time I shifted the opposite way to rest on my other hip. After what seemed like hours, I heard the characteristic click of his shoes as he made his way to my room. I listened closely, trying to pick out the other small clatter that accompanied them, farther away.

  Dishes. Oh my god, food!

  I'd been subconsciously staving off the intense hunger gnawing at my stomach for a long while, but the moment I heard the soft clinking of dishes, the shifting of silverware, the approaching footsteps... it came back in a wild rush of anticipation. I found myself elated to see him then, not caring what he might do to me after. I had to eat.

  Baby steps. But forward steps. No backtracking this time.

  The bolts slid out, and the door was practically thrown open. Rafe wore the same wide smile he had the night before. I managed a smile of my own, my eyes coming to meet his. His brows knitted together and he came closer, warily.

  “Your hands… They’re still bound,” he growled.

  I nodded, cautiously watching his expression. My palms flexed back so he could see the indentations and welts across my wrists.

  His eyes flashed toward mine and I fought the urge to wince.

  “They’re simple knots,” he said in a low, slow murmur that sounded thick and slightly pained. “You could have slipped them at any time.”

  Again I nodded. I hoped my silence was answering him in a way he found satisfactory. I was sure if I opened my mouth I would say something idiotic.

  For a moment he stood with his head tilted to one side. His eyes danced over my naked skin, lingering on the bright red patch on my hip from where I had shifted my weight. Then he reached out and grasped the loose ends of the cord and snapped them away. He caught my hands in his and turned them over gently, squinting at the zigzagged red lines.

  “Lovely,” he whispered, almost to himself, then his eyes met mine. I watched him cautiously as he raised my raw flesh to his lips and placed a tender kiss on each wrist. “Thank you. So much.”

  Nodding slightly, I let him draw my ankles to the edge of the mattress. He stood straight and knuckled his chin as his gaze swept over every part of me. I showed no signs of withdrawing and stayed as still as I could.

  Then he nodded as though answering his own question. He stepped smartly to the wardrobe and flung open one door. Snapping padded hangers to the side one by one, he finally lingered on one and then plucked it from the bar. Turning, he balanced the hanger on one finger. A pale peach kimono with scattered, delicate cherry blossoms billowed gently.

  “Your color? Hm?”

  I nodded silently and slipped from the mattress to the floor, then stood and held my arms out. Catching his lip in his teeth, he drew a quick breath and peered at my expression. I raised my chin and gazed at the ceiling, my pose completely vulnerable and willing.

  “Excellent. Excellent,” he murmured, his breath warm and soft against my neck as he wrapped me in the luxurious, kitten-soft fabric and tied the sash around my waist. I breathed deeply and stood as still as I could. While it was strange to have someone else do something so simple for me, it was also remarkably satisfying, as though I was being safely swaddled.

  “You are beginning to understand,” he said, stepping back, inspecting my dress with a critical eye.

  “Yes,” I breathed, finally confident I could say something safely. “I think I do.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  I nodded, trying to keep from looking too starved. My belly knotted itself ominously at the thought and I heard the dishes again, clear as church bells.

  “I’m sure you are,” he said gently. He held out his elbow and I slipped my hand into it, curling my fingers into the crook. In another life, I would have loved such a gallant gesture, such a strong arm.

  My feet made soft slapping noises against the stone tiles in the hallway as he led me toward the bright end of the corridor. With every step, I felt the tremor increase in my belly.

  “Keeping you hydrated was simple enough for the few days that you were out, but eating is something else entirely,” he said, his voice slightly weary as though the whole effort had been very taxing. “I should have brought you something last night. I hope you can forgive my negligence.”

  If I could have waved the concern off, I would have. I settled for a soft shake of my head instead as my knees began to quake and dug my fingers firmly against his arm. He led me around a corner into a small, glass-enclosed conservatory with a single, laden table. I almost fainted.

  Gold-rimmed, porcelain dishes held a steaming assortment of breakfast and brunch delights like I had never seen. I stopped and dug my toes against the stone floor, trying not to be washed away in the tide of hunger and dizziness that overtook me.

  “There now,” he murmured, pressing his nose against my hair. “Let me help you.”

  Drawing me forward, Raf
e pulled a chair out and guided me into it while my eyes bounced from dish to dish. I sat gratefully, biting my lips closed as a groan rumbled in my throat.

  “Coffee?” he asked gallantly. I nodded mutely and held out my trembling hand.

  “Sweet and light, I would guess,” he said as he dropped a sugar cube into the fragrant, black liquid and swirled a dollop of heavy cream through it.

  Sweet and light, that’s me.

  His eyes danced with amusement as he spooned a series of small portions onto a plate. There were sliced strawberries and long, cream-colored crepes, thick custards and slabs of still-crackling bacon. Glancing at me every few seconds, he doled out child-sized portions in a rainbow of colors and flavors. I inhaled the coffee deeply, savoring the moment, willing myself to go slow so I wouldn’t be sick. I hadn’t eaten in… how long?

  “You’re probably not ready for the richer foods yet, but please do try anything that strikes your appetite,” he said politely, stepping to one side and placing the china in front of me with a proud flourish.

  I fought to keep the smile up. He seemed to have forgotten that I was starved because he had starved me. He could have fed me last night. He could've fed me before he drugged me with that water, too. I felt the deep doubt creeping in, the thoughts that he couldn't possibly actually care for me or my welfare, but I pushed them out as quickly as I could. It was almost like I was afraid he could read my mind, but I was more worried about the misgivings showing on my face.

  Easy. Remember the plan: baby steps forward.

  “Thank you… So much,” I croaked. I swallowed a careful gulp of coffee and felt it trickle all the way down into my stomach.

  Sitting in another chair near me, he looked me up and down. A satisfied smile curled at the corner of his mouth. I tried to nod my thanks but it was difficult to do much more than tremble.

  “You’ve really shown me something,” he said finally. “You’re much more than I would have expected, Jolie. Much more. I fear I underestimated you.”

  Spearing a slice of strawberry on a gold fork, I held it in front of my lips for a few long seconds until I was convinced I could stand to taste it. Finally I laid it on my tongue like a communion wafer. The redness of it was like an explosion.

  “You’re much stronger than you look,” he chuckled. The sunlight twinkled off his dark eyelashes in tiny sparks.

  “I’m not strong,” I whispered, commanding my tongue to swallow. The strawberry lodged painfully at the back of my throat and I reached for the coffee to wash it down.

  He crossed his arms in answer, leaning back in his chair and tilting his head inquisitively. His eyes tracked over every small move I made as I slowly plucked a spoon from the tablecloth and ran its rim over the hard surface of a small, yellow custard.

  “Maybe you’ve just never had the right situation… the proper motivation to find out, hm?”

  I looked at him then away. He was staring at me with unconcealed delight and pride, as though I was a child he had fostered into some impressive feat. Some part of me loved that expression and I found myself rushing to take another bite, to bask in more of his approval.

  “You don’t even know me,” I said suddenly.

  No! Shut up! What are you doing?

  His expression immediately clouded. I cast my gaze toward the custard and winced as his sigh filled the room.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. “The food… I’m a little woozy, is all.”

  He nodded silently. Out of the corner of my eye I could see his nostrils flaring as he held his temper in check. After breathing deeply for a few seconds, I found the courage to stare at him. The sunlight fell across his broad, strong features, highlighting the sculpted beauty of his face. Who would suspect? It was preposterous. He looked like he should be on movie posters.

  “Apology accepted,” he growled.

  Testing the waters, I went a bit further.

  “This is really wonderful,” I whispered, gesturing with the spoon at the table full of delicacies, though I had only managed a few swallows. “You’re an amazing cook—”

  “—I don’t cook. I have a cook.”

  “Host, then. Y-you’re an amazing host.”

  He stared at me blackly, giving a bit of a huff. “I'm not a child, Jolie. I don't fall for idle praise and flattery. You're not as eager to see me as you'd like me to believe.”

  I rubbed a bit against the red marks at my wrist then, sitting up more fully. Rachel also told me that when things are looking grim, sometimes it's best to simply double down. Insist more, and force things to turn to your favor. Sometimes a strong will was enough.

  “I remember what you did for me, Rafe. How you bathed me... shaved me. Thank you. You’ve... c-cared for me the whole time I’ve been here.”

  He stared at me hard. I felt a trickle of sweat winding its way down my ribcage. “That's true, but not completely. What are you after, Jolie?”

  “I’m just trying to say thank you,” I said meekly.

  He hissed through his teeth and shook his head, then lowered his chin. His stare was sharp and bored into me.

  “Such a liar you are. We will have to break you of that, yes?”

  “I’m not a— Please don’t call me that.”

  “Why not?”

  My mouth opened and closed in futility.

  He shrugged casually. “You’re not trying to make a liar out of me, are you?”

  I shook my head. “No, no, I—”

  “—Because I don’t lie. I don’t have to,” he said firmly.

  I shook my head again, realizing things went so much better when I said nothing.

  He took a deep breath. The muscle in his jaw knotted and unknotted.

  “You know, the problem with most people is that they do not understand their place,” he said, his voice clear and direct. “They think that they aspire to be one thing, when in fact they never knew what they were in the first place. Do you understand?”

  I nodded immediately: yes. Then corrected myself: no.

  “There, you see? You are already improving. Telling the truth is difficult when you’re been trained to lie… No. When you’ve been trained to not even know the difference.”

  He looked out the window, squinting into the direct, harsh morning sun.

  “When a person is out of touch with their nature, they are easy to corrupt. To twist. Someone who lies… to themselves, especially… is terribly at risk, Jolie.”

  He turned back to me, his stare so forceful and desperate I winced. His hands clenched the arms of the chair, the tendons on his wrists standing out like piano wires.

  “Do you know who you are, Jolie?”

  My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say.

  “I—I thought… I did. Yes.”

  “You thought so,” he repeated slowly. “And now?”

  I hesitated a moment, my mouth as dry as salt. There was my opening, and maybe my only one. I had to find out why I was really here, why he was keeping me.

  “I just... want to know why I'm being kept here, Rafe. I want to know why I can't just... go home. I just want to go home. Please.” My desperation was getting the better of me, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. “Please let me go home. I'll do whatever you want. Anything. Please!”

  He stared at me for a long moment, though I could see a distinct hardening in his gaze as whatever direct connection he had just shown me was systematically shut down. He stood slowly, plucking the fork from my trembling fingers and dropping it to the plate with a clatter.

  “You aren't going home,” he sighed impatiently. “I thought we might have a nice conversation, Jolie. You're obviously incapable of thinking of anything but yourself.”

  Without another word, he pulled my elbow until I was standing, then guided me down the short hallway. I struggled to keep up, nearly running on my tiptoes. Roughly, he pushed me forward toward the bed, then turned and left.

  Every time those bolts slid shut, I felt l
ike another had been added.

  I couldn't stop fucking up. I’d promised myself baby steps, then ran like an idiot right off a cliff. He had shown me patience, and I had squandered it. It really was my fault, and I knew it.

  CHAPTER 3

  The sun was half-sunk over the horizon, and my eyes were puffy and stinging from the crying I couldn't seem to stop. I'd been at it for hours, silently sobbing and staring off into the distance through the only connection to the outside world I had. That small sliver of sky was the only thing that existed outside this house for me.

  I thought back on everything that had happened since I arrived. Every word I could have chosen more carefully, every situation I could have handled differently. Every time I tried to imagine things going differently, they ended up the same. Rafe was angry and I was imprisoned and alone, no closer to leaving this place.

  No one is looking for me.

  It was my own fault. I had left no one behind except Rachel, and how was she supposed to find me anyway? No family, no boyfriend, no friends… I’d been plucked out of my life like a bug crawling on a wall, and there was no one to miss me.

  Not that it was Rachel’s fault. We didn’t know each other that well. I had no phone, no way of being contacted. I hadn’t even told her I was going with Rafe. Funny thing was, she was the person who knew me best at this point. Everyone else I had left behind with nothing more than a raised middle finger as a goodbye.

  That was just my way: disappear without a trace. No baggage. I thought it was cleaner than dragging the carcasses of murdered friendships along with me. If things didn’t go well, I figured it was kinder to euthanize the experience.

  In my senior year of High School, I was a side-fuck for Darby Collins. No, the side-fuck. He was gorgeous. Athletic and tall, with a low, sexy voice and blue eyes you could swim in. I'd been after him for years and after a late night at a kegger in the middle of the river, on a canoe that floated serenely under bridges, we drank until our clothes came off. That was how it started.