Bleeding Hearts: A Dark Captive Romance (Heartbreaker Book 1)

by Stella Hart

  I wondered if he was going to physically punish me for my infraction at any point soon. He’d mentioned something about a whip a couple of times, and the thought made me shudder. Simply knowing pain was coming but never knowing when was almost worse than actual pain itself. It was mental torture that made my legs quiver and my hands shake, and the chilling sense of dread never left my mind or my roiling guts for a second.

  At least the sting of a whip would go away eventually. And even if it didn’t, even if it left me scarred and sore, I was already used to permanent physical pain of sorts, courtesy of my nerve syndrome. But this torture, this emotional torture, was slowly driving me insane. I was beginning to feel less than human.

  I didn’t know how much more I could take.

  Idly twisting my long hair around my fingers, I began to count the loose threads in the blanket again. My mind was elsewhere, though, wondering yet again what my captor had in store for me in the future. He might rape and kill me one day—I was still sure he was some psycho killer who hated women and intended to destroy me eventually—but for now, he was keeping me alive. He was giving me my medication, ensuring I exercised every day, and feeding me. Even though it was only two meals a day, they were well-rounded, usually containing some sort of grains, vegetables, and meat. If he wanted me dead anytime soon, he wouldn’t make the effort to keep me healthy.

  So what the hell did he want with me? Want from me?

  He was trying to train me like an animal, to become some sort of automaton that would follow his every command. Sit. Stay. Beg. Good girl, here’s a toy. I knew that much. But what was the endgame? Did he plan on keeping me as some sort of sex slave in the future?

  The thought of that made me want to retch. To me, sex was meant to be something shared between two completely willing parties. Not forced and manipulated out of one party by the other. Even if the fantasy of submitting to someone and letting them use my body turned me on, even if I used to read all sorts of filthy stories about it, that didn’t mean it was something I found acceptable in real life.

  I kept twisting my hair around, and then I frowned as something occurred to me. My hair had been getting very long these last few years, mostly because I couldn’t afford salon appointments and didn’t trust my own hair-cutting abilities. It hung down my back in waves, almost reaching my ass. If I could find something to secure my hair in a braid, I could attach the end to the metal frame of the cot and wrap it around my neck, or even one of the cell bars. It might just be long enough.

  It wouldn’t kill me, and I didn’t want to die. I just wanted to get my captor’s attention in a way that would work when all my words had failed. He couldn’t ignore me if he came in tomorrow and found me ostensibly trying to strangle myself.

  I’d already had a similar idea the other day with the pants, bra and sweater he gave me last week, but the fabric was too flimsy. When I pulled on them to test the tensile strength, they all ripped in places, even the bra. But my hair wouldn’t rip. It was one of my few physical features I loved—thick and healthy, even when I wasn’t allowed to wash it.

  For the first time in what felt like forever, I smiled. I felt like I’d beaten the system somehow, tricked my captor. He’d made it clear he wanted me alive and uninjured, or else he wouldn’t feed me such healthy stuff and force me to do my exercises. Now, I realized I had the ability to hurt myself to get his attention and force him to stop leaving me alone. I had this ability all along. Hell, I could even hit my head on the hard brick wall or the concrete floor if I really felt like it.

  Really, I wanted to kick myself for not having thought of this sooner.

  I stepped across the room and picked up the white panties I’d been provided with last week. Seeing as I hadn’t been allowed to bathe or change—and also because I’d accidentally ripped most of the clothes—I’d been spending a lot of my time naked. I hated being bare and exposed in this place, but at the same time, I hated the idea of wearing the same panties for a week straight. So I didn’t.

  They might work for my hair plan, though. They were small, but they contained some elastic and could be a decent makeshift tie.

  I began to braid my hair, loosely so that it would hang as long as possible, and then I secured the end with the panties, tying them around it in a knot. It held. Smiling, I sat back on the cot and scooted myself backwards until the back of my head was touching the metal frame of the bedhead. Using the panties on the end of the braid, I tied them to the frame, as far left as I could manage, then twisted my head to face left as well. Just as I thought, my hair was long enough, and turning my head this way made the braid wrap around my neck.

  It briefly occurred to me that I might’ve lost my mind already, doing something like this, but I was beyond caring. I had to escape this horrendous isolation and boredom.

  Gleefully, I undid my hair and lay down, my heart racing with excitement and anticipation. My captor might eventually punish me physically for doing this, but at least he wouldn’t leave me alone and torturously bored out of my skull again.

  Or so I hoped.

  He’d delivered my dinner to me two hours ago, which meant there were at least ten hours until he came with tomorrow’s first meal and water. I only slept for seven or eight hours at a time in here now, so it was almost guaranteed that I’d be awake before his arrival. I would lie in wait with my hair braided and attached to the frame, and when I heard his footsteps approaching, I would start twisting my head and letting my hair choke me.

  I went and drank my water, then curled up in bed. I was still excited but also woozy from the day of sheer boredom, so I went to sleep quickly. I dreamed of vivid rainbows, lush parks, thick green forests… all things I might never see again. Then I dreamed of the strangely familiar hallway and the ornate ballroom doors.

  When I woke up again, my hair had been cut to my shoulders.

  12

  Alex

  She didn’t even see me.

  I’d originally gone down to her cell to tell her that time was up, her isolation punishment was over. From now on, as long as she behaved, she’d receive one book a day, and she’d be able to wash and change clothes every night.

  But then I saw her through the bars, twisting her neck around her own hair, attached to the cot frame. She was too entranced with practicing her little choking plan to hear me arrive, and her head was facing away, so she didn’t see me look at her or walk back up the steps.

  I was furious. Mostly at myself. I should’ve caught this earlier, should’ve realized she might try to harm herself in some way to escape this place. She’d never struck me as suicidal or weak, but now I wasn’t so sure. Strangling herself with her hair wouldn’t actually kill her—it would rip from her scalp before there was enough pressure to choke her—but I wasn’t sure if she knew that. Or maybe she did, and she just wanted my attention.

  Either way, she had it.

  I ducked out of the shelter, and I returned with scissors once she was asleep. Her dark hair was beautiful, luxuriant, but this had to be done. I didn’t want her to hurt herself again.

  I also didn’t want her to think she could use methods like that just to get my attention, so I didn’t leave her any books or other entertainment when I went down there, as I’d initially planned. She needed one more day. One more day of desperate isolation, with her hair crudely cut, to make her learn once and for all that this was her new reality, being here with me, and any attempts to fight back would be dealt with.

  I couldn’t tell her why she was here just yet, no matter how much she begged and pleaded to know. She was strong in so many ways, but her mind was fragile in others. If she found out everything at once, it could make things worse for her. I knew she would refuse to believe it, probably wouldn’t even consider the tiniest shred of it to be truth, and she would retreat into her shell, never accepting my words. I couldn’t have that. So for now, I had to wait while she became accustomed to her new reality.

  I was a patient man, and I knew it would take t
ime for her to fully relinquish control to me. I knew it would take time for her to remember the truth and understand the things I needed to tell her. She would fight me at every turn and likely attempt to escape more than once, but she would eventually realize this was all for her benefit. She would get there.

  Slowly. Surely. With me.

  I knew she hated me right now. I could see it in her eyes every time I delivered her meals and water, feel it in the looks she shot me. She was always seething with rage. Her gaze conveyed all the things she wanted to say to me, all those words she knew she couldn’t speak without consequences.

  Go fuck yourself, prick.

  Go choke on a big, fat dick, you asshole.

  I hope you get eaten by a pack of wild dogs, fuckbag.

  She thought all those things, or similar, whenever I went near her, even though her lips said otherwise, spilling forth all sorts of apologies. I knew better than to believe her. She wasn’t sorry. She just wanted out, and she thought I would fall for her lies even though she still hated me with all her heart.

  I couldn’t blame her for trying, and I couldn’t blame her for her feelings, either. Of course she despised me. Of course she thought I was a cruel, senseless monster. Being ripped away from her old life and forced down here in this hole couldn’t be easy. But it was necessary, which she would eventually come to realize when she was ready.

  How else could I have done it, anyway? If I simply approached her in the street one day and asked her to come with me willingly, would she have done it? No, obviously fucking not. It had to be this way.

  One day she would see all of that. One day she would see that I was breaking her for her own good.

  For the time being, she was miserable, but she’d be a lot more miserable right now if she were still out there in the real world. That was for sure. She was safe here. She could be happy here. As long as she followed the rules.

  She acted like she hated them, but I knew her, and I knew rules made her feel safe and protected. Especially when she was in strange places. I knew from the way she religiously followed the exact same pattern of behavior every time she left her shitty little house in one of the city’s seediest areas.

  She even had a little list of rules in a document on her computer to remind her every day how unsafe the world was, and how to avoid trouble. I knew this because I’d installed a golden ticket on her laptop years ago, which allowed me to remotely view everything she got up to on the computer from my own devices.

  I saw it all. All the dirty pictures, videos and stories she liked to look at, all the things that made her shrivel up with unnecessary shame. All her conversations on social media. All her college essays. Even the website for the local cat shelter, which she occasionally donated pitiful amounts to when her boss at the home improvement store gave her extra shifts. She loved animals so much that she’d rather give those cats ten dollars than buy herself an extra hot meal. It worked against her, though—I used that same love of cats to lure her outside two weeks ago.

  Poor, innocent, little girl. So sweet. So naïve.

  My mind flashed with an image of her cheeks flushing red as I held her in place over the edge of a bed. I could almost feel the softness of her bare skin under my hands, almost hear her cries as I rained down heavy blows from a paddle. She needed the pain, just as much as I needed to give it to her.

  She just didn’t know it yet.

  I stepped down into her cell. She was naked on the ground, doing her PT exercises. Good girl. At least she was following some of the rules.

  “Good evening, angel,” I said, announcing my presence.

  She jumped up, covering her body with her hands. Covering her shame. My free hand curled into a fist by my side. I hated the world for making her feel this way about herself; hated everyone who ever told her that bodies were something to be ashamed of, or whoever told her that her wants and needs were somehow sick or wrong.

  “Hello, sir,” she mumbled, looking down at the floor.

  I held up the bag I was carrying over my right shoulder, then showed her what was in it. New clean clothes. Travel-sized bottle of mouthwash. Small bag of salted nuts. A book and a magazine. Small comforts for anyone else, but a big deal for Celeste. She’d gone so long without these things that they must seem like five star luxuries.

  “Are you ready to start following all of the rules?” I asked.

  She stared at me for the longest time, her eyes haunted and filled with indecision. Then she finally nodded and spoke, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

  “Yes, sir.”

  13

  Celeste

  I was quiet and submissive as my captor washed me. After leaving the new book and magazine in the corner of my cell, he’d gone and retrieved the same bucket from the other week, filled with warm, sweet-smelling water. Finally, finally, I was getting clean again. It was such a relief to have the water running down my dirty body in soapy rivulets that I honestly would’ve preferred it over a decadent five course meal. He even rinsed my newly cut hair, which he hadn’t done last time.

  I hated that so much of my crowning glory was gone now, and I hated him for cutting it, but I couldn’t let him see that.

  I had to be a good girl. I had to be respectful and play by his rules from now on. I had to make him think I was finally being acquiescent and obedient, or next time, he might cut more than my hair.

  No, I wasn’t broken. Not yet. Not even close.

  I just had a new plan. A much better one than my attention-seeking hair stunt.

  I’d had a lot of time to think about it, and it seemed chillingly obvious that my captor only had two options. He could either kill me at some point or keep me here with him forever. That was it—he couldn’t let me go free, because I’d turn him in. Neither of those two choices were ones I could abide, for obvious reasons, so I had to allow myself the fantasy of a third option.

  Escape.

  I didn’t know how exactly I’d pull off such a bold endeavor, but I knew now that the only way to even have a chance was to get him on my side with good behavior, not bad attention-grabbing behavior. I figured if I pretended to go along with his rules and gained his trust, I might eventually be let out of this cell and allowed elsewhere. Maybe given a few more liberties. That would give me a chance to look around, try to figure out where I was, and possibly help me find a way to get out of this place forever.

  I knew I couldn’t be perfectly behaved too quickly, though. I had to play along for the most part, but occasionally act up or fight back. Otherwise he would be suspicious, because it was far too soon for me to have completely broken and given up.

  I would get out of here and away from him, though. I’d never been so determined about anything in my life.

  When I was clean, he went and got the brush and began to scrub my upper back and shoulders like he did after the last time he washed me. I embraced the hot, stinging pain of the boar bristles scratching over my delicate skin. Hard. Rough. Fast. It was a welcome distraction from the aching and burning nerve pain beneath my skin, just like last time. Especially since my painkiller dosage had been halved recently.

  Prick.

  As he scrubbed me raw, I tried to think of ways I could stop myself from being suspiciously good and annoy him without being punished too hard. He still hadn’t done anything physical yet—unless this incredibly rough scrubbing counted, which it probably didn’t—but if I was really bad, he would.

  I didn’t want to be whipped or beaten. Or worse. At the same time, I didn’t ever want to be alone in this cell with nothing to entertain me again. Look how crazily irrational I’d already become. I tried to strangle myself with my own hair just for attention, for god’s sake. The isolation made me wild, desperate, and I couldn’t go there again.

  “Sir,” I whispered. “Please, may I ask a question?”

  “Yes. What is it?” He stepped in front of me and cocked his head to the side, the long brush hanging by his side now.

  I looked into his d
eep blue eyes. “Will I get a book to read every day?”

  “If you are good, yes. I can’t have you going insane from boredom while you’re still down here.”

  My heart lifted slightly. The way he’d worded that made it seem as if I’d definitely be allowed out of the cell eventually. “What if I’m not good? Will you leave me alone again?” My shoulders tensed as I waited for his response.

  He smiled patiently and put the brush down. “No. I think you’ve had enough of that.” He pressed gently on my shoulders. “You’re still standing too rigidly. Relax your posture.”

  “Yes, sir.” Why the fuck do you care about my posture? I wanted to scream instead. But I didn’t. I was a good girl now. “Thank you for the new clothes and books.”

  “You’re welcome. Now get dressed. You have work to do.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t elaborate. Instead, he started packing the cleaning things away and moved them to the passage outside my cell.

  As he did that, I dried myself off and put on my new sweatpants, bra, and top. I noticed he hadn’t given me any panties this time, and I knew why. I’d used my panties for a bad thing last time, and he wasn’t going to let me be bad again. Not if he could help it.

  “Sit down, angel,” he said, gesturing to the cot.

  I did as he said, my legs trembling from the fear of the unknown. He pulled a photo out of his jacket pocket and showed it to me.

  At the sight, I almost vomited up whatever was left in my stomach from my last meal, and I crawled to the other side of the bed and covered my eyes.

  “You need to look, Celeste.”

  “No.” I shook my head, my guts roiling. “Please, I can’t.”

  He clicked his tongue. “You were doing so well. Being so good. Just look. It’s a photo. It can’t hurt you.”