The only interruptions in the sameness of the walls were two doorways. One was covered with a solid wooden door, closed and painted to match the monotony of the room. She didn't need to check to see if it were locked. The absence of a handle told her that it only opened from the other side. The other doorway appeared open, simply a frame with no door.
A quick flash.
She blinked.
Had she imagined it? She scanned each surface, searching for its source.
Again.
It didn't last longer than a millisecond.
Like the walls, the tiny flash was devoid of color, so quick and insignificant that if she blinked at the same second, she would have missed it. Shivering upon the makeshift bed, she waited and counted.
Twenty-two seconds.
If the room were brighter, she wouldn't have noticed it. Nevertheless, she did.
She counted again.
Twenty-two seconds later, it flashed again.
The flash came from a small knob fitted snuggly into the window sill. Well disguised, it could pass for a blemish in the trim. However, imperfections didn't flash. It was a camera and meant that she was being watched.
Another person may not have known, but Natalie grew up with surveillance as part of her life. It hadn't bothered her before. Then again, before, she'd been clothed.
It was too late to pretend she wasn’t awake. Now that she was sitting up, whomever was watching already knew the truth. Her empty stomach twisted. Not whomever—Dexter. The man on the plane, in the car, and in this room. The man who undoubtedly stripped her of her clothes. The monster who stole her life. He would know that she was now awake. How long had she been asleep? Would he be coming to her? Was he asleep? What time was it?
Did she dare look in the other room?
Again, her stomach complained.
She clawed at the bed in the dimness, hoping for a blanket, sheet, or even the mattress covering, something in which to wrap her body. But there was nothing, only a metal cot with a single scratchy mattress.
Turning from the window—from the camera—Natalie used her arms and hands to cover her breasts and core. It wasn't much, as she hurried toward the open doorway. The concrete floor was cold beneath her bare feet as she rushed forward.
Once within, she fumbled along the wall for a switch and in the air for a string. Nat found none. This room was darker with no window, only the dim light trickling in from the room with the bed.
As her eyes continued to adapt, the second room came into focus: a simple yet efficient bathroom. Everything was white, reflecting light and helping her see. Straight ahead upon a pedestal was a sink, to one side, a toilet, and to the other side, an old iron clawfoot tub. Above the tub, mounted on the wall, was a showerhead. Reaching in the darkness, she searched for a curtain, one to contain the shower's spray.
Rings rattled upon a track, higher than her head, but the curtain was gone. Natalie sunk to her knees and crawled about the cold floor, searching for towels, a robe, or anything. Back on her feet, her hands splayed over the walls. An empty towel bar beside the toilet and an empty hook near the doorway were all she found.
Thankfully, there was toilet paper, but it would take the entire roll to cover her, and then what if he wouldn't replace it?
How could she even rationalize his thoughts? These were the doings of a deranged madman. She wasn't crazy. He was.
Again, her stomach grumbled.
Did he plan on starving her?
Natalie reached for the handle on the sink. Air and moisture sputtered, and then water began flowing. Using her hands, she cupped the cold liquid and brought it to her lips. The stench of sulfur filled her nose, worse than the musty aroma of her cement cell. Without drinking, she opened her hands and allowed the water to splash into the sink and disappear down the drain.
Perhaps at least, she could make it warm. That would help.
There were two handles. Natalie turned the handle on the left of the faucet as far as it would turn. As she waited for the temperature to change, she took care of other business. Her hand stilled as she began to wipe.
Had he touched her...there? Obviously, he'd taken her clothes off. Had he raped her?
Memories were fuzzy at best. She recalled floating or being carried. Though she was cold—chilled to the bone—and her muscles ached from trying to keep herself warm—too long rigid and contracted—she didn't feel injured or sullied beyond her nakedness.
When she'd boarded the plane to Munich, Natalie Rawlings had been a virgin. Surely, she'd know if she weren't any longer.
Forgetting about the camera, she carried the toilet paper into the light and sighed. There was no blood. She'd heard there would be blood.
Natalie wasn't completely without sexual knowledge. She'd dated boys in Iowa. They'd kissed and petted, but even with the biggest football star, she had a figurative wall around her, protecting her from going too far. No one dared be the boy to look her father in the eye after taking her virginity.
At Harvard, it was different, yet the same. Though Anthony Rawlings’s reputation held no boundaries, it was Natalie who didn't want to cross that line. It was she who didn't want to face not only her father but also her mother, not until the man who earned her hymen was also the one who earned her heart.
Some would consider it old-fashioned.
Maybe it was seeing her parents' devotion to one another. She wanted what they had. They'd overcome more obstacles than she even knew, and through it all, they loved one another unconditionally. They had the kind of love that survived life's trials and came out stronger.
Tears returned. Will she ever see her parents again? Can their marriage survive the tragedy of losing their daughter? Did they even know she was missing?
The ache in her chest grew larger, bubbling out with an audible sob.
Throwing the toilet paper in the water, she grabbed another piece and wiped her eyes. As it all swirled in the darkness and disappeared down the drain, she straightened her neck. She would survive this ordeal. Somehow, some way, she'd make it back to them.
Reaching for the running water, she expected heat. The reality was barely a few degrees above ice, reawakening her chill. Beside the handle was a small bar of soap. As she washed her hands, she turned off the one handle and tried the other.
A buzz or whistle sounded—shrill yet short. Had it come from the pipes? Natalie tried to listen, to hear it again. Like the light of the camera, would it recur?
With each passing second, the sound stayed away; only her beating heart thumped in her ears. However, to her delight, the water warmed. To her cooled skin, the liquid heat was heaven. On any other day, in any other place, combined with the stench, this water would be unacceptable. Today, in this hell, the slight rise in temperature was the best thing she'd found. Forgetting everything else, she stood still, allowing the warmth to run through her fingers and return her circulation. As her hands warmed, she splashed some on her face. Even though she couldn't dry it, the water took away something—cleansed her as well as restored something, bringing her back a small sense of normalcy.
When the warmth began to fade and she turned off the faucet, a shadow passed over her, chilling her skin. Was it simply a figurative cold to the loss of her warmed water? Had she imagined it?
Though there was no mirror above the sink—only more wall, the same as the rest—she lifted her face. Even without the reflection, Natalie knew. Standing taller, she braced herself as the hairs on her bare skin came to attention like small soldiers ready to fight.
What she'd endured so far was only the prelude. The battle was about to begin.
“Turn around, bug. We have rules to discuss.”
Chapter 9
Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel.
He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it. ~ Mark Twain
Dexter's command hung in the musty air.
Paralyzing fear.
Natalie had heard it mentioned in bo
oks and had seen it portrayed in movies. It was a thing of fiction until it was real...so real that even blinking seemed impossible. Only involuntary tasks commenced—those functions that never really stop. Her heart beat, though the rhythm was like none she’d ever known, erratic and accelerated. Her blood continued to flow, yet did nothing to bring her warmth. Even her lungs took in breath. It was enough to keep her alive, but for how long and to endure what?
It was when her trembling from earlier returned, causing Natalie’s hands to visibly shake and her knees began to knock that she managed to reach out to the sink, an anchor to keep her from falling.
“Rule number one...” His tenor slowed. “I don't repeat myself.”
Natalie had never been fully nude in front of a man—even those she'd dated. She wasn't a prude; she was merely twenty.
“M-may...” Her voice cracked, the word stuck in her throat, barely a croak. She didn’t know how any of this worked. She only knew she didn’t want to face him, to see him, or for him to see her, not as she now was. Natalie cleared her throat, still facing the wall as her fingers gripped tighter to the edge of the sink. “Please, may I have something to wear?"
His shoes upon the cool, hard cement floor echoed, each step reverberating louder and louder against the bare walls as he came closer. When he stopped, she looked down. On either side of her bare feet were shoes—boots with rounded toes. She thought they were the same ones he'd worn on the plane, but she couldn't be sure.
His body, merely inches behind her, radiated warmth, the temperature she craved. Yet his proximity did little to reassure her.
Dexter's large hands moved up and down her bare arms, feathering her skin, a conduit of electricity springing the small hairs to life, similar to the effect of rubbing a balloon. “You're cold.”
It wasn't a question. There was no sympathy to his statement. It simply was.
“Yes.”
He leaned closer, near enough to touch, yet just far enough not to. His coffee-flavored breath reawakened her hunger while also caressing her neck and shoulder in warmth. “Tell me, bug, how you can get warm.”
Her mind filled with possibilities, none of which she wanted to entertain. Each of his words weighed a ton until her head dropped forward, unable to bear the load. With her chin to her chest, tears filled her eyes. She answered the only way she knew how—honestly. “I-I don't know what you want.”
Dexter took a step back, his boots echoing against the stark bathroom fixtures. “Rule number two, disobedience will always be punished. If I tell you to turn, turn. If I tell you to answer me, answer.”
Her shoulders quaked. If there were a door on the bathroom, she'd close it. It wouldn't really be an escape, but it would give her space. And then she realized...the door. The one he entered.
Quickly she spun past him and raced forward. As soon as she neared the barrier, she saw the error of her ways and came to a stop. She was naked in the better lit room, and the door was shut, locked, still with no way to be opened. However, that couldn't be true. Dexter was with her. He wouldn't lock himself in, would he?
She closed her eyes as the tap of his boots echoed upon the concrete. Her dread grew as each step came closer and closer.
“You have a great ass,” he said, running a hand over her skin. “Show me what else I want to see.”
“Don't, please.” Natalie pleaded, recoiling from his touch. “You saw me—everything. You had to see. Who took off my clothes?”
He barely touched her shoulder, encouraging her to turn.
Flinching again, she spun, her loose hair landing upon her shoulders. With a steely expression, she faced him. What difference did it make? He'd obviously undressed her.
She sucked in a breath as, for the first time as his captive, Natalie truly took in her captor. This was different than on the plane or even in the airport. As they stood, Dexter Smithers towered above her. His body was bigger than she remembered—more powerful. With him in his boots and her in bare feet, everything about him made her feel small. As the seconds ticked away, she shrunk under his intense stare.
It wasn’t his words or even his hands that kept her in place. It was the way he was looking at her as his nostrils flared and jaw clenched, and his blond hair fell just over his ears and near his eyes. His gaze pinned her down as the turbulent ocean-blue orbs silently roamed up and down her body. Like his touch, his scan was fire—a scalding-hot poker raking her skin.
Finally, he spoke. “Legs shoulder-width apart.”
Her eyes squinted in the dim light, as if seeing him clearer would give meaning to his words. “What?”
Dexter lunged forward.
Natalie gasped.
His hard body stopped inches away from hers as her chin became locked in his iron grasp. Though she tried to pry her face from his hold, she couldn’t.
Pulling her gaze to his, Dexter said, “I'm running out of patience.” The ocean of his eyes was deep and murky, churning with the turbulent tenor of his commanding tone. “I've waited for this moment far longer than you can imagine. Now I’ve waited for you to wake. I've waited for you to turn and show me what's mine. I won't wait any longer. Don't ask me to repeat myself. You heard my instructions.”
When he didn't release her chin, she slowly repositioned her feet, moving one and then the other.
“Hands at your sides, fingers out, and palms away from your thighs.”
Since she had reached up to his hold upon her chin, trying unsuccessfully to loosen his grip, it took conscious effort to make her hands obey, to untangle her grasp from his, lower her arms, unfurl her fists, and turn her palms out.
“Shoulders back and breasts out.” He made a show of stepping back and admiring her breasts. “I like them. They're not large, but oh, the possibilities are limitless.”
Her eyes closed.
When he released her chin, it began to fall forward.
“No.” He lifted it. “You're a proud woman. I don't intend to change that.”
She audibly exhaled at the absurdity of his statement.
Dexter grabbed her loose hair and yanked it backward, causing her to wince. “Don't do that. Don't make assumptions. Don't assume that I'm debasing you to make you less. When this part of our journey is complete, you'll be more than you ever imagined.” Releasing her hair, he took a step back.
“Before I entered this room there was a noise, a buzzing sound. Did you hear it?”
“Yes.” She'd thought it was the pipes.
“When you hear that sound...” He tapped the floor with the toe of his boot. “...you'll stand here, facing the door, offering yourself.” His gaze narrowed. “Do you need me to mark it with an X?”
“No.” She wanted to mark him with an X—on his chest and use it as a bull's-eye.
“Day or night, it doesn’t matter. This is where you’ll be. You'll stand as you are right now. Legs parted so I can see your pretty pussy. Chest out, so I can watch your nipples bead. Hands at your side, surrendering yourself to me, and most importantly, your shoulders back and chin high. Do you know why?”
Her thoughts were equal parts indignation and fear. How could she possibly know why this man did or required anything? With his stare demanding an answer, a tear fell from her eye and she responded, “No.”
He stepped closer, caressing her jawline as he'd done on the plane. To her cold skin it was fire. “Because you may be my bug, my Nat, but you're no one else's. You're a queen, no longer your daddy's spoiled princess. A queen who'll learn to appreciate the spoils of life. That understanding will give you a regal comprehension that others will see and respect.” His smile widened, causing her empty stomach to clench and knot. “And a queen bows to only one person.” He walked around her, challenging her to move from his required position. One circle and then another. Taking her in, admiring her body while wordlessly claiming ownership.
It reminded Natalie of the way her father or brother would look at a new sports car, inspecting it from every angle, knowing it was now theirs
to do with as they pleased. Drive it, pamper it, or recklessly crash it and get another.
Dexter’s words snapped her back to the misery of her new reality. “Tell me, my queen, to whom do you bow?”
The answer was obvious; it was right there. But Dexter Smithers wasn't her king. He never would be. Not as long as he treated her like an object, a thing to be ordered about. She may be naked in this cold room, but that didn’t change who she was. She was Natalie Rawlings, and she didn’t bow.
When she didn't answer, Dexter applied sudden pressure to her shoulders and pushed her down, commanding her new position. “On your knees.”
Fuck you.
The words were on the tip of her tongue, which is wisely where they stayed. The floor bit into her knees. She fell forward, her hands extended to stop her face from hitting the concrete, when all at once her head was yanked back by a fistful of her hair.
“No. Get off your hands. You aren't crawling, not this time. Kneeling is like standing, only lower. You'll now assume the correct position.”
The tears fell faster. “I don't know—”
Crouching down on his haunches, he secured her head back until their gazes focused upon only one another. “You will learn. Now tell me, have you knelt before another man?”
“No.” The word was choked with new tears of both pain and humiliation.
“Never put a cock in your mouth?”
She shook her head to the extent she could. “No.” Though more tears fell, her mind was on alert. If he made her do that, she’d bite him. It would probably end worse, but that was her plan.
“That's it, bug...” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek, tasting the salty emotion. “...you saved the tears for me.” He licked his lips. “They taste better than I imagined. I’m sure I’ll enjoy many more. Now, as with standing, knees spread...” He released her hair and using the toe of his boot eased her legs farther apart. “Back straight, sit back on your heels with your toes as your support.”
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