When the Dark Wins

by Addison Cain

  Whatever assholes sat on the other side of those glass eyes had seen everything as well, but she didn’t have to gift it to them. Not if she could avoid it.

  The man hadn’t moved, had barely breathed from what she could tell. An automaton. A shell of a person in fine clothes. “What do you want from me?” she croaked, voice cracking.

  Weak. So weak.

  “Everything,” he answered, taking a step, and then another, until he stood beside her hip and she could see him clearly. Still in his big rubber boots, his protection from the electric current he tormented her with. “We’ve already had that discussion. Now is when you decide if you’d like to start being obedient.”

  It was so tempting to curse him, to damn him again. To rage against everything he’d already done to her — but it was the threat of what he would do that kept her silent.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “I’m cold,” she whispered. A shiver coming on cue, her aching joints tightening to make her whimper.

  “I know.” His gaze slid over her body again. “Would you like to get up? Leave this room?”

  Something dangerous lurked behind the offer, something with teeth, but she couldn’t resist. “Yes.”

  That strange smile graced his features again. “Then tell me the rules, slave.”

  Even her reaction to that word was dulled, slowed by the cold, the pain, the memory of the knife in her mouth. “Don’t bite.”

  A strange huff left him, what might have been a laugh had he been a real person. “That is not one of the rules, but I am encouraged to know you retained that lesson. Now… recite the rules.”

  Bastard.

  Beth wanted to scream at him again. To shout like she had that morning, but her fingers were stiff and almost useless in the cold. Even the stinging burns from the rope had faded from her awareness, and that was concerning.

  Turning her head, eyes focusing on the inflamed, broken skin at her wrist, she knew it should hurt more than it did — but nothing was getting through the cold. She needed out of this room.

  “I am not a person.” Everything was empty as the words moved past her numb lips, but she continued in a daze, struggling to remember his poster of fucked up expectations. “I should address you as Master.”

  Never, she promised herself. Holding onto that one flapping scrap of her dignity.

  “Continue.” He walked away from her towards a panel on the wall, pressing buttons before it popped open.

  “I have to crawl. Ask permission for everything.”

  “For what specifically?” he asked, shifting something inside the panel just before a click came from the far side of the bracket in the floor. The sound of water rushing into pipes made hope flicker inside her. Dim and desperate.

  I just want to be warm.

  “Slave?” The man was looking at her, his hand still inside the panel, and she dropped her head back to the floor so she didn’t have to see his dead eyes.

  “Permission to orgasm,” never going to happen, “to speak to you. And I cannot wear clothes.”

  Air sucked loudly into the pipe, the swirl of the water down the drain visible as she turned her head to the side. Shivers rushed through her again, tightening her weak, exhausted muscles once more.

  So tired.

  She was so tired.

  Would it be so terrible to die?

  “There are worse things than the cold, slut. You’re not done.” He leaned against the wall by the panel, watching as she turned onto her side.

  Beth answered the thinning water instead of him. “I must keep my eyes down. Thank you when you hurt me.”

  “Punish,” he corrected.

  “Right.” She did not repeat the correction, racking her brain for the list, but there was nothing more in her head. Nothing but the horrible memories of everything he’d already done to her, the nagging ache between her thighs as she clenched her internal muscles.

  “You forgot that you must kneel in all rooms, and again whenever I return.”

  “I can’t kneel.” Moving her feeble grip to the chain, she tugged it so that it clattered against the metal in the floor.

  “I am aware. I didn’t want you able to kneel, I wanted you on the floor.” His footsteps slapped wet and heavy against the concrete as he approached her once more, but she didn’t turn her eyes to him. Not even when she could see the towering form of him in her peripheral vision. “Do you understand that this is where you belong?”

  “No.” The word was out before her blurry mind could think to stop her, and she just closed her eyes, waiting for pain. Another shock.

  Instead, he simply crouched down and used a key to open the padlock that held the chain to the floor. Wrapping his fist around the metal links, he stood, dragging her up by force, her body rebelling against the movement. Joints screaming, muscles revolting. Reminding her in fits and starts of the chill, the lingering aches from the electricity and so many hours on the concrete.

  Beth found herself sitting up, legs curled at her side, one hand braced in a puddle left behind from the water draining down the dark hole at the center of the room. The man tugged the chain higher, forcing her head to angle back, but she aimed her gaze just to the left of his head.

  “Look at me.” It was a command, not a request. Clipped, abrupt, hard as ice.

  She obeyed, and hated herself for it.

  “Tell me thank you and I’ll let you take a warm shower.”

  The girl was freezing, almost no color to her skin except for the darker tone of her areolas, and the hint of blue at her lips and fingernails. Her toes were hinting towards blue as well, and he knew what she needed to stay healthy. Alive.

  Whether she got warm from him fucking her in a bed, or taking a shower alone, was up to her.

  It had only been a couple of hours in the cold, but it had done exactly what he’d planned. Stripped her of another layer of that willpower she was clinging to so desperately. He could sense the struggle in her, recognizing it from the other girls he’d taken, broken. But this one was more of a challenge, which meant he could, and would, do so much more to her before she grew boring and docile.

  Shifting his hand, he wrapped the chain around his hand another time, clenching his fist over the links to pull her higher, watching as she struggled to pull her legs beneath her so the strain on the collar wasn’t so severe.

  Oh, the things he would make her do to avoid the pain.

  “Last chance, slut.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, eyes down, but he tugged the chain instead of acknowledging her acquiescence.

  “Louder.”

  “Thank you.” Only a little louder, more of a growl, a promise of further defiance. Further opportunity to make her scream, and cry, and beg for a mercy that would never come.

  It was that thought that made him smile again. He didn’t wait for her to recognize his movement, he simply walked towards the door with the chain clamped tight in his grip. Her knees scraped over the damp concrete, scuttling after him with stiff limbs. She whimpered when he hauled her over the doorway, something impacting the lip of the room as she tried to stand, but he tugged the chain to keep her in her proper place.

  On her knees.

  Scrambling to keep up with his pace.

  He returned to the bedroom she’d awoken in, tapping the code into the lock as he hid the pad with his body. Not that she was coherent enough yet to pay attention.

  Her shuddering breaths, interspersed with whimpers, were music to his ears. Or it would be music to his ears if he could enjoy music at all. Screams and cries were his music, and he would make her a symphony before he sold her.

  Tugging the chain hard, he buckled her to the floor, and then released it to shut the door behind them. It auto-locked, as it always did, and he waited as she caught her breath. One hand braced on the floor between her knees as she pushed herself upright, forming into an almost perfect presentation.

  A happy accident, he was sure, but still delightful for the customers on t
he cameras.

  She had potential. So much potential.

  He just needed to carve away everything else until all that was left was the broken slave at the core of who she thought she was. Take away the sense of self, the sense of worth, the concept of individuality — then she’d be ready to sell.

  The girl’s brown eyes lifted, met his, and he contemplated slapping her. But she self-corrected too quickly, gaze diverting to the hardwoods under her naked, shivering limbs. It was likely she wasn’t even aware of the way her flesh trembled, it had probably been so steady for the last hour or so that she could only feel the more violent tremors.

  Her body’s desperate attempt to create warmth.

  “Slave.” It was only a word for now, but he noted how her head lifted slightly. Almost answering to it. Another step forward. “Ask for permission to have your shower.”

  It was the sudden tensing of her shoulders that telegraphed her resistance this time. No eye contact, no foul-mouthed curses, no violent thrashing. The tension bled out of her with the next hard shiver of her body, and he could hear her teeth chattering as she tried to stymie it. “May I please shower?”

  “Finish your request properly,” Anthony commanded and watched her body still, only the subtle tremors making her muscles jump unconsciously, but the girl stayed quiet. Sighing, he threaded his fingers into her damp hair and tightened, ripping her upright so that she had no choice but to shuffle on her knees and shins as he half-dragged her into the bathroom. The light switch instantly brightened the room, and he knew the action had activated the cameras so that his customers could enjoy this.

  He wanted to make her scream for defying him, but that would have to wait. Her core temperature needed to elevate first, then he could torment her again.

  There is plenty of time. Patience is necessary.

  Dropping her onto the tiled floor, he opened the standing shower and turned the water on mid-way so it could start to warm. The girl had said something, but it had been impossible to hear over the sound of the shower. “Did you want to speak, slave?”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated meekly. It was astonishing how small she looked against the dark, slate tiles of the bathroom. This would be a good place to fuck her. Fresh from a bath, shaved smooth, her lithe limbs spread against the dull gray of the floor. Her cries would echo in this room, the customers would appreciate the contrast of her lighter skin to the slate, and each of his thrusts would be felt to their full extent. No give of a mattress beneath her ass.

  Her ass.

  Perhaps this could be where he fucked her there. Pinned to the cool floor, cheek against the tile — her sobs of pain would be guttural and perfect.

  So many plans. So many ways to make her obedient and docile.

  But first… reaching into the stream he turned down the temperature a little until it was lukewarm, and then he fisted her hair again and yanked her to her feet. Her legs almost gave out, weak, her feet were probably numb — but that was her consequence for biting him. This was all a lesson that would settle deep into her brain.

  Obey. Avoid pain.

  Such a simple concept… but it took them so long to learn.

  “Get in. Do not adjust the temperature of the water or I’ll put you back in the punishment room.” He nudged her forward and she braced her hands against the glass frame of the shower, gently stepping under the stream. A hiss of air slipped through her teeth, the lukewarm water probably felt boiling on her chilled skin, but, again, it was not his concern.

  Shutting the shower door he stepped back and leaned against the bathroom counter. Hands in his pockets, ignoring the hard outline of his cock, he watched as she simply stood under the water for a while.

  Thawing.

  Skin flushing red as her blood warmed.

  It wouldn’t be the last time she earned that punishment.

  The second time she’d be more afraid, less recalcitrant.

  If she earned it a third time? He almost smiled. That was one of the places he’d broken so many girls. Just water and leather and chain. A little electric jolt now and then. Such simple things. Such simple pains. To be naked, and cold, and vulnerable.

  Watching her running her hands over her body, her back to him, the round of her ass catching the lights from above, he knew she’d be back there soon. Knew he’d be able to sate the growing erection in his pants even sooner.

  Maybe this time he’d let her fight.

  8

  “It’s been five days, I’m coming back,” Marcus growled into the phone, much too loudly, and Anthony flipped another page in the cookbook.

  “Your presence is not necessary.” Reaching for an egg, he cracked it against the edge of the bowl and let the insides spill out onto the mixture of seasonings he’d carefully measured.

  “Are you kidding? You’ve been torturing her for almost a week and she hasn’t shown even the smallest hint of submitting.”

  His brother’s tone held no hint of laughter, so Marcus already knew that he was not kidding. The eggshell went into the trash and he wiped his hands off on a towel before he took the fork from the counter and began to mix the coating according to the directions. Folding, not whisking.

  “Anthony!”

  “Yes?” He kept his tone steady as he worked the mixture to the right consistency.

  “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Cooking. It’s almost time for dinner.” Setting the bowl down he picked up the chicken breast and dredged it through the mixture, laying it out on the pan where it instantly sizzled in the heated olive oil. Perfect. Exactly as the recipe described. He liked it when things worked as designed.

  “Are you feeding her?”

  “Of course.”

  “How much?”

  “Enough,” he answered, already bored with the conversation.

  “Tonight?”

  “She had a can of soup yesterday.”

  “That’s not enough and you know it. You’re going to make her useless.” A sound followed the other man’s words that Anthony could only attribute to frustration, or disgust, or some other mercurial emotion that flitted through his little brother’s mind.

  “I assure you, she is still quite usable.” Parting the oven door enough to glance in at the couscous and Abbaye de Belloc stuffed tomatoes, he shut it quickly so that too much heat did not disperse. “I fucked her just this morning.”

  “Right.” Marcus laughed, a low chuckle that did not sound sincere. “And she didn’t come, did she?”

  “Your obsession with—”

  “Of course she didn’t. The customers want to know they’re capable of responding! You have to at least demonstrate it, and she’d fucking behave if she knew there were alternatives to your games.”

  Another gruff sound came over the line as Anthony used a spatula to shift the chicken in the pan so it wouldn’t stick.

  “I’m driving down tonight.”

  “No. You have incessantly pestered me with your ideas on running two separate operations for the past few months, and now that you are finally setting up your house you are focusing on this slut. Would you care to explain why?” He was prodding his brother’s temper, one of his few entertainments in the world outside of food and breaking slaves, and at the next growl of rage from the phone he smiled.

  It had worked. Of course.

  Anthony flipped the chicken in the pan just as Marcus exploded on the other end of the line. “I’m focusing because you’re fucking this up! The house is on schedule, but I’ve been watching the feed, and you’ve made absolutely zero progress.” Another growl peppered the line. “Look, I have people installing the security measures on the doors right fucking now, and soon the house will be ready to go, but I need to be out of the way for them to finish replacing the floors and sealing over the windows. I’ll be there before midnight.”

  “Her willpower will not last forever, Marcus. It’s already flagging. She never attempts to stand in my presence unless I order her to, she keeps her eyes down,
she crawls. She is adjusting to her new state as they all do.” The timer on the microwave interrupted his update, and he pressed the little button to stop the incessant beeping.

  “Yeah, adjusting. You’ve got her suspended in ropes again, how the fuck is she supposed to display submission when she’s not even touching the floor?”

  Anthony glanced at the feed on the tablet he had leaned against the backsplash. Pretty, pale limbs wound in perfectly clean lines of dark rope. “She looks submissive to me.”

  “She still hasn’t called you Master.”

  With annoying precision, Marcus zeroed in on the issue that had actually managed to burrow its way into his thoughts. No matter what he’d done to the girl, she had yet to actually use the word as a title. He had forced her to say it in reference to the rules numerous times, but she refused to use it with him. Refused to acknowledge her position, even when that position was bound painfully off the floor.

  It was a problem.

  “I can get her to call me Master. I always do.” Pride tainted Marcus’ voice, and it was the one emotion that Anthony picked up on easily. His brother had always tried to best him, to exceed him in a variety of invented competitions — and he had consistently failed.

  Yet… this was an avenue where he might actually succeed. The slaves always clung to him, to his pathetic urge to give them pleasure. It wasn’t subservience that he plucked from them, it was a need for companionship. The human need to connect, to want, to feel.

  Anthony was only interested in the girl’s fear, her destruction — not her dedication or affection.

  “Marcus, you just want to make her care for you like you have the others. That does not serve our purposes.” Plucking the tray of tomatoes from the oven, he rested them on the cool side of the stovetop. “And, again, I will remind you that your presence is not requested, or needed. She will break. It has only been a week.”

  “A week of nothing but her fighting you,” Marcus retorted, defensive.

  “It has been entertaining,” he acknowledged, monitoring the chicken for the right moment to pull it from the searing heat.