by M James
Captured
Portia Moore
M James
Contents
Also by Portia Moore
1. Rain
2. Zach
3. Rain
4. Rain
5. Zach
6. Rain
7. Zach
8. Rain
9. Zach
10. Rain
11. Rain
12. Zach
13. Rain
14. Rain
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
17. Zach
Untitled
18. Zach
19. Rain
Untitled
20. Zach
21. Rain
ALSO BY M. JAMES
Also by Portia Moore
If I Break Series
#1Before Him
#2 If I Break
#3Before I Break
#4Almost Broken
#5 Beautifully Broken
#6 Shattered Pieces
Time Duet
#1 What Happens After
#2 The Trouble With Before
Her Series
Her
Mine
Them
Us
Stand Alones
He Lived Next Door *A Clean Romance
Collided Series
Collided Book 1
Crushed Book 2
Committed Book 3
1
Rain
Just think of it as my birthday gift to you. One more kiss.
Zach…
My name is Chase. It’s really fucking important.
One more kiss…
My birthday gift…
Kiss…
I feel as if I’m underwater, struggling to get to the surface, to breathe. And every time I start to find my way up again, I feel Zach’s lips on mine, his hands on my waist, his body pressing against mine. Hot, hard, muscular. Strong arms, stronger than I remembered them. Not a boy anymore, a man. A man that I want every bit as much, with a clarity that I didn’t have when I was younger. Then, I was lost in a fairytale, overcome with hormones and teenage puppy love. I thought I was a lost princess, locked up in a house with an evil father, needing to be saved by a white knight.
Now it’s different. Now I know what cruelty really is. What it means to be a prisoner in a gilded cage.
I was such a fool.
I try to surface again, but Zach’s hands are on me, pulling me down, and now it’s not just the kiss. Now we’re in my childhood bedroom again, but it’s this Zach leaning over me this time, not the teenage Zach with his boyish features and floppy hair. Now there are muscled arms on either side of me, a hard body stretched over mine, naked with the fine dusting of blond hair on his chest that I scratch my nails through as he pushes my thighs apart. I feel him inside of me, hard, thrusting, his full lips rough on mine, the scratch of stubble against my cheek. As I feel my body tightening on the verge of climax, I call out his name breathlessly, begging for more, begging him not to stop.
Zach, Zach, Zach…
My name is Chase. It’s really fucking important. I hear it echoing, but I don’t want to call him that, not here, not now.
“Come for me, Poppy.”
My eyes fly open, and it’s not Zach anymore atop me in my pink and white bed. It’s Vincent, his dark hair thick and messy, his eyes hard and cruel on mine as he thrusts roughly into me, his cock painful, scraping, and his hands are hard on my wrists, pinning me to the bed. I try to push him away, to slip out from under him. Suddenly I’m smooth and slippery as an eel, squirming out from under his body and thrashing towards the surface again, trying to breathe, trying not to drown, to escape before I’m trapped here forever, underwater and floundering, unable to escape like every princess I ever read about as a child. I always thought their lives were so desirable, but now I know the truth.
They were all prisoners.
I feel his hand on my ankle, his voice calling my name, Poppy, Poppy, stay here Poppy, don’t you know what I’ve done for you, Poppy? Your father will die if you don’t stay, Poppy, Poppy. I see Zach’s face above me, wavering over the surface of the water, watching me as I flounder an inch beneath it, Vincent’s hand pulling me back down, down into the darkness, back underneath his body, back into my cage.
“Help me, Zach!”
My name is Chase. It’s really fucking important.
“Poppy!”
I sit up with a gasp as if pulled upright by a string, sucking air into my hollow lungs as if I haven’t been breathing all this time. Who knows, maybe I wasn’t. The room swims around me, still blurred, and I rapidly blink as something shakes me back and forth, my head lolling like a bobblehead figure as I struggle to regain consciousness.
“Mr. Jamison, maybe you shouldn’t—” April’s voice floats through the room, disembodied and fuzzy.
“Shut up.” Vincent’s voice now, cold and harsh. “She’s been out long enough. Wake the fuck up, Poppy.”
I don’t want to wake up. I think about how much easier it would be if I didn’t. No more confusion, no more pain, being out of his control. Then I remember the reason I’m with him, for my family, to save my dad’s life, to make sure Erin doesn’t have to do the things I did. I try to wake, but I can’t seem to quite get the room to come into focus. I try to say something, but my tongue feels thick and dry in my mouth, like a wad of cotton shoved between my lips, and I can’t manage that either.
“Poppy!” He shakes me so hard that my head falls back harshly, straining my neck.
“Vincent, maybe she’s right—” Sonya’s voice now, and everything in me rebels at that, at Sonya trying to help me. I don’t want her fucking help. I hate her. I do. I tried to pretend like I didn’t, but I fucking hate her, not only because she’s snide and rude but because she’s taken Zach from me. I know it’s not true; no one can take anyone else from another person. Zach walked away willingly...
All of these thoughts are muddled, jumbled, and I know I’m not really dying; I just fainted after all. I didn’t get fucking shot or have a heart attack like Vincent’s dad—
Oh god, is he still alive?
I want to ask, but my mouth still won’t work. I hear Vincent’s aggravated sigh above me. Then I’m falling backward, the hand that yanked me upright abruptly gone, and I feel the back of my head knock against the arm of the couch uncomfortably, falling to one side.
“Mr. Jamison—”
“Get her upstairs. I don’t want to fucking see her until she’s awake. There’s not even anything wrong with her.”
“I think she’s shocked—”
“Oh give me a fucking break. Just get her upstairs. I have more important things to handle.”
I’d be glad to never have to hear either of them ever again. My heart and brain ache at what the hell Vincent or his family is involved in for something like this to happen.
---
When I wake up again, it’s alone, in mine and Vincent’s bed upstairs. I wake to the feeling of cool sheets under me and a down pillow beneath my head, the thick embroidery of the duvet slick under my hands. The room smells like roses and lemons, and when I open my eyes this time, it’s slowly, the breath and awareness coming back to my body of its own volition.
My body and head both ache. I don’t know if it’s from when I fell or Vincent shaking me.
I sit up slowly, touching the back of my head and wincing. I can feel the lump there, solid underneath my fingertips, and I fight back a wave of nausea. Hell, I might have had a concussion, but I’m sure Vincent didn’t care.
I lick my dry lips, considering whether I should go downstairs for a glass of water, wondering what the state of the mansion is. I don’
t know how much time has passed, but it’s light out now, the afternoon sun streaming through the heavy parted curtains. I wonder how long it will take for everything to be cleaned up. I can’t imagine Gianna letting her home stay the way it was last night, the floors streaked with blood, spilled food and champagne, but then again, she might not even care. She’s probably with Ezio right now, if he’s even still alive.
My stomach clenches at that thought. Of everyone here, Ezio has been the kindest. I know he’s not perfect, that there are probably things about him that would make my stomach turn too if I knew about them. Still, he’s the only member of this family who has never been cruel to me. The thought of him being dead makes me feel sad and forlorn, and I lean back against the pillows, blinking back hot tears.
I feel so completely alone.
---
No one comes until the evening. I did go downstairs at one point to find something to eat and some water, walking slowly, my body protesting every step, but I felt suffocated in the room.
I didn’t go into the ballroom, not wanting to see it if the carnage of last night hadn’t been cleaned up yet, but I did pass through the living room. The couches were rearranged, the rugs already freshly cleaned, so that the whole room smelled of detergent and the scent of Italian summer coming through the windows. One of them was taped, the broken glass not yet repaired, but all other signs of last night’s disaster—the blood, the shattered glass, the lingering smoke—all of it was gone. If I ignored the broken windows, it would have seemed like it never happened. I wondered if the guests I’d seen laid out were really dead, where they’d gone. If their bodies were lying cold somewhere, waiting to be buried.
The thought had almost made me throw up.
I’d stayed in the kitchen just long enough to get a glass of water and find some leftovers in the fridge, not bothering to look too hard at what I grabbed. When I got back upstairs, I found it was just a container of olives and cheese left over from an appetizer tray, but that was good enough. I ate the entire container, enjoying the chance to eat without worrying about getting yelled at for the sodium and fat content of what was going in my mouth, and then set it aside, chugging the glass of water and laying back down to sleep again. The house seemed empty, and I wanted to take advantage of it, of the blissful quiet that I’d missed. No Vincent, no Sonya, no Gianna, not even Zach or Erin. I didn’t know where any of them were, and at that particular moment, I couldn’t quite bring myself to care.
I just wanted to be alone.
When I wake up again, it’s twilight out, the sky rapidly darkening. I push myself upright again, shoving back the duvet and switching on the bedside light. I’m in just my underwear, the silky panties and strapless bra that I’d had on underneath my dress. For the first time, I notice the dress discarded by the bed, a pile of sparkling fabric on the dark hardwood. I stare at it, feeling already as if the party happened a million years ago, and not last night.
The door opens then, and I flinch back, wondering who’s going to walk through it. I want it to be Zach, need it to be him, but I know it’s not because the same uneasiness that I’ve gotten since Vincent revealed himself creeps over me before he crosses the threshold. There are flowers in his hand, a grin on his face, perhaps glad I’m alive, that his trophy wife isn’t a drooling vegetable upstairs.
“Poppy.” His voice is flat as he drops the flowers into an empty vase on the dresser. There’s no water in it, but that’s just like Vincent, to arrange something to his pleasure and then leave it starved of care or affection. Just seeing the bouquet makes me nauseous—it’s beautiful, a spray of roses and lilies and daisies, but the sight of flowers in his hand makes me sick. It just makes me think of his “garden,” of all the girls he nicknames after flowers because he can’t be bothered to remember their actual names, or maybe just because it gives him power over them, makes them into nothing but objects. Flowers to be plucked and then tossed away when they wither under his touch.
Except he’s not going to toss me away. He’s going to keep me, pruned and carefully planted where he chooses to keep me, with just enough sustenance to keep me faintly blooming.
He’s wearing her watch. I see it on his wrist when he comes to sit on the edge of the bed, the one inscribed to my Gatsby, from your Daisy. I wonder when she’ll wake up from being so foolish. When or if her dream will turn into a nightmare. We’re all such fools.
But then again, it’s oddly poignant because isn’t that what Gatsby’s Daisy said?
The best thing a woman can be in this world is a beautiful little fool.
Maybe if I could be that, I’d be happier.
Vincent’s hand shoots out, grabs me by the chin, and I see then that there’s not going to be any pretending this time. No playing at the kind fiancé, checking on his wife-to-be. No mercurial temper, just anger.
I’m pretty sure I can figure out why, too. Vincent looks a lot the worse for wear, his nose bandaged and his jaw purpled with bruises where Matteo hit him, his lip bruised too, and split. His entire cruelly handsome face is littered with the evidence of a terrible fight that he isn’t invincible. I saw the whole thing happen.
Vincent isn’t a man to take others, seeing his weaknesses lightly.
“I see you’re finally awake.” His hand grips my chin tightly, turning my face this way and that. “No actual injuries. Just passed out.” He spits the last words out as if my weakness disgusts him. “All of this to worry about, and you still need all the attention, don’t you?”
I can’t speak. My throat feels closed over, choked up, and his fingers slide up, squeezing my cheeks as he shakes my face.
“Don’t you!” His voice is loud, snapping, and I jerk back, wincing with pain as he pulls me back towards him.
My chest contracts, my heart is hurting all over again. No wonder I took so long to come back to consciousness. My mind must have known that this was waiting for me. That everything I do, no matter how inadvertent, will always be wrong.
“Yes,” I whisper, tears leaking from my eyes.
“Selfish bitch.” He sneers at me, his handsome face twisting. It’s not the cuts and bruises that make him suddenly look ugly to me; it’s what I can see in his expression, his clear disgust for me. “Maybe my mother was right. Maybe I should have married a girl from one of the other families. A girl who knows her place, how to be useful. Not a weak little brat who faints at the sight of blood.”
I swallow hard, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t just the blood, I want to retort. It was seeing my sister up against a tree with a man who wants you dead. It was seeing the blood on the floor, yes, but also the mansion trashed, dead bodies on the couches. It was seeing your father falling down, knowing he might be dying in front of me.
It was Zach kissing me again for the first time in years. It was him walking away from me. It was blood and death and abandonment and fear.
This isn’t something I’m used to. It’s not a life I want.
I just want to feel safe.
I want to say all of that, but the words stay trapped behind my trembling lips because I know better than to speak any of it aloud. Vincent doesn’t care. He never has, and I know now that he never will.
“Do you know why I want to marry you, Poppy?” He smiles coldly at me, ignoring the split in his lip that turns a little red as they curve up. “You think it’s love, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice trembling. It’s not what I believe. It’s the only thing I can think of that he might want to hear.
“Stupid.” He’s still smiling, but there’s no humor in it. He stands up, and to my horror, when my eyes flick down to look at him, I see that he’s hard, his dick straining against the front of his pants. “I wanted to marry you because you’re easy, Poppy. Because you were so desperate to be saved. So in need of someone to whisk you away from your sad little life that you would have believed anything. You were pliable, happy to suck my cock when I wanted it, happy to lay down and spread your legs for me, happy to do a
nything if I’d wrap you in designer dresses and put a diamond on your finger. It really was lucky,” he continues, sliding his zipper down, “that your father got sick. That really tied you to me. I thought that would make you even easier. Just a pretty little wife who I could keep on my arm, who would turn a blind eye to everything else. I didn’t want a girl who’d been raised here, in the kind of life my family lives, because she’d expect to know things. Expect to be a part of things, like my mother. Not someone who would just sit down and shut up, like I expected you to be. But you’ve actually turned out to be a real pain in the ass, Poppy.”
His dick is out now, in his hand, and my stomach turns over at the sight of it. I don’t want him; I don’t want anything to do with him, especially not when he’s saying such cruel things. I try to remember a time when seeing him half-naked, hard for me, would have turned me on, but I can’t anymore. Because this isn’t about desire or even sex. Vincent is hard not because he wants to fuck me, but because I saw him in a moment of weakness, and now he’s going to take his power back. He’s going to show me who is in charge.
“I’ve got a lot of things to handle, Poppy,” he says conversationally. “And I know you’re going to try to argue with me about this, too, because you haven’t learned what that pretty little mouth is for yet. But I’m done playing games. If we were back in New York, I’d just go elsewhere. But we’re not. We’re here.”
He gets on the bed then, straddling me, his cock way too close for my comfort. “I’m horny,” he says conversationally, as if we were talking about the weather, “and I need to get off. I don’t feel like doing it myself, so open your mouth like a good girl and show me why I’m bothering to keep you around.”