by Lily White
Tears burst from my eyes, stinging everything they touch. I can feel the skin splitting open again beneath my bandages, dried blood tugging against the cotton as fresh drops seep from the wounds.
I expect him to deny it. Expect an argument that I’d chosen to cheat, and it was my fault what happened. But that’s not what he does.
“Your husband is going to die for what he did to you. I promise you that. And I’ll never forgive myself for having a part in it.”
He pauses. Lets his words sink in.
“But that’s not what’s important right this second. You need to calm the fuck down before you hurt yourself more.”
A burst of laughter flies from my lips, humor utterly absent. “Calm down?”
I crack my eyes open to see him standing near the bed, close enough that he could lunge and grab me. His face is a blank mask, grey stare locked on me with no emotion rolling behind it.
“How the hell can I calm down when I just heard you tell someone else that you have no intention of letting me go?”
“Fuck.”
The word comes out on a hiss as he steps back, his eyes never moving from my face, his stance broadening as if readying himself to stop me from running from the room.
When he doesn’t answer, I fill the silence.
“Who were you talking to?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
My voice hitches higher. “What is your real name?”
Silence. One beat...two...
“I can’t tell you that either.”
I crumple to the bed, my body shaking with angry sobs. I’m so fucked. So ridiculously fucked that I can’t believe this is my life.
Swearing the universe hates me, I remember all the shitty luck I’ve had. Every horrible thing that’s happened to me, whether outside of my control or a consequence of some stupid decision I made.
How is this even possible? How is any of this fair?
My voice cracks as I beg, “Will you please just let me go? I haven’t done anything to deserve this.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Doesn’t move from where he stands watching me.
“I’m afraid I also can’t do that.”
Fuck him, I think. Fuck this. I’m tired of being a woman men like to push around. I’m sick of being their victim.
Renewed strength bursts through me on a burst of adrenaline. The need to fight. To survive. To escape the fucking chains people keep trying to attach to me as if I’m not a human being who has a right to her opinions or thoughts.
Launching from the bed, I attempt to run around him for the door. He catches me easily, pain shooting over my body as he traps me against a wall.
One of his hands cushions the back of my head so it doesn’t slam against the plaster, but the other grips the front of my shirt to hold me in place. I thrash against him, but he steps closer, pinning me with his body, his voice a deep warning.
“If you continue to fight, I’ll have no choice but to hurt you. I’m doing everything I can to avoid that now, but I only have so much patience for this shit.”
His hips hold my abdomen in place, his chest so close to my head that I can’t turn away from him.
Ari’s scent washes over me as he calmly holds me against the wall while I twist and jerk, trying and failing to get away from him.
It’s unfair that my nose breathes him in, that my body wants to soften against him even when he’s doing this to me.
But the body never forgets. And his scent is a lure that draws me to him like a moth to a flame.
Earthy. Masculine. A hint of spice that reminds me of exotic places and secret sin.
I tremble in response to it, tears streaming as his body heat holds me in place as much as his hands.
Only a fucked up person can want the man who’s holding her captive, yet I find myself melting against him finally, my will to fight lost.
Ari is such a silent strength, his arms coming around me with so much gentleness that the air catches in my lungs.
His voice a whisper above my head, he reminds me, “You texted me asking for help. And I’m giving it to you. The only way I know how.”
“By holding me against my will?” I ask against his chest, the words muffled.
Fingers brush down my hair and I stiffen in response to it. Not because it’s Ari, but because the last man who touched me like that hit me so many times afterward that I passed out.
Fear skitters down my spine on icy fingers when he finally answers.
“You’ve belonged to me for a long time, Adeline. I’m not letting you get away now.”
I don’t respond. Can’t respond. Because what the fuck do you say to that? I can try begging him to let me go again, but I know it will get me nowhere. I can try fighting, but he’s a hell of a lot stronger than me. I can demand answers, but I damn well know he won’t give them to me.
That leaves me with what?
A whole lot of nothing.
Especially in my current condition.
Once again, I have to play this smart, but look where the fuck that got me when I thought I was doing it with Grant.
I had one more day.
One...
And now I’ve somehow jumped from the frying pan directly into another psychopath’s fire.
I’m beginning to think everybody in my life is seriously deranged.
“You need rest, especially with your injuries, so I’m going to put you back to bed, change your bandages and let you get some more sleep. Later on, you can get a shower, and I’ll bring you something to eat.”
Another humorless bark of laughter. “Is that the plan now? You’ll take care of me and make all my decisions?”
I crane my neck to look up at his face, try to ignore how his eyes cause my heart to pound harder, how my thoughts race to remember what those cruel lips can do to me.
“Are you trying to be the hero now, Ari?”
A shadow passes behind his eyes, his mouth thinning into a line. He doesn’t look away from me, though. Just stares as if looking at me for the first time.
“I’ll never be a hero. Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking that. I’m the demon, remember? You depicted me perfectly in all those photographs.”
My heart beats hard with a painful thump.
Voice softer, he steps back. “Get in bed. I’ll bring you something for the pain.”
“I don’t want your drugs,” I snap.
“You’ll take whatever I give you.” His fingers capture my chin, gentle instead of hard, dominant instead of forceful.
Tipping my face up to his, he searches my eyes.
“I’m giving you ibuprofen for the swelling, but really, if it were anything else, what can you do about it? You’re not leaving this room, and you’re staying in bed until you’ve healed enough that you won’t hurt yourself more. Don’t mistake me for someone who won’t get what he wants. That would be a stupid decision on your part.”
A tremor runs through me.
“What happens if I fight?”
His eyes darken, mouth pulling into such an arrogant smirk I can feel it in my bones.
Dipping his head down, he speaks against my ear, his hand clamping down on my hip to keep me from moving.
“I’ll tie you down,” he whispers, voice deep and haunting.
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll still fight.”
Ari grins against my cheek. “You don’t want to do that, love. Just the thought of it turns me on.”
My body goes still against his, the honesty of his threat making me burn in ways I shouldn’t. But then, Ari has always made me burn, even now that I hate him.
Fingers releasing my hip, he steps away again. “I’m the demon. Don’t forget that. Now get in bed. I’ll be right back.”
I want to tell him to fuck off with his demand, but I’m so tired and in so much pain, I lie to myself and pretend there’s no fighting against him just so I can crawl under the covers and close my eyes again without hating myself as much as him.
Everything hurts.
Even the parts of me that aren’t bruised and beaten.
Ari returns to the room so quietly that I jump when I hear him set a glass of water on the table beside me. The mattress dips as he sits down, his hand opening to show me the two pills he has in his palm.
I have a flashback of Grant and those damn sleeping pills he made me take every night, my stomach rolling with the memory.
Ari must intuit my thoughts. Then again, he can’t know why I’m thinking them. I’ve never told him what Grant was doing.
“It’s only Ibuprofen. I promise you.”
What does it fucking matter? It’s like he said earlier. He could be handing me cyanide, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.
I take the pills, swallow down the water and hand him the glass.
Without saying another word, he changes the bandages on my face with tender hands, eventually getting up from the bed to take the empty glass and dirty bandages with him. I crack my eyes open and watch him cross the room.
He’s almost out the door when I speak again, my voice a whisper of sound splintered apart by my tears.
“I wasn’t always like this, you know?”
Ari stops, eventually turning to watch me with assessing eyes. “Like what?”
“A victim,” I answer. “There was a time in my life when I used to fight.”
Something unreadable flashes across his face, an unspoken thought that is there and then gone again.
“I know,” is all he says before leaving the room entirely.
The door shuts with a quiet click.
A lock slides home with finality.
Ari
I spend the following week paying penance for my crimes.
Every day I watch the news, listening to the bullshit sensationalist pieces about how poor Grant Cabot, millionaire and entrepreneur, had his sweet wife taken from him during a home invasion.
Pictures of Adeline flood the screen, ones taken during their wedding and honeymoon, others from her social media accounts during those first few months when she was being trained to schedule dinner parties while he chipped away at who she really is.
Grant claims to have fought the attacker, thus excusing his busted knuckles, but insists whoever has taken her was too strong.
That admission makes me a little happy because when the day comes that we meet again, he will find that there is the tiniest glimmer of truth to his bullshit story.
Per the news and every official briefing given by the police, they suspect a man had been blackmailing Adeline. The public is being asked for any information regarding Harrison Nash, a confirmed false identity that may still be in use while he smuggles Adeline across the country.
What the fuck ever. Adeline is right here, locked in a room in my penthouse, still barely speaking to me while she recovers from the beating her husband gave her.
Still, the media spectacle continues as they search for any video that gives a face to the name of the supposed attacker. Unfortunately for them, the hotel didn’t preserve their tapes from the company event, and when they approached the gallery, they were told no tapes existed there either.
The media descended on the gallery since it was the last place I was seen, but both owners refused to give a filmed statement, opting for a written one instead.
We wish we could be more help in locating the person of interest in this matter. However, any recordings taken during Ms. Cabot’s show have been accidentally erased. We at the Weeping Willow are saddened to hear of her recent abduction and wish to express our sympathies since it is our upmost belief that the abduction and exploitation of women in any capacity is reprehensible. It is our sincerest hope that Adeline Cabot is unharmed wherever she may be.
Like everything else, it’s a load of shit, but I keep up with the daily logjam of information, knowing my face will never appear in any of it. I’ve had years learning the art of covering my tracks.
This investigation was over before it ever really began.
The only possible connection the police had directly to me was Steven Turner. However, he had a run of bad luck in the days following Adeline’s abduction and was found hanging in his apartment with over ten million dollars in illegal gambling debt, as proven by receipts found in his high rise apartment.
Thank you very much, Lincoln.
I would have felt bad for Steven’s untimely demise, but that would require a conscience about these things. And considering Steven had been the reason for several other unfortunate accidents and deaths, he probably had it coming sooner or later.
Thankfully, he isn’t my only source of business, so I won’t have to regret a loss of income either.
All in all, it’s going well on that end. As for the situation in my penthouse, that’s a different story.
Six nights in and Adeline only says the same eight words. She hasn’t screamed. Hasn’t demanded information. Hasn’t asked a shit ton of questions. Only one.
“Will you let me out of this room?”
I answer no, and she lays in bed staring at a wall when she isn’t sleeping.
It’s when she’s sleeping that she screams.
Fights.
Cries.
Fists her hands in the sheets while her body curls over itself.
Every night.
For hours.
She got up once and tried to walk around while I stood in the dark watching her. I led her back to bed, but then backed away again to watch from across the room. It was the only instance in the time I’ve had her that she didn’t recoil at my touch.
And I deserve to suffer the absolute torture of watching her work through this mess.
A good majority of it is my fault. Just like last time when I killed her father and caused years of the same kind of problems for her.
I really am the demon in her story, and I have no fucking clue how to fix what I’ve done.
Although I also suspect part of the violence of her current sleep issues is a result of withdrawal from the drugs Grant was forcing her to take.
Stepping into her room after a particularly bad night, I stand against the door and stare at her with my arms folded across my chest, my hair still dripping from the shower I took to wake up.
We’re on day seven. Her bruises have turned a mottled blue-green, the swelling has gone down significantly, and from what I can tell, she doesn’t have any broken bones that altered the structure of her face.
Grant’s lucky for that. It meant I might go a little easier on him when killing him. And by easier, I mean I’ll still cut off his dick, but I’ll do it with something sharp instead of a butter knife.
“Will you speak to me today?”
She glances up at me with hateful blue eyes, not sparing me even the hint of a smile or a sneer, just pure distrust and absolute loathing that I’m in the same room with her.
I don’t blame her for the reaction, but I’m getting goddamned sick of it.
Almost seven years I’ve been chasing this woman down, and now that I have her here, I’m not letting her treat me like I don’t fucking matter.
Maybe I shouldn’t say what I say, but her anger is exploding against mine, the toxic stew of it setting my nerves on edge.
“Maybe I should treat you like shit and slap you around a little to get you to behave. That’s how Grant did it, right?”
Her blues eyes fill with rage, those blood red lips that have always driven me crazy pulling into a thin line as she glares at me with daggers slicing at my face. But I can slice right back.
“You’re going to talk to me at some point, or else you’ll stay in this room for however long it takes for you to scream, or yell, or fight or fuck. I don’t give a shit what you choose to do, but you’re doing something.”
“I’ll never fuck you again.”
Her voice is cold, like ice against my skin, but it’s words, at least. Even if they are utter bullshit.
“I told you there will be a next time. I wasn’t lying. Yo
u’ll change your mind about that. But that’s not why I’m here now.”
Her eyes hold mine, a hard stare like a clash of swords, metal grinding, her heart beating like a war drum beneath her chest, the heavy pulse of it a warning that she’s imagining my death.
“Will you let me out of this room?”
And there it is. That one fucking question. The same one she asks every day that pisses me off.
“No.”
Her anger shuts down just like the rest of her, eyes turning toward the wall.
I would force her face back to me if Grant hadn’t already fucked her up. But she’s healing, and this shit will eventually end.
“Jump in the shower, and I’ll make you something to eat.”
As I walk away, she speaks again.
“Why won’t you let me out?”
At least it’s a new question. Except, not one I can answer. I’m still not sure how to explain my penthouse, the years of her on display, the shrine as Lincoln calls it.
I’ve considered tossing all the shit before letting her out, but I refuse to do it. I don’t play the instruments. I’ve already read all the books. None of that matters. Her music playlist is the first thing to blast through my speakers when you turn the stereo system on. And those photos. Fuck, those photos...
They’re the first thing I see when I walk out of my room every morning and the last before I go to sleep.
My life for the past seven years has been Adeline Kane.
Not Cabot, because fuck that asshole. His name should have never been hers to begin with.
I won’t get rid of it. I’ll just keep her locked up until I figure out how to explain it. Which will be a while. Because there is no explaining it.
It’s why I leave the room without answering the question, go about making her breakfast and slip the plate onto her bedside table while she’s in the shower.
I drop some fresh clothes on her bed, casual stuff I’d asked Lincoln to buy and bring over.
And with my warden duties done, I leave the room, lock the door and pace my penthouse with my hands tucked in my pockets, my chest bare because I didn’t bother with a shirt this morning, and my eyes studying all the crap I have in this place that makes it a serious fucking problem.