Arson’s Captive

by Mason , V. F.

  Thankfully though, Marcello has been in no rush to get married and has wanted to wait until I was twenty-one for reasons he’s never explained.

  It didn’t matter to me, because I still waited for Caspian to expose them all, to free all these boys who continued to grow up in front of my eyes while I could do nothing but hope.

  But he never has, and I’ve accepted that he betrayed me too; probably the life of freedom is too tempting to give it up and remember your promises.

  So here I am, one step away from marrying the son of a man who will join alliances with Pastor to use innocent children for their business and strip them of their childhood forever.

  Sometimes, no matter how much you try, you can’t stop disaster falling toward you like an avalanche, destroying everything in its wake.

  Marcello’s thumb sliding up and down my cheek snaps me out of the memories, and I push his hand away, shifting to the side to avoid his touch.

  I guess with his vivid eyes, broad shoulders, and muscled physique he could be considered handsome for some, but in me he inspires nothing but revulsion. On the days he touches me, I feel the need to scrub myself until my skin hurts, trying to wash away the stain on my flesh.

  “I brought you a gift.” He taps on the box, before opening it to display a necklace with a big emerald in the middle, surrounded by little diamonds that refract the sunlight streaming through the roof.

  They shine so bright some of the tiny beams dance in my eyes and I snap it shut, pushing the box toward him. “I don’t want it.” That’s all I manage to say to stay polite, even if I want to scream for him to shove it down his throat and choke on it for good measure.

  I hate all the gifts of his that Pastor makes me wear daily to remind me of my position and future here, probably in hopes of me being more accepting of the union. But I won’t ever accept such a thing.

  I can’t openly reject him, because this would cause innocent people to be hurt. But constantly rejecting his narcissistic character and withholding the attention he seeks from me?

  It might forever turn him away from me and that’s the only hope I have left, although I wonder if maybe that’s just self-preservation.

  Shouldn’t hope inspire happier emotions inside me, flashing dreams in my head that aren’t meant to be? They even took that from me—isn’t that ironic?

  Find hope in your faith, they say, while they beat the crap out of you to accept it.

  Placing the chamomile into the basket and satisfied with the amount, I step in the direction of the other table where I keep all the tea supplies, but Marcello blocks my way. “I’m really getting tired of your behavior, Chloe.” He crosses his arms, flexing his muscles, and I barely control myself from rolling my eyes at his preening. “I gave you enough time to grieve over your mother’s unfortunate passing.” If he thinks this information somehow will make me like him more, he is mistaken. The only thing I asked of Pastor before the engagement was if Marcello knew about his father’s business.

  He said yes.

  Which means Marcello is forever my enemy, and I won’t ever feel any positive emotions toward him.

  “I have to make tea. Please step out of my way,” I say, gazing over his shoulder, because I know he hates it.

  Instead of listening though, he moves forward, the tips of his shoes kicking at my bare feet, as the mask of kindness slips from his face, but whatever he wants to say is lost to me, because the voice from behind Marcello stops him.

  “Chloe, is everything all right?” Adam enters, a rifle dangling from his shoulder as he studies both of us to get the feel of the situation.

  He is one of the newest guards in the house; Pastor gave him the position a couple months ago when he brought him to the house and announced that from then on he’d be responsible for my safety.

  I didn’t really care, because all the guards were the same; they gave reports on my whereabouts while allowing Marcello to do whatever he pleased.

  Adam is different though, because when Marcello comes to me, he always magically appears in front of us. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he acts like a shield between me and the bad guys. But even the idea is laughable, as guards are nothing but Pastor’s personal lap dogs.

  Inwardly sighing in relief, I nod although I’m still confused by his interruption. Shouldn’t he be afraid of Marcello’s anger like everyone else?

  “Yes, Marcello stopped by to give me a gift and is leaving now.”

  Marcello narrows his gaze at me, promising me retribution in the future, and spins around to snarl at Adam. “Do not come in here when I come to visit my fiancée.”

  Adam doesn’t even flinch, just replies, “Rules are rules. I’m to guard her twenty-four seven. If you don’t like it”—he shrugs—“hash it out with Pastor.”

  Oh, he is good.

  Marcello can act all high and mighty, but if there is one thing he is afraid of, it’s Pastor’s wrath. During his first visit, he cornered me in the kitchen, trying to lift the hem of my dress while I kicked him away, screaming for help through his sweaty palm covering my mouth.

  Pastor showed up and slammed his head into the wall, dragged him into his office, and they spent three hours there before Pastor finally told me to tend to his wounds.

  After that, he’s never tried to forcibly touch or kiss me, but he always speaks about the future and how soon I’ll be at his mercy.

  A woman’s loud scream fills the space, echoing around us and interrupting our argument. Even the birds fly up into the sky, startled by it.

  Our heads swing to my right to look through the greenhouse glass at two guards holding a woman in their arms, dragging her to the mansion as she digs her heels in to stop them, but there is no use.

  “What in the hell?” Marcello murmurs, but I don’t listen, pushing past him then out the door and running to her, ignoring a twinge of pain from the dry branches lying around.

  My skirt flaps in different directions when I stop abruptly, ordering them, “Let go of her.” She blinks at me, and I come closer, removing her brown locks from her face, which gives me a clear view of her crystal-clear brown eyes. “Are you all right?” Even though her dress is torn a bit and dirty, I don’t see any sign of mistreatment, but with them, one never knows.

  I still remember the priest kicking me in the kidney so many times during my last obedience sessions, the ones Pastor put in place to always remind me of my desire to go against him. There were no bruises there.

  Yet it hurt like a bitch.

  She pulls at her hands again, since the guards don’t listen to me, and I snap, “Get your hands off her.” They share a look between each other, probably not knowing how to proceed, since I’m Pastor’s daughter and usually what I say goes.

  Finally, one of them nods to the other and they step back, only for her to fall on her knees. “I’m so sorry,” I say, kneeling next to her, lightly examining her, but then she pushes my hands away, hissing.

  “Don’t touch me.” Oh, God, they must have hurt her after all.

  Ignoring Marcello and Adam who finally reach us, I’m about to reassure her and drag her to my room to understand what she is doing here, since we never get visitors like this, when Pastor’s booming voice stills both of us. “Take her to the basement,” he barks at the guards, and they jump to fulfill an order while the woman screams.

  “He will come after me. Do you hear me? He will come after me and destroy you! And when he does—” The rest of what she says gets lost, because they enter the house with her. I dart after them, hoping to tend to her, but Pastor’s harsh slap on my cheek sends me to the ground.

  Instant pain travels all through my jaw and scalp, my vision becomes blurry for a second from the impact of his blow, and I breathe out, spitting blood from my mouth. “Do not ever give orders around here like you own the place,” he tells me, looming above me as his shadow falls on me, and I hold my cheek, lightly moving my jaw and sighing in relief when I realize he didn’t break it this time.

&
nbsp; By the swelling on it and the hurt, I know I’ll have to wear his handprint on me for days, if not a week.

  “She is a woman. What is she doing here?” I ask, each word bringing me agony, because the movement of my jaw is unbearable.

  “Someone that will stay my prisoner.” Then he pulls me up by my hair, the cry of pain stilling in my throat as I don’t want to give him any satisfaction, and shakes me, his nails scraping my scalp. “You try to help her, interact with her, or initiate any type of contact, she will die. And after her, so will Sylvie.” With that, he throws me to the side. I would have landed back on the ground if it weren’t for Adam’s arms catching me in time.

  “Don’t worry, Chloe. Soon you’ll be my wife and Pastor won’t be able to hurt you,” Marcello says, appearing in my line of vision, which is still slightly blurry in my right eye. I’ll have to put ice on my cheek and drink valerian tea to have any shuteye or the pain will kill me tomorrow.

  He wasn’t man enough to save me from Pastor’s blow though, right?

  All of them are cowards, disgusting cowards ready to do anything for money.

  I hate them all with a passion and won’t cry if they die; I even wish for their death to be torturous so they’ll know what it’s like to be completely helpless and at the mercy of another.

  But then his words register in my mind along with the sadistic smile gracing his mouth; he’s promising me all kinds of his own torture once I’m his legal wife, and Pastor won’t be able to stop his sadistic tendencies.

  I bet he can’t wait to punish me for all the times I’ve shown disrespect through the years.

  Despair sinks into me as I lightly touch the welting with my fingertips, while the grim future as Marcello’s wife projects in my mind.

  It’ll be a miracle if I survive the first year of marriage, but then would I want to live, knowing what’s going on around me?

  My gaze shifts back to the massive oak doors where the woman disappeared, as her words ring in my ear.

  He will come after me.

  Whoever this man is that she has such high hope of coming after her… I hope he does.

  For the first time in forever, I hope he comes here, proving her faith in him, and frees her.

  And all of us along with her.

  Callista

  “Callista,” he whispers over my lips before sweeping his tongue inside, brushing against mine and fusing our mouths in a toe-curling kiss.

  I don’t even care how he knows my real name, only how it sounds with his faint raspy accent that awakens my body to his presence like nothing else, breaking goose bumps on my skin and making me gasp into his mouth.

  He fists my hair, arching my head back and exposing my neck to him, while his lips trail lower, the small nips fanning the fire inside me. I moan, fisting the sheets under my hands while Arson slides lower, dipping his tongue into my belly button before biting on my stomach and traveling lower.

  He shoulders my thighs apart, settling between them as his hot breath fans my core, and I want to close them from his prying eyes while at the same time demand he give me what my body craves so much.

  His hand trails over my navel before sinking his finger into the wetness between my thighs, and I clamp around him, pressing myself against him. I moan loudly when his mouth wraps around my clit, sucking it gently as his finger pushes deeper into me, sending me into a spiral of endless bliss.

  Threading my fingers into his blue locks, I put my heels on his shoulders, arching my back toward his tongue that slowly shifts lower and lower until it enters me, his growling against my core sending vibrations all over my skin.

  With a loud gasp, I open my eyes and sit up in bed, gulping for breath. “Oh my God.” I place my hand on my chest, trying to calm my rapidly beating heart and emotions still railing inside me from the dream.

  I dreamt of Arson while he was… he was….

  I palm my cheeks, feeling how hot they are and knowing the stupid blush probably is all over my face from the dirty thoughts that shouldn’t have been in my head in the first place.

  Covering my face with my hands, I groan into them, not understanding this weird behavior that makes me look like an idiot.

  Is this what Stockholm Syndrome is?

  Our healer always explained it as everyone’s love for Pastor, claiming that back in the real world where she lived, it meant that victims slowly felt affection toward their captors. Despite what he did or was capable of doing, they slowly fell in love with the man who claimed there was always justification and a reason for his deeds.

  Is this what is happening here?

  I’m so used to everyone being mean to me or closed off from my life in “heaven.” Does him buying me food, not punishing me or taking me by force like Marcello promised to do, automatically make him a good person in my eyes and my body has decided to be attracted to him? Is this a natural hormonal response to a handsome man in the real world?

  Do women just randomly hook up with men without having to marry them? I know next to nothing about sex besides the basic biology lesson, but the priest tried selling it as something super important that shouldn’t be shared between two strangers.

  Oddly enough, this was one thing most women didn’t agree on—a lot of them even whispered they missed hookups, whatever that is.

  Syndrome or not, I cannot ever let it evolve or see what he does as something good just because my past is messy. The lesser of two evils is still evil; it just knows how to cover itself better.

  “All you need to do is meet some other men to cure this insanity,” I say to myself, but deep down I know I’m lying.

  Attraction might be a physical response, but every attraction happens for a reason. I highly doubt people with all the freedom in the world walk around, wanting everybody in their path.

  Grabbing the pillow, I shout into it, thankful it muffles my screams, and let this desperation run through my system so I can have a clear head for my next course of action.

  I will escape from him; I just need to find the right opportunity, and for this there should never be any emotions toward Arson.

  A bitter chuckle slips past my lips when I think how easy it is to manipulate a woman’s emotions; maybe that’s why he brought me here instead of the cage.

  And killed that man?

  Fisting the blanket, I take a deep breath and shake my head from the grim thoughts.

  Survival.

  Besides, isn’t Stockholm Syndrome about survival anyway? The victim decides to love her captor, because it allows her to live with him and subconsciously fight for her freedom. It’s easier to survive when you think you are with someone you love rather than hate.

  Internal battles can be so exhausting a person might forget themselves in it and die, and despite what anyone says, most people want to live even if they have no reason for it.

  No matter how horrible life can be, there is always a will to live, because that’s our basic instinct. That’s my only agenda for today, and for that I’ll act smart like never before, so his darkness won’t trap me in his hold.

  Throwing the blanket away, I get out of bed and tug on the gray T-shirt I’m wearing that reaches midthigh. It exposes my legs for everyone to see, but at least it covers all the important bits, without showcasing my body too much for prying eyes.

  After finishing my shower yesterday, where I scrubbed myself almost raw and washed my hair several times until I finally felt clean again, I found a silky pink nightgown waiting for me on the bed. Everything in me rebelled at the idea of wearing that, especially in the wake of what transpired earlier, so I snatched one of Arson’s shirts and went to bed quickly, surprisingly falling asleep right away. Maybe because lying on this bed was like sleeping on a cloud, floating up in the sky.

  “Great, now you’re getting poetic,” I mutter and pad toward the door, opening it and wincing as the squeaking hinges echo in the hallway. I peek my head out, trying to see if anyone is there.

  Since the coast is clear, I step out,
walking toward the stairs, all while studying the… well, empty gray walls that despite being bare seem organic.

  At least I won’t have to be subjected to weird paintings in this house like the ones that creeped me out before.

  Walking down the stairs, I notice they keep going, meaning I’ve been on the third floor. I look around the second-floor corridor, which has two rooms with a slight distance between each other.

  I pause midway to the first floor when a sudden thought hits me. So was I in Arson’s room all this time after all? That’ll certainly explain all the clothes in there, but why would a serial killer give his room as my new cage?

  Deciding to store this thought in my mind for later, I walk down the stairs, hating how my feet gliding on the marble can alert anyone who is waiting of my presence.

  I’m not naïve enough to think the door to my room was open because he doesn’t care about my whereabouts. If he gives me freedom to roam around the house, it means he is secure in the knowledge I won’t be getting out of here.

  But then he is probably waiting for me somewhere, expecting my next move or watching with hidden cameras.

  Finally, once I reach the bottom stairs, the huge living room comes into view; there are several chairs and a couch right in the middle of it facing a TV with a small table that has a bowl full of lighters.

  Seriously… what’s with his obsession with fire? Sometimes I think it creeps me out more than the captor himself.

  There is a bar at the far right end with multiple alcohol choices and glasses, a bookshelf with some medical books tucked in it, and then a dog’s pillow by the looks of it, so obviously the little bear, as I call him in my mind, is allowed to come inside.

  But that’s about it.

  Curtains are pulled on all windows, the sunlight streaming through them, but it does nothing to boost the mood of the bleak color scheme.

  All in all, the house is… blank, and despite hating myself for it, I like it.