by Kitty Thomas
I've been trying to think of it that way, that I somehow chose to play. I've been trying to convince myself that the contract I signed is somehow the real story of what went down. Just some kinky games and fun. Just a fantasy that went for a few weeks and now it's over. I've been compensated handsomely for my participation. And now I can move on into a wonderful new life. But can I really?
I pick myself up off the ground and cross to the chair and my bag. I open the sleek black handbag to find my wallet with a small bit of cash untouched and my credit cards. I should probably pay them off now that I can afford to. There's also a nude lipstick, a mirror, and my phone.
I pull out the phone. I don't know why I expected after a month to be able to just turn it on. Of course the battery is dead. I sigh. I need to get out anyway.
I go by the closest cell phone store. I was on auto-pay, and I’m comforted to find out that the most recent payment charge went through. I get a new charger and stop by a small corner Chinese buffet for some lo mein, sweet and sour chicken, and egg rolls.
Even with money, the issues in my life haven't gone away. I didn't realize how lonely I was. And maybe that’s why I think of them so much, why I still crave them so much. I return home and charge the phone, determined that I'm going to find a way to reconnect with people.
While the numbers in my contact list weren't close enough to go to when destitute, I can certainly get together with someone for drinks, especially if I'm buying. It's a start.
When the phone is charged, I'm unsurprised to find I have messages and voice mails. All from Andrew. There are about ten text messages and fifteen voicemails.
The texts are basically: “Where are you?” “I can't find you.” “Did you give me the right address?” “Did you mean this restaurant or that one on the corner of Fifth and Main with a similar name?” “Are you fucking with me?” “Why won't you text me back?” “Hello?” “Hello?” “Bitch.”
The voice mails are far more abusive. The words “lying whore” and “worthless piece of trash” are colorfully interspersed with “fuck you” and “bitch”.
As I listen to this unrelenting stream of man-child screaming, it occurs to me that my captors never screamed at me or called me names. I mean, yes, Declan called me a whore, but it didn't feel like this. Somehow, even though I knew he was the bad guy, it felt almost like an endearment from his lips.
I delete all the messages and texts and block Andrew's number. I don't see a reason to respond to him or ever contact him again. I scroll through the contact list to find someone for those theoretical “on me” drinks, when I find there's a new contact that I didn't put in there. The names Seven and Declan are listed as a single contact in my list.
I want to push the delete button, but I can't bring myself to do it. The strongest feeling I have when I see their number is relief. I have access. It's as though the card from the flowers reassembled and flew back to me from the trash. This time I have to keep it safe.
But I won't call. I will not call them. It's just nice to know I can.
That’s the most disturbing thought I've had in a long time. It's nice to know I can? What the fuck have they done to me?
I try to make myself delete it again, but this time, insanely, I press the call button. It rings twice, and I end the call before anyone answers. I spend five minutes staring at the screen, waiting for it to light up and ring, for them to call me back. But they don't.
Maybe they're doing this with someone else now. I waited too long, and now they’re playing the game with somebody new. I shudder at that thought and the actual bit of jealousy it inspires. I should feel sorry for the poor girl, whoever she is, horrified by her situation, not jealous that it isn't me.
I call a girl named Julie from my contacts. When she answers, she says she wondered what happened with me, and she hated to see me leave the agency. Says it was nice to have a little less testosterone there. We agree to meet for drinks on Friday.
Chapter Ten
Friday night and three drinks too many sees me flopping face down onto a gray leather sofa in the penthouse at two in the morning. I get a text. Julie making sure I got home okay. I let her know I did, make sure she did, too, then flop back against the leather.
She's nice enough, but there isn't really a strong friend connection there. I scroll through the contact list, landing once again on Seven and Declan. Alcohol and cell phones are really bad combinations for me. I know this. It's how that sad clown phone call to Andrew happened.
I'm not calling them. Yes, let's call two psychos who spent three weeks fucking me in every way one can be fucked both physically and mentally, in the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong?
But drunk Kate is not strong enough to stop herself from pushing the call button.
Seven answers on the third ring. “Hello, Kate.”
I have visions of Hannibal Lector at this smooth greeting at two o'clock in the morning. Suddenly I feel stone-cold sober. I bolt upright on the sofa, gripping the phone like a lifeline. I should hang up, but I don't. I just want to hear his voice.
“Hey, Seven,” I say, trying to sound casual as though we once had a few nice dates and I'm just calling to catch up.
“I'm sorry, that's not my name, and you know it.”
“Master,” I correct. I can't help that this word goes straight to my pussy. They've trained me so well. And they knew I would call and beg to come back to my cage. Though I haven't sunk quite so low yet.
“Better,” he says. “Now what can I do for you?” His voice is so calm and in control, and I crave everything that voice is right now. I crave their calm control even as I know how messed up it is.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called. It's late. I had some drinks. I'm... I'm sorry.”
His voice is low and soft when he speaks again. “Do you want us to come get you and bring you back home, Kitten?”
I try to keep my tears quiet, but I'm sure he can hear them. “Yes, Master,” I whisper. And it's true.
I'm in so much trouble.
***
The words Seven and Declan light up my phone screen when it rings.
“Master?” I say when I answer.
“Good girl,” Seven says. “I'm here. Come to the parking garage. Bring nothing but your keys.” He disconnects the call before I can respond.
Suddenly I’m nothing but doubt and anxiety. What am I doing? Why would I hand myself back over to them? Yet even as I silently ask the question, I know why. At the sound of his voice in my ear, with only those few words, my body is alive, awake in a way it hasn't been awake since they released me.
I shove the keys into the pocket of my jeans.
When I enter the parking garage, he's leaning against an understated gold Maserati, his arms crossed casually over his chest, his gaze locked on mine. Some fucked-up broken part of me wants to kneel at his feet and wait for the praise as he pets my hair and calls me his good girl, but I resist. This is a public place, and even in the middle of the night, anyone could stumble upon us.
I want to run back inside and lock myself inside the penthouse. The fact that he has this effect on me even after everything has me scared of him in an entirely new way.
“I missed you, Kitten.”
He pushes off the car then unlocks and opens the passenger side for me. I get in and jump when the door shuts. Before I can do something sane, like open my door and run, he's in the driver's seat, the car is starting, and we’re moving.
The drive back home is silent except for the sound of classical music coming in through the sound system. I wonder if Seven is the classical music lover or if both of them are. The drive is longer than I remember, and it becomes obvious the longer we drive that it truly is out in the middle of nowhere.
We're driving now on an old road without any street lights, with endless old and thick gnarled trees lined up, their branches and leaves canopying over us, inviting us ominously into the deep, dark wood. I feel like red riding hood, and my driver
is the wolf.
After what feels like an endless drive in this densely wooded area, we finally come upon a huge iron gate. He presses a button on a remote control, and it slides open without complaint. Now there are lights every few yards, and the landscape is what I remember, the endless gently rolling hills free of trees. I look back to see a high wall winding around the perimeter of the property.
Now this road feels like it goes on forever. The anticipation is killing me. Finally we reach... well, house isn't exactly the word I'd use. Since I wasn't allowed to roam freely, I never knew just how big it was. But house is far too mild a description. Estate? Mansion? Palace? Resort? Nothing really seems expansive enough to explain where they live.
It looks a bit like a fairy tale castle. Huge, imposing, and regal. But it's not the kind of fairy tale most of us dream about. There are all sorts of spotlights around the place, aimed up, illuminating it in the darkness, making it seem even more impressive than it might be in the day. There is an enormous fountain in the front with similar lighting, making already spooky gargoyles look all the more imposing. In any other circumstance, I might think the gargoyles were over-the-top, but there are several guarding the rooftops as well, and honestly? It works in a villain fortress sort of way.
“I forgot you haven't actually seen the house from the outside,” Seven says. Apparently he thinks the word house is just fine. “What do you think? Better than your penthouse?” he says with gentle teasing. It's that charming facade that falls so easily into place with him that it lets me forget for a moment what lies beneath.
He pulls the car into a circular driveway, then he takes me in the front door as though I'm a normal guest coming here for a normal reason. I don't know why, but for some reason, I thought he'd sneak me in through a back servant entrance as though there were people to hide me from. I know for sure there’s a cleaning service, even though I've yet to encounter them directly.
Declan is waiting on a sofa against the wall when we walk in.
He winks at me when I catch that gray gaze which seems the smallest degree warmer than I've ever seen it. Maybe I'm seeing what I want to see—something to convince me that this isn't crazy, putting myself back in the hands of these two psychos.
“Welcome home, Pretty Toy.”
My stomach does a little flip at this, and a longing I'd almost made myself forget comes rushing back to the surface, igniting the place between my legs with warm liquid heat.
“I'm going to get her settled,” Seven says. “Come, Kitten.”
I tear my gaze from Declan and follow Seven wordlessly up a grand staircase and down a long wide hallway. “This is your room,” he says, stopping in front of a large room halfway down the hall.
Gauzy transparent white curtains hang in front of the windows, and even from the doorway, I can see there are French doors that go out onto a balcony. It's a beautiful room. Blond hardwood floors, a king-sized canopy bed with that same gauzy fabric. With a canopy bed, it should look like a little girl's room, but it's the grown-up sophisticated version. The furniture is all natural light-colored wood, with a few gold accents like the full-length leaner mirror on one side wall. Somehow it doesn't look gauche. The walls are a pale cream.
On a table beside the balcony doors is a large vase of fragrant white roses. The room has an attached bathroom, but I can't see inside it from my vantage point.
“What? But I thought...” I stop myself before the sentence is out fully in the open air for us all to stare at it and ponder how idiotic it is.
“You thought you were going back to the cell?”
I look down, unable to meet his eyes suddenly. “Yes.”
“Do you want to go back to the cell?”
“N-no, Master, I just thought...” Again I stop because I shouldn't question it. If I don't have to sleep on a bare mattress—however nice—in a dark gray cell, I should not call attention to the fact that that's an actual option.
“Once the puppy is trained, it doesn't have to stay in the crate. And you are definitely trained,” Seven says.
Declan only chuckles at this. He must have followed us up the stairs. I was too busy being in awe of my gilded cage to notice.
Being back with them, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that Seven is the real game maker. He's the one running everything, pulling all the strings behind the scenes. Declan is just as responsible, of course. He was a happy and willing participant, but this is Seven's game. It always has been.
I was always wrong about who had the power here. It's so much more obvious now that Seven isn't playing his role as my co-captive. He stands taller and broader than his friend and partner in crime. I know Declan can hold his own, but there’s a subtle deference he shows Seven. I didn't notice it the day I learned the truth, but it's so clear now.
Not only is Seven the one in charge, but I'm now sure he's the most dangerous of the two—and I slept trustingly inside the circle of his arms on that mattress for weeks while he stroked my hair, got me off, and whispered soothing words into my ear.
The tears come out of nowhere. Maybe not out of nowhere, but I'm sure that's how it appears to these men who have trained me to think of them as my masters.
“Kate?” Seven says. He looks concerned that I'm crying. He wears the mask so well, and it hurts even more when he plays this game with me. At least I always got the truth with Declan. That cold emptiness. But Seven still likes to pretend he has something inside.
And I still want so badly to believe it.
He steps closer to me, and I instinctively take a step back. He arches a brow. I called him after all. Nobody forced me to come back here, but it's hard not to take a step back. He seems so much taller now that he's not my protector.
He takes another step closer, and I fight the urge to run. A long shuddering breath flows out of me as he looks down at me and strokes the side of my cheek. I lean into him, my eyes drifting closed before I can stop them. He pulls me into his arms and strokes my hair.
“Shhhh,” he murmurs as though he actually cares. And I want to believe. I find myself leaning more heavily against him as a wave of dizziness washes over me. I'd sobered up pretty quickly after calling them—or I thought I did. But I did have a lot of alcohol. And I know it was just the adrenaline overriding everything else going on in my body, making me think I was okay when I'm not.
“Declan,” he says quietly, “she needs to eat. Will you bring something up?”
I don't hear an answer, only the receding of footsteps out of the room.
Seven undresses me and puts me in the bed, then he sits on the edge, watching me for several minutes. Finally he sighs and says, “It's late. After you eat, I want you to sleep. We'll discuss what comes next in the morning.”
I can't help tensing at these words. But he only takes my hand in his, stroking the back of it, still soothing me.
Declan comes up a little while later with some food. It's a chicken salad sandwich on toasted bread with a huge tomato on it. And some baked barbeque potato chips. He leaves the plate of food and a glass of water on the bedside table.
“Thank you,” I say.
Now it's his turn to arch a brow.
“M-master,” I add quickly.
He nods.
It's not that I forgot; I just wasn't sure how things were supposed to be now. What are the new rules? With Seven in charge, I just don't know. Seven turns on the bedside lamp, then both men leave the room, turning off the main light and shutting the door behind them. The lock is on the inside, so they can't lock me in. It's a small relief.
If I weren't still so drunk, I might be tempted to sneak out and explore the house, but I feel awful, and I'm so tired. I somehow manage to eat the food without getting sick. I really did need it. It was too much alcohol swirling around without any kind of buffer. I'm about to turn off the lamp when I spot a card sticking out of the roses. I struggle to stand and move toward the card as though in a trance. With shaking hands, I slide the card out of its small envelope.
/>
Welcome home, Kitten. There's no going back now.
The piece of stiff ecru paper falls from my hand onto the hardwood floor. I don't bother to pick it up. I'm afraid bending over would just make me feel dizzy again. I open the balcony door and step outside for some fresh air, trying to settle my now pounding heart as I worry about the sinister promises in those words.
The view from here is different from the ones I've glimpsed through hallway and kitchen windows on the first floor. This view overlooks an enormous garden of white roses, illuminated by an intricate patchwork of outdoor lighting. So not only do they have a cleaning service, they have landscapers and gardeners.
The scent wafts to my nose on the breeze. It's sweet and fragrant but not cloying. It makes me feel calm even when I know I shouldn't. I look down over the ornate iron railing. It's a high drop, and I know there's a big wall around the perimeter anyway. I wish I hadn't had so many drinks tonight. Drunk Kate is Stupid Kate. And the extreme truth of that is only just now beginning to sink into my awareness past the fog of an unfortunate number of tequila shots.
I stumble back into the bedroom, turn off the lamp, and slide between the cool silk sheets. The world shuts off as soon as my head touches the pillow.
Chapter Eleven
I wake in pitch blackness. Even with windows in this room, it's so dark I may as well be blindfolded. I don't know if the moon is dark tonight or if clouds are covering it, but being out as far as we are, there are no street lights. And they've obviously shut off the outdoor lighting.
It only takes a moment to realize why I've woken. I feel him beside me in the bed. I don't mean physically—skin against skin. I just know I'm not alone. And I know it's Seven. I realize suddenly how I know. It's his scent. The clean, safe maleness of him. I've associated his scent with safety for so long, my brain can't rewrite the code now.
