by Dori Lavelle
“I... don’t belong to you. I belong to no one but myself.” With my body still at war with whatever drugs he gave me, my slurred words are the only thing I can depend on to save me.
“Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair and chuckles. “That came out wrong. What I meant was that you belong to me, and I belong to you. We belong to each other.”
“Wrong,” I retort, my voice weak but firm. “Before you tricked me and kidnapped me, I wanted nothing to do with you. What we had was sex and nothing more.”
He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, then opens his eyes again. “You stopped returning my letters. You ignored me. You shouldn’t have done that.”
“Wrong again. I should have done it sooner.” Now that my anger is boiling to the surface, I can’t stop it from spilling over. “I was a fool to give you the benefit of the doubt. You’re nothing but a stinking criminal—a murderer, a kidnapper, and God knows what else. Nothing would make me happier than to see you rot in prison.”
He raises his hand as though about to strike me, but drops it again. He massages his temple and the storm swirling in his features disappears. “You don’t mean that.”
“I mean every word.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I should have tried harder to stay away.”
He sucks in a breath and reaches under the covers, enveloping my hand in his. I try to pull away, but he holds tight. “Let’s not fight, rosebud. You need to get your strength back. You’ve been asleep for a while. Allow me to take care of you.” He draws my hand from under the covers and brings it to his lips, kisses my palm, and lowers both our hands onto his warm thigh.
Taking advantage of his relaxed grip, I yank my hand away.
He squares his shoulders and sighs. “This can be a new beginning for both of us. I’ll give you the family you never had. I love you. But you have to stop fighting me.”
“Go to hell. How can you say you love me while holding me hostage? What is this place, anyway?”
“Where we are is not of importance.” He rolls his shoulder. “Let me make one thing clear. Contrary to what you believe, I’m not holding you hostage. I brought you here so we can be alone. We’re together now. We should celebrate our love.”
“You’re delusional.” My hands curl into fists. “You seriously think I can love you after what you’ve done? Never. No wonder Jennifer left you. You’re sick.”
“Don’t ever say that again.” He raises his chin, jaw tight. “Fate brought us together. You said you loved me once; I know you still do. I’ll be a devoted husband to you, and the best father to our kids. Together we can create the perfect family… the perfect life.”
“I don’t marry monsters.” I moisten my dry lips and press my leaden head further into the pillows, wishing they could offer me shelter. “You’re crazy if you think you can keep me here against my will. I’ll find a way to get away from this place, from you.”
“I’m afraid that would be a little complicated. This winter paradise is accessible only by helicopter. But don’t worry: we won’t be staying for long. I wanted to have you to myself for a few days before we go home to start our life together.”
He places a palm on my hot cheek. I turn away, leaving his hand suspended in midair.
“You have to stop resisting.” His voice pounds against the back of my head. “Let’s enjoy our honeymoon.”
My neck pops as I turn to look at him. When our eyes meet, a cold shudder reverberates through me.
Before I can get any words out, he puts a finger to my lips.
“No need to talk. I can read the questions in your eyes.” His shoulders rise and fall as he lets out a breath. “You’re my wife, Ivy. We’re married. I won’t let you walk out on me.”
27
“You’re a fucking liar.” My hands encircle my throat as I force myself to breathe. I feel as though someone has pushed me from a helicopter without a parachute.
Judson has to be toying with me. There’s no way I’m married to him.
But the pressure in my chest reminds me anything could have happened while I was in the dark. I’m unable to hide from the truth: he brought me to this unknown place in the middle of nowhere, tucked me into bed, maybe even had sex with me, and I don’t remember a damn thing.
I shut my eyes, squeezing out tears, searching every corner of my mind for lost memories. I find none.
All I hear are voices mingled with laughter. My laughter? His? Oh, God. What if it’s true? What if he gave me a drug that made me bend to his will and also erased my memory?
Judson sweeps the palm of his hand over his thigh. “I have to say I’m disappointed at your lack of excitement. But I do understand you’re in shock right now. I’ll wait for you to recover. I pride myself in being a patient man.” He lifts a pitcher of water from the nightstand and pours some into a glass, the clear liquid swirling from the bottom of the glass to the rim.
I’m stiff as he props me up on more pillows and brings the full glass to my lips. “Drink this. We’ll talk more later.”
My tongue touches the water before my lips. I’m too weak and dehydrated to pretend I don’t want a drink, and he knows it. With shaking hands, I take the glass from him and drain it. The water is cool, refreshing. He refills the glass and brings it to my lips again.
With my immediate need met, my anger returns. When he reaches for the glass again, I hurl it toward the fireplace. It hits a standing lamp before falling to the carpeted floor with a thud. It doesn’t break.
Judson gets to his feet slowly, eyes on the fallen glass. He’s trying hard to control his emotions. Any moment now, he might hit me, or worse. But instead of touching me, he shoves his hands into his pockets, as though to restrain himself. When he turns to face me, his eyes are hard but not icy. His jaw is working as though he has a piece of gum in his mouth. “I don’t want to hurt you. But the worst thing you can do is push me to the point where I’m unable to control my actions.”
My eyes meet his. “I hate you.” I take my time with each word, so he understands every ounce of emotion behind it. Lashing out at him could be a mistake; I’m his prisoner and he holds the key. Still, my will to fight back refuses to be contained.
“I’m not your damn wife.” My fists tighten, nails digging into the flesh of my palms. The thought of losing my freedom to this man makes me want to jump out of bed and barrel into him, to wrap my fingers around his neck, to hurt him before he has a chance to hurt me further. But only my mind is fit for battle.
He reaches down to touch me again, and I slap his hand away so hard that he grunts and takes a step back. “Fine.” He clears his throat. “It’s clear our conversation today won’t go anywhere. In that case, this is what I suggest. You should eat something. And you’ll stay in here until you’re ready to behave.” He points to a round mahogany table between two cushioned chairs at one end of the room.
For the first time, I cast my eye around the space. It’s larger than the living room of my childhood home in Boston.
Heavy chocolate drapes hang at the frosted windows and spill to the carpeted floor. Through an open door, I spot a Jacuzzi-style tub.
The fireplace, thick carpet, and shaded lamps all contribute to a romantic atmosphere. Except nothing about this situation is romantic—not to me.
I ignore the pain splitting my head and my weakened body. I’m all adrenaline as I push back the covers and jump out of bed, then attempt to shove past him. He blocks me with a tight hand on my shoulder. “I wouldn’t try to run if I were you.”
“Let me go.” I yank myself away from him and use every ounce of energy to get to the door. I don’t even make it halfway across the room before he’s clamped his strong hands around both my shoulders. He spins me around and draws me to his body, holding me in place. His thudding heart makes his hard chest vibrate against mine.
I attempt to free myself, but my strength is no match for his.
“This is where you belong. Best you come to terms with it now.” His breath
is hot on the top of my head. Instead of releasing me, he lifts me off the floor and tosses me onto the bed. I curl up into a ball. Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t give them permission to fall.
His eyes challenge me to do or say something to contradict his plans for me. “As I was saying, there’s food on the table. Eat, rest, and when you are ready to discuss our future calmly, I’ll return.” He crosses the room to the door, but turns back to face me before he opens it. “Until then, I’ll be watching your every move. There are cameras installed in this room.”
The door shuts behind him and I hear a key turn in the lock. Hot tears trickle down my cheeks. I don’t care about wiping them away. It’s not easy to hide a broken soul. All my life I craved freedom, which I earned by distancing myself from my mother. Now I’m about to lose it all over again, and this time it could be forever.
I spend what feels like a whole hour crying, screaming, throwing things, and trying to find a way through the barred windows and locked door. Without a clock, I have no way of telling how long he’s been away. Finally I fall silent, my body sore and drained of energy, my eyes swollen. He doesn’t return.
28
I sink to the floor next to the bed, my head heavy in my hands, shaking with rage. Much as I want to continue wrecking the room and screaming, I’ve come to the conclusion that being emotional won’t get me anywhere. I need to pull myself together, to think. I don’t have the physical strength to fight him, but I have my mind. All I can do now is find some peace, and do my best not to go crazy.
The last thing I want to do is depend on his provisions, but my body’s needs are undeniable. Swiping the tears away with the back of my hand, I haul myself from the floor and drag my body across the room. First I go into the bathroom to use the toilet and wash my face. Then I head to the table. I uncover the plate of food—steak, rice, and vegetables. At least he’s not feeding me like a prisoner.
I sink into one of the chairs and pick up the spoon. When the hairs at the back of my neck prickle, I glance behind me. I don’t see the cameras, but the cold sensation under my skin warns me he’s watching.
The food is delicious, but then again, when you’re starving, you’ll enjoy whatever’s in front of you. When I’m done, I pick up the glass I had thrown onto the floor earlier and fill it with water from the pitcher. I gulp it down and put the glass on the nightstand.
As I climb back into bed, I notice for the first time that I’m not wearing the clothes I wore when he kidnapped me. My ivory lace crop top and skinny jeans have been replaced by black silk pajamas.
I slide under the covers and fold myself into a ball, hugging my knees. Something digs into my left ankle. I sit up again and lift one pajama leg. The offending object is a thin, gold band. Frowning, I twist it around my ankle in search of a clasp. I find none.
What the hell?
“Don’t bother. You won’t be able to remove it,” Judson’s voice pours into the room from hidden speakers. “That’s the symbol of our marriage. I hope you like it. It was personalized for you.”
My head snaps up. I study each corner of the room, but I can’t determine where his voice is coming from. Somehow it fills the entire space.
“I thought a traditional wedding band would be too easy to get rid of, don’t you think? That bracelet will remain on your ankle until you accept our marriage.”
I shake my head, my desperate fingers still clutching the bracelet. “Hell no. This has to be some kind of sick joke.” Despite my determination to get a grip on my emotions, my calm is slipping.
“If you still don’t believe we exchanged vows, have a look in that drawer—the one under the pitcher of water. You’ll find a copy of our marriage certificate in there. We exchanged vows in a romantic little chapel in Las Vegas yesterday.”
I yank the drawer open, my breath lodged in my throat. I pull out a single sheet of paper and my eyes take in everything at once. The words “marriage certificate” spring out at me, letter by letter. My name and date of birth are there in black and white, along with my signature. My signature? My teeth sink into my lip as I read the name of the man I married without knowing it.
“Damien Steel.” The words push themselves past my lips.
“That’s right,” he says. “Judson Devereux doesn’t exist. It’s best you forget him.”
“So you lied. You’re not a professor.” My blurred eyes are still glued to the certificate.
“No, I’m not. But my career isn’t important right now. What matters is that you’re holding the proof of our union in your hands.”
“You’re a fake—a complete lie.” The marriage certificate slips from my grip and flutters onto the sheets.
“That’s not true. Judson is the lie. I’m real. And so is our marriage.”
Time stands still as I force myself to stop trembling. The one thought that calms me is the realization that what he tells me doesn’t have to be the truth. He’s lied to me before. Who says he isn’t lying now? How can I believe anything that comes out of his mouth?
So he says we’re married, and there’s proof. The marriage certificate could still be a fake, and even if it isn’t—even if I did marry him last night—it happened under the influence of drugs. Either way, whatever marriage he thinks we have is a sham. It will be over as soon as I find a way to free myself from him.
29
I stand at the window, my palms flat against the cold glass. The drapes have been pulled aside, and I watch fluffy snowflakes swirling in the air on the other side of the thick glass. Some are sticking to the window pane. My heavy, swollen eyes peer through the flurries with longing. From here, there is nothing but an endless sea of snow-covered trees. It seems Judson’s—or rather, Damien’s—house is isolated.
I swallow a sob as my memories take me back to Oaklow, the day I rode my bike through the rain from Millie’s Book Corner. I remember being desperate to get out of the rain. Now, stripped of my freedom, I would give anything to be out in the rain again.
I step away from the window and return to the bed, where I perch on the edge, my head on my knees. My deep breaths do nothing to calm the storm within me.
I barely slept all night, thinking of ways to escape and hitting a brick wall over and over. The windows are barred, the door is locked, and I’m bound to a psychopath by marriage vows I can’t recall saying. Whichever way I look at it, I’m trapped.
But I refuse to give up my freedom. I’m not his possession. My life is my own. By letting this man into my life, I got myself into this mess. And I’m determined to find a way out before he breaks me.
As the sun’s rays push their way through the cloudy sky and make the snow sparkle, I make a decision. I will play along, for now.
He wants me to trust him, so I’ll have to fake it. I’ll say I did some thinking and am ready to be his wife. He’d be a fool to believe me, but I have to try. I’m his weakness—perhaps by being what he wants, I’ll be able to find my strength.
I lift my head and gaze at the table. The plates from yesterday are still there, but every morsel of food is gone. He hasn’t brought me anything else to eat. If I don’t want to die of hunger, I better do something soon. Too bad it isn’t so easy handing myself over to a psychopath, even in pretense.
I push a hand through my tangled hair and gaze into a random corner of the room. “If you want to talk, I’m listening.”
I count the seconds in my head, waiting for him to respond. By the time I hit sixty, sweat is trickling down my spine and my stomach has tensed to the point of pain. He doesn’t trust me. What if he keeps me locked up for days without food? Thanks to the bathroom faucet, I won’t die of thirst, but how long can a person go without eating?
I keep my eyes fixed on the far corner of the room, my face expressionless. He doesn’t need to know what’s going on inside me. I won’t give him more power than he has already stolen from me. I won’t beg.
I wait for about an hour before speaking again, to a different corner of the room this time. I w
ish I knew where the damn cameras were hidden. Then I wouldn’t feel as though I’m talking to myself. I imagine him on the other side, watching me, waiting for me to surrender to him.
“You want an apology? Is that it? Okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my behavior yesterday. I was in shock, okay? I was angry. That shouldn’t surprise you.” I bite my lip and close my eyes briefly. “I’m fine now. You can come in and talk to me.”
Another hour passes, and he still hasn’t responded to me. I curl up under the covers, trying not to hyperventilate.
Finally, after an interminable amount of time, I hear footsteps outside, faint at first and then louder. Then I hear nothing but my heartbeat. I know he’s standing in front of the door.
I push back the covers, holding my breath. A surge of adrenaline shoots through my veins. I can’t do it. I can’t pretend I want to be here, that I want to be his wife. If he opens that door, there’s no way I’ll be able to stop myself from trying to escape.
I have to get the hell out of here. I don’t know how I’ll get off the property, but I won’t let him lock me inside this room again. Next time it could be days before he returns. My determination to escape gets me out of bed and pushes me across the room just as he pushes a key into the lock.
On my way to the door, I grab a wrought iron floor lamp and stand on one side of the door, back pressed hard against the wall. He doesn’t barge in, however. Perhaps he’s hesitant to enter.
The doorknob creaks as it turns. Drawing in a deep, silent breath, I tighten my slippery fingers on the stem of the lamp.
When he pushes the door open, my fear is replaced by blinding white rage, which injects me with the strength to swing the lamp as hard as I can.
My stomach drops when he ducks at the last second. But I don’t quit. A groan escapes my lips as I take another swing at him.
