by Sansa Rayne
She sighs, taking the towel.
“As I’ve said, it won’t end well. We try to make the best of our fate. Some of us are like you, plucked from lives we enjoyed. Some were sold into slavery as children; they’ve never known anything better. You could try to convince the former to fight, but I promise you it won’t work.”
Bullshit. I refuse to believe that. If we had a plan… a workable, realistic plan to make our escape, how could they not take a chance on regaining their freedom?
We reach a cafeteria of sorts: all of the seats are bolted to the floor, and various restraints are built into each one so that the women can be locked in. When Colette and I arrive, most of the women sit freely in the seats, chatting happily as they eat. A couple have been bound, their wrists held down by heavy leather straps, and are being spoon-fed by other women. If anyone minds, they don’t show it.
Just as Colette promised, they’re all dressed in thong swimsuits like mine, as if it’s the official Enclave uniform. The main difference in their attire comes from the collar they wear: some are plain black, some are gold or silver, others are jeweled. Are the styles simply their men’s aesthetic preferences, or do they hold any kind of meaning? I’ll have to ask.
“Behave yourself while you’re here, and you can enjoy yourself,” Colette says. “The men eat elsewhere. In here, it’s just us women. They are watching us, though.”
“Yeah, I noticed the cameras.”
“For every one you see, three are hidden. It’s a good rule of thumb to remember.”
“No shit,” I mutter.
She takes me to the kitchen, where women cook pre-cut vegetables and meats. To my surprise, they do cook over electric stoves — soups bubble, casting off alluring scents.
A pot of hot food could make a good weapon… but I’d never get it out of here. The guards would see.
Fuck.
“What would you like, Kate?” a cook asks.
She uses my name like she knows me. Not Ms. Atwood. Kate. She says it like she’s my regular barista, or I’m dining at the LPN executive restaurant.
“Steak,” I say. “Rare.”
I expect her to apologize, that they don’t have any, that they only have burgers.
Instead, she says, “Porterhouse or filet mignon?”
Wow.
“Porterhouse.”
She nods, then turns to Colette.
“Crab cakes?”
“Perfect,” Colette replies.
We head to a table and sit. The cushion feels cold under my essentially bare ass. I sneer at everything and nothing, balling my fists against the armrests.
Colette grins.
“What?” I say.
“You seem surprised we have steak. We have nearly everything. Though I recommend the seafood next time. This is an island; it’s always fresh.”
“Oh, fuck off,” I growl. “Are you having a good time, playing tour guide? I’m thinking about how to get out of this damn place, and you’re acting like the welcoming committee on a cruise liner.”
Colette’s mirth fades.
“I was angry too when I first came here,” she says, keeping her voice low. She dons a smile but only with her lips. “It took me some time to accept my fate.”
Well, that’s something at least.
“How did you?”
“I realized that Jamison would never marry me, but that he would never leave me. Either way, I’m with him.”
One of the girls brings us plastic cups of ice tea and lemonade.
“With him?” I scoff. “You’re his slave.”
“It goes deeper than that. We’ve been together for forty years, Kate. We’re in love. He just needed me to fulfill a different role than a wife. I’m the closest he has to one.”
“Excuse me, but that sounds crazy. A man who loved you wouldn’t keep you prisoner.”
“I get how it looks,” she snaps. “And I get why you don’t see this situation the way I do, but Jamison and I have been together for more than half our lives. He’s affectionate, he’s generous — he cares about me, just as I care about him. We confide in each other, we trust each other — we make each other happy, every day. If that’s not love, I guess I don’t know what love is.”
I nod slowly, trying to wrap my mind around what she said.
“Love has to be freely given,” I say after a bit.
“I do give it freely. I like the life I’ve made with the man I love, as different as it is from most. Serving my master feels rewarding to me. I always have liked to serve, to be owned by the man I love, so I didn’t fight Jamison when he brought me here, even if it wasn’t my choice. For me, this island is paradise. I just hope that someday, Ingram or someone else here makes you feel the same way and that your life here will be as fulfilling as mine.”
I really don’t know what else to say to that, so I sip my tea and lemonade.
She might mean well, but she’s insane. Ingram will never be anything but the monster who abducted me and stole my life. He may have saved me from execution, but not because he’s noble or compassionate — but because I can be of use. That’s all.
Maybe decades of captivity on this island have taken a mental toll on Colette, and spinning this rationale is what keeps her relatively sane. Or, she could truly believe every word of what she said. Either way, she is not going to be of any help in making my escape.
I’ll have to find another way.
I’m midway through the day’s Wall Street Journal on my tablet, enjoying a scotch in the cigar lounge when Victor steps up to me with a bottle of Old Rip Van Winkle.
“Up for some Eight-ball?” he asks.
He wants to talk. I can guess why.
“Sure. Why not?”
We head to the game room; Victor racks the balls. I pour the bourbon, liberally. After a nice sip, I grab a cue, chalk it up and break. I cause a cacophony and pocket two stripes.
“Nice shot,” Victor says.
I call a bank shot on the four.
“How many games were you thinking of playing before we got to the point?” I ask. “You’d like to talk about Atwood. Let’s talk about her.”
Victor smiles and puts back his cue.
“You’re so direct,” he says, tasting his bourbon. “I guess you’re not going to feel buttered up if I let you win a few games, are you?”
He must have a really big ask.
“No, I’d rather you not waste my time.”
“Fine,” says Victor. “I want her dead.”
No shit.
Considering Kate exposed his crimes, turned him into a fugitive and forced him to fake his death to escape prison, I’m surprised Sovereign managed to wait even a few hours before approaching me.
I don’t reply; I just stare. He’s free to ask whatever he wants, but he’s a fool if he thinks I went to the trouble of bringing her here just to let him murder her.
“For what she did to me,” he continues, “I want her to suffer. Pain like she’s never imagined. I want her to beg for mercy, then beg for death — it should be slow and brutal. You won’t have to help, Ingram. I’ll take care of everything.”
I can’t help thinking that I’d like to hear her beg too — though not in that way. My memory summons the sight and sound of her bound and squealing as I disciplined her. Her screams must be like music, a symphony of delectable anguish. I’d like to hear more — lots more. But the idea of Victor hurting her ignites an inferno of rage in my chest.
She’s mine. I’m not about to hand her over to anyone, for any reason. He’s not going to like that, but he’s going to have to deal with it. If he’s asking already, he must really be desperate to scratch his itch. Seeing her in person really must have stung.
“I understand that you’d like some payback after what she did to you,” I say, selecting my words with caution. “But I’ll be interrogating her for some time, finding out everything she knows about all of us.”
Victor starts to speak, but I anticipate his response and cut him
off, saying, “I’ll conduct the questioning personally. I’ve already begun the process of building a rapport.”
He cracks his knuckles, then picks up the pool cue. Slapping it against his palm, he paces around the other side of the table.
“Have you sacked her home and office?” he asks. “If we had her files, we could comb through all of it. Everything we need will be there.”
“My operatives have already copied everything, but do you think she’d keep an address book for informants on a hard drive?”
“She has to have some records-”
“She’s smarter than that,” I counter. “We won’t know who they are unless she tells us; unless she tells me.”
“Do you really think we need her-”
“Plus,” I say, raising my voice, “When her friends and colleagues start wondering where she’s gone, we may need her to make a few calls and allay their suspicions — just at first, to buy time.”
Victor waits for me to finish, then strikes the cue against the table, snapping it in half.
“Dent, this is fucking unacceptable.”
He brandishes the jagged wood in my direction; if he gets any closer with it I’ll punch his lights out.
“Don’t bullshit me about needing her alive,” he continues. “We don’t. You decided you wanted a new pet, instead of killing her like we all decided.”
“We decided I’d deal with her,” I argue. “How I’d do it was up to me.”
Victor takes a step forward, but notices my hands closing into fists. Flinching, he drops the broken cue.
“My life is fucked because of her! I can’t go anywhere! I can’t do shit! She needs to fucking suffer, and then she needs to fucking die. You think the shit I do to Bethany is bad? It’s nothing compared to how I’ll fuck Kate up.”
“This conversation is over,” I growl, walking past him. “Thanks for the drink.”
If he comes within an inch of Kate, I’ll rip his testicles off. I should do it anyway. Every time Bethany’s screams pierce the night I have half a mind to bust into his residence and put him down for good. Maybe when I’m leading the Masters, I will. For now, he’s not coming anywhere near Kate.
“I know about Jamison,” says Victor.
I stop.
“He’s going to step down, and soon. And when he does, he wants you to take over, isn’t that right?”
I turn to face him.
“I’d be willing to support you,” he finishes. “Let me have Kate, and you can consider my vote in the bag.”
“And if I don’t?”
Victor smiles, his features severe.
“Clock’s ticking,” he says.
Now I leave, resisting the urge to punch a hole in the wall. I shouldn’t be this mad. I knew Victor would want to get his hands on Kate the second I decided to bring her here instead of killing her. I weighed his anger into my decision and opted to live with the results. So why am I so mad?
As I make my way home, I call Eyal for an update.
“Any leads on the informant’s killer?” I ask.
“None, sir,” he says. “The trail’s gone cold.”
Eyal only calls me “sir” when he feels he’s failed.
“Not surprising. Tell everyone we’re moving on. I want you to recruit new agents. Put out a call on a global scale, and scrutinize every applicant like they just asked to marry your daughter. Understand?”
“Mole hunt,” he says. “I’ll get right on it.”
I’ll be safe on the island; even if someone wants me dead, they won’t do it here. They’ll have to wait for me to leave. But if I can find out who it is and prove it, I won’t have to worry about any more assassination attempts.
For a while, anyway.
When I get home, I shower quickly, my thoughts again turning to Kate. I’ll inform security that Victor is not to go anywhere near her, under any circumstances. I wouldn’t put it past him to walk into the harem and stab her, thinking I wouldn’t kill him in retaliation; he’d be wrong.
I try to wash quickly, before I get swept up in thoughts of her hot body writhing against mine. I’m not very successful. Her lilting moans as ropes tighten around her wrists, her lithe limbs spread wide as I tie her to the bed… as the scene builds in my mind, I draw a hand down my cock to stroke my hardening tip.
Fuck.
Stop.
She shouldn’t be taking my mental real estate. She’s a prisoner here. I can’t get attached.
Kate Atwood is a piece on the chessboard, nothing more. I can’t forget that.
Maybe after my would-be assassin is found, and I can relax…
No, dammit!
Stop.
I dry off, get dressed and head for the harem to pick Kate up. Better to keep her in my residence overnight, at least until Victor’s been pacified.
As I walk in, a hush passes through the lobby. Pets whisper to each other, their eyes locked on me. Before any of the others dare, one practically runs up to me.
“Ingram!” shouts Madeleine, latching onto me in a tight hug, energetic as a puppy. She’s only wearing a bikini, and her smooth skin heats against mine. “You’re here!”
I pat her back, then gently ease her off me.
“Hi, Maddy,” I say. “Where’s-”
Three more pets emerge from the cafeteria, all racing to join Madeleine. Courtney, Paulina and Sam form a semi-circle around me, smiling and batting their eyelashes.
“How come you haven’t been here?” Madeleine asks. “We’ve missed you!”
“You never come see us,” adds Paulina. “Are you too busy?”
“It’s the least you could do,” Sam mumbles, her piercing stare aimed through my sternum.
They used to curse me for bringing them here the way Kate does now. Now they complain I don’t pay them enough attention, that they’ve been discarded. They’re not wrong.
“I’m sorry it’s been too long, but I can’t stay. I’m looking for-”
“She’s here,” says Colette, dragging Kate by her leash.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the leash and moving Kate along. I give the others a quick look and lie, “I’ll see you another time.”
I walk quickly out of the harem; Kate doesn’t complain, matching my pace.
“Do I need to tie your hands?” I ask, pulling cuffs from my pocket.
“I’ll behave,” she says. “You have a nice collection of jealous ex-girlfriends back there. I told them they have nothing to be jealous of.”
I contemplate giving her leash a sharp tug.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I didn’t, actually,” she snaps. “I’m not stupid. They wouldn’t risk angering you by hurting me. But it killed me to pretend I don’t hate you.”
Despite my ire, I grin. She got me there.
“They buy it?” I ask.
“Sure. You know how many slimy CEOs have stared at my tits and made passes at me after an interview? I can hide my contempt really well. But don’t worry, I won’t hide it from you.”
Laughing, I reach down and slap her ass. She’s just begging me to wrestle her to the cobblestones and spank her raw right now. She yelps, then hisses.
“That’s enough,” I growl before she can mouth off again.
She wisely complies, keeping quiet until we reach my residence. Eyal nods to us as we enter, but says nothing — he must not have anything urgent for me. After removing Kate’s leash I point at the couch, so she sits.
“What did you find out?” I ask.
“About who’s trying to kill you?”
“Yes.”
She scoffs.
“It was my first day. What was I supposed to do, ask the courtesans who’s trying to kill Ingram Dent? Should I have asked them for help in doing it myself and see who wanted in? I need time to make connections — to figure out who I can trust.”
“Okay,” I say. “I get it. I’m not expecting you to figure it out on day one. I just wanted to know if you learned anything.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I’m feeling a bit defensive, considering my life is in constant danger here.”
“You’ll get used to it. But try to work faster. My life is in danger too.”
Shaking her head, she laughs.
“I’ll go through everything Eyal brings me. If there’s something to find, I’ll find it.”
“Good. But don’t forget, Kate: I’m watching you.”
Maybe this is too big a risk. She’ll be examining materials I wouldn’t trust to anyone but Eyal. By the time she’s done, she’ll know enough about my operation to put me and everyone I know in prison for the rest of our lives fifty times over. If she can find some way to screw me over, she will.
If I’m not careful, she’ll destroy us all.
Ingram has me do as much work from inside my cage as possible, always under Eyal’s supervision. He doesn’t take his eyes off me while I work. If he has to step aside for any reason, he takes the files, my notebooks, my pen — everything. I wait for him to return to continue. What does he think I’m going to do? Write something down on a piece of paper and keep it in my pussy until I’m rescued? Put a pen up there and then try to stab someone with it?
“I could kill you with this,” he says, handing me back my Bic. “So I assume you could too.”
“I’d try.”
He doesn’t react to threats and insults. Unlike Ingram, Eyal is pure ice. Complete discipline, no humor. Loyal, efficient and dangerous. If he’s ever experienced fun, I’d guess he hated it.
After a couple days, Ingram brings me some belongings from my apartment and office: coded contact info I didn’t want on a computer, printouts of correspondence from my phone and work e-mails that have come in since I went on “vacation.”
He also brought some of my clothes, which I can wear inside his residence, as well as my old CD collection. It’s a small gesture, but it’s enough to make me hate him a little less. He didn’t have to do that. I’d rather have access to my Spotify account, but CDs are better than nothing.
Of course, I’d love to know how his people got into my home and office without raising some questions, but I guess that’s their specialty.
