Prisoner

by Skye Warren

He gives me a strange look.

  “She’s mine,” I say like that explains it. “You don’t have to understand.”

  “Oh no, I understand perfectly,” he bites out. “It’s not what we do, Grayson.”

  “Not what you do,” I say.

  He gives me a dark look. He’s always been the upstanding one. Blending back into society has always mattered to him.

  Fuck society. “She’s mine,” I say again.

  There’s a look of warning in his eyes.

  “She’s mine, and that’s just how it is now.”

  “Vehicle’s in the shed,” he says.

  Then he’s gone, and it’s just me and Abby. I go back in and fix us some toast. She doesn’t ask for her blindfold to be removed even though she knows the good doctor is gone. Maybe she gets that I can’t let her see where she is—a kitchen full of clues. Or maybe the drugs are already making her a little docile.

  That was the genius of whatever they gave us back in that hellhole of a basement, just enough drugs to knock the fight out of you.

  Nate doesn’t want to remember, but I’ll never forget the lesson—that you’re either strong or weak. You dish it out, or you take it. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what side of that equation I’m planning to stay on.

  I smooth her soft hair again. “You’re okay,” I say. “We’re both tired. Let’s get some sleep.”

  She nods.

  Is she being too pliant? It might be a trick. She could be plotting to escape as soon as I’m out. I hope to hell one pill was enough, but I didn’t want to risk more. Nate might have been able to give me a more specific number, but I didn’t want to involve him any more than I already had. A small amount. Enough for a few cats. She seems almost catlike now. Slender and restrained.

  And clever too.

  I go to Nate’s utility drawer and cut a length of string and shove it in my pocket. Just in case.

  “Come on.” I pull her up. She’s steady enough on her feet, but I can tell she’s a little off-kilter. Good.

  I guide her up the staircase, the blindfold a handy excuse to help her. I just want her to feel good and drift off like she doesn’t have to care about anything. At least one of us should get that.

  I take her to the guest room where I slept after Stone got shot. I fling the covers aside and lay her down on the smooth sheet.

  “Ahh,” she says. It’s practically a moan, and the sound ripples over my skin, hot and carnal.

  “Yeah,” I whisper, lowering the blinds. “It’ll feel good to sleep.” I turn on the bedside lamp and switch off the glaring overhead light.

  I pull off my shirt and pants, stripping right down to my boxers, and I sit on the foot of the bed and start untying her prim little lace-up boots, caked in mud. I’ll leave the rest of her clothes on. She wouldn’t like me undressing her.

  She still doesn’t have panties, a fact I’ve been intensely aware of ever since I made her take them off at the river. It was an asshole move, but that’s what I am now. An asshole who drugs sweet young women. Who drags them across the state and binds them with metal and chemicals. Hey, it could be worse.

  She turns on her side, tucking both her hands beneath her cheek. “Feels so good,” she mumbles.

  My hand is cupping her delicate foot. I roll off her sock, knuckles grazing the little indent between her heel and her ankle bone. I’ve never been a foot guy, never seen the appeal, but if I started down that route, her feet would definitely be my gateway, because they’re smooth as silk and perfectly formed. I have a newfound fetish for her feet, her hands…even her eyes, with their gorgeous, wise, soft sort of allure.

  Too bad Nate didn’t get to see her without the blindfold, but maybe that’s for the best. I like her being all mine.

  No one can take her away from me.

  Gently I pull off the other sock and rub my hand over her skin, telling myself I just have to check to make sure she’s warm enough, but really I need to fucking touch her a little bit, and what the hell, it’s only her feet. How wrong can that be? I’ve been violated in every place, hurt in the softest place, and all I’m doing is giving her a foot rub.

  “Grayson,” she whispers.

  She likes this. She wants this. It’s an illusion, but that might be enough for me. My cock swells at her lazy, husky tone.

  I press my hands on either side of her cool little toes, pancaking them between my palms. I want to devour her. “You warm enough, baby?” Like the Good fucking Samaritan I am, just needing to make sure the girl is warm.

  I watch myself warm her with a detached fascination. I need to stop touching her, but I don’t. I need to leave her alone, but I won’t. I have my hands on her feet, her ankles, and it’s just the beginning. My body wants more. She wants more.

  An illusion.

  Instead of pulling her foot away, she pushes it toward me, pressing it into my hands like she really wants my touch. I know it’s the sedative, making her seek out warmth and softness. I know that’s what it is from firsthand experience.

  Still I rub her toes, knowing she’ll like that. “Mmm,” she says. I move to her other foot, full-on massaging it. “Mmm,” she says again. I can tell she’s in a place where even things you don’t want feel good, as long as they come along with warmth and softness.

  I spent a lot of time in that place.

  It wouldn’t hurt her if I fucked her now. I was always going to fuck her—what better time than now? There were days I would’ve given anything for a dose of painkillers, but I had to go without. It’s a gift, that sedative.

  Remembering it sparks a white-hot fury inside me. Fury at myself, at the governor and his minions. The men who ran that house. Perversely I’m even mad at her for making me want her this much.

  Instead of climbing onto her and pressing her legs open, I push her feet away and pull the wad of string out of my pocket.

  One soft loop around her ankle and one around mine. We’re connected now. She won’t know it’s there unless she tries to take off. After what happened in the motel, I probably don’t need the extra layer of alert, but I’m not taking any chances. I have to take care of her. That’s important. She’s mine, and I have to watch over her.

  I climb into bed next to her and ease off the blindfold. Then I pull the sheets over us both, tucking her in next to me, pressing the blankets around her, getting her into a protective cocoon. I think about how she looked in that cell. The governor probably got her named an accessory. Maybe he figures it’s how he’ll get to me. Anger flashes through me. Fucking putting her in that dirty cell.

  She’s on her stomach, head resting on one arm, hair a dark halo around her pillow. I tuck her in tighter, but it’s too much, too tight, and she stirs. “Grayson,” she whispers. Then she fights her way out of her cocoon and finds me, nestling her head into my chest. My arm goes around her, and she snuggles into me.

  “Don’t let go,” she whispers, and my heart surges.

  “I won’t,” I whisper, pulling her in and kissing her forehead. She presses her body alongside mine, and I drink her in, cock like steel.

  “Grayson,” she says, and she kisses my neck.

  She doesn’t really want this. It’s the drugs making her soft and desperate. But when I look at it in a certain way, it’s as if she does want me.

  It’s like that hundred-dollar bill they put out with that inkwell hologram. If you tip the bill one way, it’s just an ugly-ass inkwell, but when you tip it another way, the Liberty Bell appears inside the inkwell, like there’s something shiny and special in there when you know there isn’t.

  That’s how I feel now. Because I’m just the piece of shit who kidnapped and drugged her.

  And I know the only reason she’s enjoying being in my arms is that she’s drugged and uninhibited, giving in to animal needs for comfort and warmth.

  But it’s like the fucking Liberty Bell appearing inside me when she slides against me. And suddenly I want the illusion. I love the illusion. So I just fucking take i
t. I take her mouth and get a taste of her. And I push my hand up inside her sweater, finding the lacy edge of her bra, feeling the swell of her tits underneath.

  She makes a soft sound of pleasure and there’s the fucking Liberty Bell, clanging like crazy.

  Twenty-Five

  ~Abigail~

  One minute he’s feeding me blueberries. The next he’s dragging me up some stairs. Or maybe it only feels like dragging me because my feet aren’t working, maybe because I can’t see anything.

  A bed. Soft, wonderful, with sheets smoother and cooler than sheets have any right to feel. Everything is a little dizzy and off center. So tired.

  My shoes are off. My feet feel warm and loose, like taffy. So good. So tired.

  I blink, but he’s just a fuzzy shadow in the dim light of the room. I can’t make out Grayson’s dark eyes or his cocky smile. I want to. He’s beautiful to look at, but all I can do is close my eyes and sink into his touch.

  I sigh as the musky scent of him surrounds me and hands tuck me in safe and sound, but the covers are too tight, so I fight them off, which isn’t easy; my limbs feel heavy and disjointed, but I get free and find him. He’s soft grass and damp earth, and I want to lie flat on the ground of him and breathe in deep, but I can’t move. His arm is a heavy band over my waist. Trapped. For some reason that seems okay.

  The tart flavor of berries lingers on my tongue.

  I’m heavy and warm and a little bit floaty. I think I should always feel like this.

  He drugged me.

  “Don’t let go,” I whisper.

  “I won’t,” he says, and I sink into him. I just want to crawl inside him… And suddenly I can’t breathe.

  At first I’m not sure what’s wrong, and something hot and smooth is inside my mouth, but then I realize he’s kissing me, frenching me. I’m not sure if I like it, but then I do, because it shocks me with feeling. And his warm hands are weights on my skin, under my shirt, pulling at my bra.

  I move against him. Our bodies are two animals, sliding against each other with perfect rhythm. Something rubs my shin, just a little rough. It takes me a century to realize it’s his leg on mine, and there’s something a little magic about his skin, his warmth. I say his name.

  “I got you,” he whispers. I feel this strange coolness on my breasts, exposed, like my arms are tangled up and my face is warm. I try to get free, but my arms still aren’t working, and then it doesn’t matter because they’re free, and this new sensation is even more delicious, all the cold, all the heat, all at once.

  I know my breasts are bare, but it’s wonderful in the darkness. I’m dimly aware that he’s kissing them, touching me. Rough hands on my thigh make me move and squeeze my legs together, and I think how wonderful it is to have things feel amazing. I’m trying to stay aware—I don’t want him to think I’m not paying attention, but I go somewhere off in the floaty distance, and when I come back to him, I realize I’m totally naked, and I can move and feel and be with him.

  I sigh at the sudden sensation between my legs, the sparks of his fingers. I kiss some nearby skin, and the feeling in my belly builds with stars, and I move like a snake against his warmth.

  His breath sounds sharp, in little starts and stops, which seems funny when everything else is so slow and easy.

  He says my name, and kisses me all over my face. I feel good, and I laugh.

  “What is it, baby?” he whispers.

  “I don’t know,” I say, because how am I supposed to know? And maybe I only imagined laughing, because my attention has moved on, and I realize his fingers are actually inside me now, and the second I realize that, the entire universe explodes in a dazzle of color. I ride that, on and on, and then all I feel is him pushing my legs apart, and I don’t like it, because he’s away from me, but like magic he’s back, inside me, pushing into me.

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  He’s in me; he’s through me. As if he’s light and I’m air. My brain is split apart with walls where pathways should go. I’m wandering through a maze in my own mind. There’s an answer, somewhere here. What’s happening? But all I can see is the brick wall right in front of me, over me, between my legs, pushing me down into oblivion, holding me like walls, making me want to stay.

  Twenty-Six

  ~Grayson~

  She’s soft underneath me. It’s like fucking a cloud, if a cloud could clench tight and wet around my cock. In the dim light I can see the curves of her breasts, the hollow of her throat. Her expression is dazed.

  Because she’s drugged.

  “This is so fucked up,” I mutter, the mantra in my head. She is fucked and I am fucked, but I don’t stop. I’ve never been so turned on in my life, and she’s barely conscious.

  Abby, Abby. She’s not even Ms. Winslow anymore. Ms. Winslow is buttoned-up and careful. Ms. Winslow is safe—but I’m not even sure that girl was real. This girl in my arms rocks her hips against mine and moans until I’m so worked up I growl against her neck.

  I could have driven away with Stone. I could have put a goddamned bullet in her brain. Instead I thrust into her swollen cunt and hope it never ends.

  “Please.”

  My cock flexes inside, hearing her beg. But I stop and pull out. I dig around in the drawer by the side table until I find what I’m looking for.

  “Please,” she mumbles, her hands grasping. Does she even know what she wants?

  I tear the condom package and sheath myself quickly. This is part of taking care of her. Part of owning her. Then I press back inside, all the way to heaven.

  Her lips part. Her lids lower. She’s going to drop right out of awareness, asleep and pulsing around my dick. I tighten my grip on her hips, and I slam into her hard enough to wake her up again. Her eyes open wide as she whimpers. Her eyes roll back, but it’s not the drug this time.

  It’s pleasure.

  I’ve found the place inside her that makes her body jerk and her thighs quake. She can’t even help it. I plunge my dick inside her, again and again, finding that spot, battering it. There, there, there. Her mouth opens around a choked cry. I don’t think she could form words if she wanted to. She can’t ask me to stop, and that’s just as well, because I’m not going to.

  Her eyes fill with anxiety. Even in her confused state, she knows the orgasm is coming. I almost feel bad for her.

  Almost.

  I know what it feels like for your body to betray you. I know what it feels like to climax when you’re being ripped apart. I know what it is to hate yourself. I hang there, with the tip of my cock parting her flesh, holding my breath.

  Her eyes focus on mine. “Don’t stop,” she says, slurred and urgent.

  I tear into two pieces. The one who wants this girl and the one who’s taking her. Then I slam into her and find home, find my release in a blur of shadows and light.

  I stay inside her when I’m done, resting on her—not so heavy as to crush her, but she didn’t seem to like it when I pulled away before.

  That’s how this thing works. She’s mine to care for. Mine to have. Nate understood it all too well.

  Her breath evens out—not fake even but real even. Sleeping. I brush a strand out of her eyes. There’s a kind of furrow in her brow I don’t like; maybe she’s having a bad dream or something.

  “Shhh,” I whisper. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  Anyone else, that is.

  Still that furrow. Is she having a bad dream? I stroke my fingers along her forehead, smoothing out the skin, showing how I want it, and she seems to like that, because she shifts and then the furrow disappears.

  I wonder if I’ve chased some shit dream away. It gets me hard that I could do that. Literally. I’m still inside her, and I realize with a sort of weary surprise that I could fuck her again. What is it about this girl? I move in and out, working up a little steam, testing it.

  But then I pull out. The whole point here was to get some rest. I need rest. She needs rest.

  * * *

 
; I wake up with a pounding headache…and a light tugging on my ankle. With effort, I keep my body relaxed but not unnaturally still; that’s the trick to pretending to sleep. I learned it early on as a kid, not that it did me much good.

  The bed shifts slightly as Abby sits up. She pushes the covers aside. The slightest tug and a whisper of air tell me she’s trying to untie the string. I stay very still and let her do it. The string tickles my skin as her end of it falls to the bed.

  She makes it to the door before I spring up and push her from behind, pressing her into the wall with my body—not hard enough to hurt her. Just hard enough to send a message. I clench my fist in her hair and pull back.

  I wrap my free hand around her neck and squeeze gently, to get her attention.

  “Good morning,” I whisper in her ear.

  Twenty-Seven

  ~Abigail~

  My mind is like one of those old film reels, black-and-white stills flashing in front of me, out of sync with the music. And there’s static. So much static in my own brain that it scares me. Did I bump my head? Am I hallucinating? But one fact registers in the onslaught of imagery: I’m naked.

  “Let go of me.”

  His fist tightens in my hair. His other hand presses against my neck. I feel a puff of warmth against my skin. “I think I like where I’m at.”

  I struggle, kicking away from the wall and jerking my head in his hold. He doesn’t ease up. No, he leans against me, using his weight to press me against the wall. My cheek flattens against the smooth, cool surface. I’m panting, and so is he—but for different reasons, I think. His breathing is labored…and aroused.

  Then I realize something else: he’s naked too.

  His cock is hard against my butt. The image fills me with raw heat, flames licking my body from the inside. And anger.

  He’s touched me with more than his cock. And I don’t remember undressing. In fact, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have agreed to that.