Episode Two: Look Back in Anger

by S. N. Graves

  “You see?” His teeth rasped against her bottom lip. “Perfect fit.”

  Her groan was mortified. This shouldn’t have felt so perfect. It couldn’t be perfect. She was drunk, and this was Arles; it had to be awful. It needed to be violent and repulsive. She was supposed to hurt and bleed and cry, not cling and moan.

  He slipped his hands along her sides and hips, then caressed the lengths of her thighs as a rhythm came to his thrusts, a comfortable cadence that he fell into after several moments of erratic beginnings. His lips abandoned hers to further explore her flesh, from shoulder to shoulder, over her collarbone, to settle a bruising kiss on the slender column of her throat. His teeth pressed into her neck, not so much that it was unbearable, but enough of a sting for her to know there would be traces of it left for all to see tomorrow. Between the way he took her now and the bites he had left on her, there was no doubt he wanted the evidence of her possession to be quite visible.

  “You missed me,” he said with clear satisfaction.

  Had she missed him? Everything she had told herself for the past decade said emphatically no. Now she wasn’t so sure. His searing touch, like a brand on her cool skin, his lips bruising her neck, the savage current that ran through her with every measured thrust into her body—there was no denying that some dark and sinful part of her wanted him. Maybe she always had.

  She was a lot more screwed up than she’d realized. Or maybe she was just long ruined, his dented and broken toy who fell easily into the familiar comfort of being used.

  “No.” And she almost believed it too, even if she was far from being so sure now.

  “Liar.” He nipped her ear, then sealed his mouth over hers, drinking her in as smoothly as he’d dismissed her lie. When he drove his cock impossibly deep within her, her gasping cry wasn’t nearly as pained as she wished it was. He might have been angry—she couldn’t tell—but his kiss still edged on adoring. The only bit of difference seemed to be in the way he used the rest of her. The careful coupling took a sharp turn toward full-on pounding her into the wall.

  His efforts tore a blissful whimper from her lips. The steady hammering of her sensitive flesh destroyed her ability to think, to hold back the pitiful little sounds she made. Molten butterflies swarmed within her, melting away the shame she wanted so very much to hold on to. Shame that should have come effortlessly as she tightened her legs about him and tore at his shirt, sending several buttons snapping free to ping-pong off the wall. She should have been ashamed, but she kissed him as if she needed the very taste of him to keep breathing. She just couldn’t muster remorse.

  His assault turned almost desperate. His breathing labored, he severed the kiss and buried his face against her neck. If he held her any tighter, slammed into her with any more ferocity, she might have split in two. Instead she shattered; exquisite electricity burned through her core, leaving her melted against him in fragmented pieces.

  Several loosely hung picture frames skidded down the wall and exploded on the floor. Arles didn’t seem to notice or care. He lingered against her for many long, heavy breaths, as if the whole affair had left him stunned and clutching her for support. With some lethargy, he pushed off and gently settled her back to her shaky feet. As he stepped out of his pants that pooled at his ankles, he leaned down to pick up her fallen towel.

  Sam’s knees rebelled against her weight, and it was all she could do to keep from sliding down the wall and into the mosaic of broken glass and memories at her feet. Now, without the immediate fear of him, without him touching her and making it hard for her to form a coherent thought, the voice of her compromised morality invaded her mind. She wanted to cover herself, crawl in a hole, and die.

  Instead of handing her the towel to use as a shield, Arles simply picked it up and used it to give himself a cursory cleaning. Then he tossed it in the general direction of the bathroom.

  Okay. That was just disgusting. There was no way someone willing to toss his shit around that way had such an immaculately clean house…unless someone was picking up after him. Hell if it was ever going to be her. He didn’t seem to give it a second thought. Instead, all his attention turned on Sam.

  She shifted her gaze to the floor, away from his stare, and though it was a little late now, tried to conceal her breasts behind her arm. “Can I have some clothes now?”

  His menacing smirk returned as elegant strides carried him to stand before her once more. In an instant, not so much as a single breath separated them. Already his hands were working at the previously loosened tie about his throat. He tugged it off, and without ceremony slipped it about her neck. “Better?”

  Her jaw tensed so hard her face hurt. How she’d felt so safe, even for those few fleeting moments she’d given in to him, she had no idea now. “No.”

  Arles arched a brow. He took that tie, winding it into a perfect half Windsor knot, then tightened it about her throat until it fit snugly. He then used it like a makeshift leash, pulling her away from the wall and slightly upward until their noses nearly met. “How about now?”

  “No.”

  It was very possible that his intent wasn’t cruelty, though if that was the case, he had an odd idea of affection. Instead of releasing her immediately, he first stole another lingering kiss from her lips. She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. After a heartbeat or two he released the tie, allowing her to settle off her tiptoes, but maintained the kiss as long as it took to unbutton the white dress shirt he wore. He removed it and draped it over her shoulders, then gave her lips freedom.

  She slipped the shirt on, and fastened the remaining buttons with shaky fingers. By the time she’d finished, he’d polished off another glass of whatever alcohol he was drinking and sought to meet her eyes again. He watched her for several seconds before a faint look of disappointment tinged his smile. “Didn’t ring any bells, huh?”

  She peered at him as if he’d gone mad. “What did you expect? Was I supposed to remember being molested fondly? I was a child. You should be happy I remember so little of it.”

  “Pfft. You weren’t entirely a child.”

  “I was twelve, maybe thirteen. That is a child.”

  “Then you do remember.” He set the glass down and returned to her side. “So why all the games…if you remember?”

  “I have bits and pieces, none of them good bits. From about the time you showed up, about five on, I have some chunks of memory. I didn’t realize you’d actually taken it that far…until just now.”

  She’d always had suspicions she had been raped, some knowledge that it had been done and medical records to support the tampering, but she’d hoped it hadn’t been that bad. As warm and welcoming as those fleeting bits of memory had felt, they only supported everything her father and doctors had told her over the years.

  “How old was I when you started? When exactly did you start fucking me? Five? Eight? Was the time my father caught you really the first time?”

  She was shaking so badly now she could barely keep her footing, and she couldn’t tell anymore if she was still angry at him or more at herself for behaving like a whore when he touched her. If not for gripping the table’s edge until her knuckles went white, she might have collapsed under his stare and the heaviness of the alcohol still roiling through her system.

  “How much of being your fuck toy am I supposed to remember?”

  His visible disappointment turned to disgust, and he waved his hand in a hatefully dismissive gesture. “Go to bed. I don’t want to see you right now.”

  “I never wanted to see you, not that what I want ever matters to you. How’s it feel?” She needed to get away from him, but she had no intention of getting in that bed. He slept in that bed; she couldn’t handle the thought of being wrapped in the same sheets, cradled in his scent. She headed for the door instead.

  “Hey, genius…it’s over there.” He grabbed her arm, halting her steps, and turned her sharply back toward the bed.

  “I can’t sleep with you. I don’t want to b
e anywhere near you.” She shook her head and pulled her arm with enough force to leave a mark if he didn’t release her. He didn’t. “You can’t expect me to—”

  “I expect you to do as you are told.” He gave her a little helpful “nudge” in the direction of the bed. She stumbled and stopped, going only as far as the shove forced her and no farther. “Bed. Go. Now.”

  When she didn’t budge, his mouth pressed into a hard line. He seemed about on the verge of yelling, snarling, and demanding, but for whatever reason he didn’t. Rather, he drew a calming breath and crossed the floor to take her by the arm.

  Her protests and tears were ignored. He wasn’t giving her a choice, and he walked her briskly to the mattress, then flung her into the middle. “No more arguments. Go to sleep.”

  When he stepped away to the dinner table to claim a chair with his back to her, she decided to stay put. She wouldn’t sleep, but perhaps if she was quiet, he would leave her alone long enough to get her thoughts in order.

  IV

  Sam’s dreams transposed over her surroundings as she came awake. Long after the scenery shifted to the open balcony of Arles’s room, her vision clung to the familiar image of a small boy peeking around the door of her childhood bedroom. She knew him. His curious stare held her fast, warm and innocent, far from the devastating gaze she now associated with Arles. He’d grown into those large, haunting eyes, their green depths rarely warm, but rather like looking into pools of emerald ice.

  Their light faded and the Arles boy from long ago discorporated into the rain rolling off the balcony overhang in sheets so thick the trees just a few feet from the opening looked more like living streaks of shadow. The water’s cool fragrance and lulling rhythm urged her back into the sleepy cocoon. Back to the dreams with the big-eyed boy, back into the pleasant warmth of the blankets and the arms wound about her. Sam sighed in contentment and closed her eyes.

  A heartbeat later they snapped open wide.

  Arles. The realization jolted through her, and she nearly flung herself from the embrace. Waking up in any man’s arms should have been enough to have her jumping out of the bed, spitting accusations of drugged sodas, and making a speedy call to the authorities. The men in her life weren’t the sort to sleep over. Hell, they weren’t the type to risk being seen with her, much less being seen first thing in the morning, leaving her house in the same clothes they’d worn the night before.

  Arles was another matter entirely, and he had no right to make her feel so warm and comfortable. So safe. She hadn’t intended to allow herself to fall asleep, much less do so snuggled up cozily with her abuser. Her rapist.

  The harshness of the word, even kept to the silence of her mind, made her nose wrinkle. Somewhere between him sending her to bed like a naughty six-year-old and her dozing off, she’d decided the sex had definitely been rape. The mere illusion of willingness and some base enjoyment, attributed directly to the alcohol, did not change that. She hadn’t wanted him; she’d be crazy to. She was certain. At least…she was pretty sure she was certain.

  Perhaps…

  Maybe.

  Just a little in some perverse masochistic way?

  It was the alcohol. And maybe the smell of sandalwood on his skin. And the way his hands felt so strong and protective when he touched her. And his—

  Maybe he was drugging her? What the hell had been in that drink?

  She had to get away from him. Had to.

  That mantra beating around in her skull like a war drum, she began to slip out from under his arm, gradually edging out of the embrace so as not to wake him. She slithered along the mattress with all the grace of a garden snake suffering a massive stroke, using her heels to pull her to the very edge before pitching herself entirely from the mattress to land on the floor with a thud. His hand now dangled off the bed from where her fleeing form had carried it, and she peered up at his limp fingers and that god-awful childish ring for several slow breaths. Then, ever so stealthily, she rose a bit to peek over his wrist, fully prepared to scurry once she assured he was still out cold.

  When her eyes met with his sleepy scowl, those piercing green depths accusing her of exactly the escape attempt she’d been in the process of, she froze. An overly toothy smile, more a nervous baring of teeth, claimed her lips as she began to slowly shift up from the floor. “I have to be at work.”

  “No, you don’t.” His own lack of sleep showed in the low rasp of his voice.

  “Yes, I do, actually.” She stepped away from the bed, backing up one careful step at a time. From the looks of him, he wasn’t going to be lunging at her anytime soon, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “I have rounds. And a very serious can’t-miss appointment at the clinic.”

  “You can miss it. You’re taking a leave of absence.”

  “You don’t understand. I really can’t. We’ve an important client coming in, and I have to be there. I am the only tech on staff who can remap CNS circuits and—”

  “No.” He sat up, the blanket falling away to reveal his bare chest and the trim line of his hips.

  Her cheeks warmed instantly, and she tore her gaze away and closed her eyes, though the sight of him seemed branded to the insides of her eyelids. His body was perfect. Somehow she’d managed to fight off the realization last night, but now, in the dim light of the morning, there was no denying it. Even if he wasn’t all monster inside, she had no business with a man so beautiful.

  “I have to go home too. Animals to feed. I have a lot of animals at home. I have…” Why was she arguing with him? She should be running, getting the hell out of that house while he was too sluggish to catch her. Then what would she do? She couldn’t very well just go home; before she made it through the door, the police would be rounding up her father.

  “You have to feed your toaster pets? How does that even work?”

  “They aren’t…appliances. And I do have organics as well. I’ve left them alone all night. They are probably freaking out.”

  “They are animals. They are probably too busy licking their asses to even notice the great food giver is gone.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about animals. I have to go.” And clutching his mangled shirt closed over her breasts, she darted to the door to do just that.

  No man had a right to move as quickly as he did, especially half-asleep. He was on her in an instant, ensnaring her wrist and jerking her hand back from the door just as her fingertips brushed the knob. “I said, no. I’ll call your work and explain. You are taking a leave of absence.” He spoke deliberately, wielding that patronizing tone like a bludgeon. “The toasters can wait.”

  That tone, or maybe that stern empowered stare of his, made her face heat up beyond the shy blush of a moment before. She snapped, and her fist slammed into his cheek with such force that his head swung loosely to the side. “Fuck. You!” That roar felt so good to get out, despite the burning it left in her throat, but whatever satisfaction came with the sucker punch seeped away as he slowly turned his head back to level his gaze on hers.

  This was where he’d break her neck. Sam was certain it was coming, at the very least a black eye.

  All she got was that cold considering stare, so stonily rigid she wanted to scream again just to break it from her. Taking in a deep breath to do so, she saw his face twitch. A tight jerking beneath his eye, and she nearly choked on her exhale.

  “I could have sworn I warned you about that already.” He looked prepared to take the debt in blood too.

  “Get away from me.”

  He did just the opposite, pinning her against the door with his hands flattened against the wood on either side of her head. She was trapped again, and this time there was nothing more playful than raw death in his narrowed gaze.

  “Make me.”

  She swallowed hard, closing her eyes once more as her hands balled into fists at her sides. Where his voice was smooth and taunting, hers had grown a little scratchy from that scream, difficult to force out and barely audible. “I j
ust want to go to work. I have a job; I have a life.”

  “Not anymore. Not outside me, you don’t. I’m your life.”

  One of his hands slipped down along the door, his arm winding about her, drawing her close and pressing her snug against him. How quickly his mood shifted, from a moment before he was assaulting her with his eyes to now nuzzling up to her like some affection-starved cat, nibbling at her ear, caressing her neck with velvet lips.

  What she loathed more—his violence or that perverse affection—she couldn’t decide. “I hate you.”

  “I know.”

  “This is how people get killed.”

  “You going to kill me, Sammy?”

  “Quit calling me Sammy. It’s not my name.”

  “Samantha.” He’d somehow gotten closer with each retort, and as he rolled her name off his tongue, like some teasing caress, the tip of his nose circled hers. “You didn’t answer my question. Plotting my death, are you?”

  “You giving me a choice?” Angry tears burned her eyes even as he eased away from her.

  “You’ve clothes in the dresser. Put something on.” He stepped back, allowing her passage to do as she was told, but kept his hand pressing the door firmly closed.

  “You’re letting me go?” She moved in the direction of the dresser to get out of his immediate reach.

  “No, I’m taking you to feed your animals. Then we’re going out.”

  “I don’t need you with me to feed my animals. I am perfectly capable of getting there and doing it myself.” She glared back at him. “And…it wouldn’t be that big a deal to let me go to work either, even for just a couple of hours. For that one appointment.”

  “Why do you have to be like this? Can’t you relax for five minutes? Turn off the bitchiness for just a little while?” His voice seemed unsure if it wanted to be a whine or a yell. Either way he was very clearly fed up. “We’ll go take care of your animals, but forget the job for now. It will be there when we’re done here.”

  “Again with the we. Do you have a mouse in your fucking pocket?” Her teeth ground together as she locked her jaw against the scream that fought for escape. “This is all about you, not we. I’m not involved. I’m a hostage, a damn…political prisoner.” Stomping steps drew her to the dresser and she yanked open the drawer as she continued her hateful tirade. “A casualty of the ongoing angst war between you and my father.”