by Maren Smith
Not that she was that. He watched as she hugged her bag close for comfort before turning back to him. He was a man who could touch a woman, study her, know without words whether she wanted more, softer, harder, or enough. Right now Noah couldn’t read a single one of Kitty’s thoughts, but the way her arms tightened around her luggage gave him the distinct impression that the same could not be said for her.
Who was reading whom, he found himself wondering, and did she like what she was seeing in him?
Like that made a difference either way. Don’t forget what you’re doing here, mate, he told himself.
Embarrassed at his own wayward thoughts, he pointed to the kitchen’s hall entry. “I’ll get those sandwiches.”
Slipping into the other room and out of her immediate sight, Noah stood for a moment in front of the fridge. Every inch of him was aware of the woman standing frozen in the other room, listening intently back at him.
A creak from a squeaky floorboard in the hallway was his only warning, and thank goodness he heard it otherwise when she slipped past the open doorway, glancing awkwardly in at him on her way to her new bedroom, instead of busily gathering sandwich material, she’d have seen him standing there like an idiot. Only when he heard the hinges on her door squeak open and then the soft bump as it swung shut behind her did Noah dump his minor armload of supper components on the counter.
Hands braced to either side of the cutting board, he hung his head in absolute amazement at the lingering tingles of that accidental touch still swimming through his flesh and his chest.
What. The. Hell?
Kitty sat on the edge of the narrow bed in her new room and tried not to see all this as being every bit a prison as Ethen’s remote farmhouse had been. She was just as isolated, but no. This was worse. Living with Ethen, at least she’d been in America where—if necessary—she could run out the front door, four miles down the road and call someone to come and get her. Who could she call to come get her now? Three months ago, when standing in front of Ethen’s open front door staring out into the cold, for all that she hadn’t been able to see them clearly at the time, at least she’d had options. What were her options here? Now, she really did have no place to go. Now, she really was trapped.
Hers was a corner bedroom with a window in each of the outward facing walls and a narrow twin-sized bed tucked up beneath them. For all that a layer of boxes completely lined one wall from floor practically to ceiling, an obvious attempt had been made to make it cozy. Although the mattress seemed newer, the bed itself with its white wrought-iron frame had to have been at least fifty years old. The box springs squeaked when she sat down, but a few experimental bounces told her it might not be uncomfortable to sleep on. White pillowcases adorned two goose-down pillows and the light patchwork quilt made up with military perfection looked old and worn, but clean.
White, lace-trimmed curtains were drawn across both narrow windows. They were new. Not only did they still have their folding creases, but the torn wrappers they had come in were crumpled into balls and discarded in the trash bin, tucked up between her bed and the antique nightstand set directly beneath the north window. That one offered a view of the back porch and koala trees, and wasn’t locked. An experimental push opened it fairly easily, letting in a gust of hot air. She closed it again.
Through the east window, she saw the front of the screened-in veranda with its front porch swing and smoking chairs, Noah’s long driveway, his truck and the wide-open pasture leading off to the surrounding woods.
She opened that window too. It stuck a little, but again, wasn’t locked. The insects here were horribly loud and for all that the sun was gone, taking most of the daylight with it, the night air was warmer than she was used to. She closed it again, but left the drapes parted.
What was she doing here? Why had she ever agreed to this?
Ethen would never find her here, a part of her brain supplied.
Neither would anyone else. She’d seen ‘Wolf Creek.’ She gave herself three days before she ended up buried under a koala tree.
“Knock it off,” she whispered. She didn’t know Garreth well, but she knew Hadlee. For all that she’d run away and left Kitty behind to bear Ethen’s wrath alone, Hadlee was her friend. Not for a second did Kitty think she would trap her in the middle of nowhere with someone who would hurt her.
Not knowingly, anyway.
“Stop it,” she hissed, hands clenching so hard that her nails bit red crescents into her palms. She squeezed harder, deliberately welcoming the pain. It was calming, grounding, and the very least of what she deserved for letting her uncharitable thoughts run in such terrifying directions. It was as if her brain wanted to keep her as frightened as it could, for as long as possible.
She was tired of being scared. And yet, being scared had become so familiar to her that it was almost… comforting. How fucked up was that? She buried her face in her hands, willing herself to get angry. At least then, she’d have a good excuse for how badly she was shaking.
Maybe she ought to eat something. The nausea that had overcome her in the car had passed; she was hungry now. Thirsty, too. The sweet tea he had mentioned sounded good, but this was a small house and she could hear the clatter of dishes, the muted hiss of water turning on and off and his footsteps as he moved back and forth from fridge to counter to sink and back again. She didn’t want to go out there until he was gone. If she sat here long enough, eventually he would go to bed, right?
How late was it? She didn’t have a watch and, jetlagged as she was, she didn’t trust the time her body was trying to convince her it was. The sun was down, so it might be late enough for him to crave sleep.
Maybe even above other things.
Yeah. Right. Said no man in the history of Ever.
That wasn’t true. Kitty didn’t know about other men. She could barely remember her life and relationships… before, but she knew Ethen. She knew about him so well that when at long last those heavy footsteps clumped across the kitchen floor and started down the hallway, her heart erupted all the way up into the back of her throat and her stomach fell cringing to her toes.
It was coming now. She knew it with such certainty that every inch of her braced for it. That moment when he came up against the unlocked barrier of her prison door and, instead of knocking as he promised, his hand took hold of the knob and turned it. She could already see that door pushing open and the shadow of him filling up the threshold a half step before he came inside. She could see him, Ethen-tall and Ethen-thin, pulling his belt from his pant loops and letting the folded leather hang from his ready hand until she decided how obedient she wanted to be.
Her fingernails bit deeper into her palms, because she could already see herself standing up, turning around, peeling out of her pants before getting down in her kitty-position—head down, ass up, legs together in the hope that might protect her pussy and anus from the whipping bite of the belt if he decided to use it anyway.
And of course, he would; obviously she needed it. Just look where she was. Look what she’d done. If anyone deserved whipping, wasn’t it her?
Her whole body jumped at the soft single-knuckle knock that rapped twice at her closed bedroom door.
“Dinner’s ready,” Noah called, snapping Kitty sharply back to herself. Her heart still thundered in the back of her throat. Her stomach still cowered, sunk so far into herself she felt sick all over again.
He wasn’t Ethen, she told herself. He’d obeyed his own rule, at least for now. But, one thing living with Ethen had taught her: He who made the rules, could and would change them at whim. Sooner or later, she was going to be even more defenseless than she was right now— but Hadlee would never deliberately put her in such a situation. Except, Kitty didn’t know that. Nobody ever really knew that about someone else, right? And Noah was right here. Right outside her door. His door. His house. His prison, with all the bars of his rules firmly locking her into place. All he had to do was wait. Eventually, he would catch her sit
ting on the toilet or taking a shower—
Noah knocked on the door again. “Kitty, are you awake, love?”
Or lying in bed late at night, when she at last fell so exhausted that she couldn’t keep her eyes open not one second longer—
Her panicking heart missed a beat.
“Yes,” she quavered, her voice weirdly hoarse and shaking. She cleared her throat, trying hard to quell the fearful trembling. “I-I’ll be right there.”
He hesitated a moment, but then his footsteps retreated back down the hall. She heard him go back into the kitchen, but there was no relief in this newfound distance. Only the awful sinking dread that accompanied knowing he had all the power, and all the time in the world. All he had to do was wait. It was coming. Eventually, he would decide when the moment was right to strike, but until he did, she was stuck… waiting right along with him.
Chapter 4
So she waited. All through dinner.
She managed almost half the sandwich, which was cheese, avocado and lettuce with a smear of greenish-brown stuff unlike anything she’d ever tasted before. She got a blob on her thumb and licked it off. As far as she was concerned, that right there was Australia’s second attempt at killing her. She choked. That she didn’t immediately throw it up again was a wonder.
“Vegemite,” Noah supplied. “It’s good for you. Puts hair on your chest.”
Just what she’d always wanted, but when he deliberately took a big bite of his sandwich, unspoken pressure not to be wasteful or rude induced her to keep eating too. So long as there was other stuff in each bite and not the vegemite alone, she found the strong yeasty flavor tolerable.
“No worries about that, love,” Noah said after they’d both finished eating and she started to pick up the dishes. “They’ll keep until morning. You go on and get your rest.”
He took his empty plate and her mostly empty one away from the table, carting both into the kitchen and laying them in the sink.
“If you want to use the toilet, now’s the time. Unless you want one too, I’m going to get my things for a shower.”
The last thing Kitty wanted was to make herself vulnerable in a room that didn’t lock while he… what? Waited for her to drop her pants and get trapped in the middle of it before he finally made his move? If it was going to happen eventually, she might as well get it over with. Besides, it had been a long time since the plane and she had to pee.
Kitty waited until he vanished into his bedroom to get his things and then she quickly ducked into the bathroom. She spent the entire time perched on the toilet, staring at the door in dread and waiting for it to come flying open. It didn’t, but it was still the fastest she’d ever used a toilet in her life.
Quick as she’d been, Noah was still standing right outside the bathroom door, leaned up against the wall while he waited his turn. Ducking past him, head down, she fled straight to her room.
“G’night,” he called before she could close the door. His tone said they were the best of friends. Her chest was so tight it hurt. Sinking down on the edge of her narrow bed, she braced herself to wait all over again.
The walls in this house were thin. She could hear the pattering rain of water pouring into the bottom of the shower, even through the door. She could hear the splashing of his movements as he soaped up and rinsed off. She heard the squeak of the faucet as it was twisted to off and the shower ended. She waited, barely breathing, through the bumping of cupboards and rustling of cloth. Eventually the bathroom door opened. Her hands became fists on her knees. Hard and unblinking, wanting to see it coming, she stared at the door until her eyes burned. But all she heard was the click of the light in the hallway turning off, the padding of his bare feet, softer now without his shoes on, pass right by her door.
“G’night,” he called again, before shutting himself in his room.
It seemed a small forever before the creak of his bedsprings told her he’d laid down. The quiet and the darkness went on for a small forever more, before, suddenly, Kitty found she could breathe again. She gasped in, filling lungs that ached, forcing her too-tight chest to expand enough to allow it.
He wasn’t coming into her room. He really, honestly wasn’t. She was safe, at least for tonight.
Safe.
She didn’t even know what that word meant anymore, but she knew what it felt like. And frankly, if this was how it would always be, then what in the world had she run away for in the first place? What was better? What was different? She was every bit as afraid now as she had been with Ethen, only now without all those little moments of comfort that came with having a set routine. Of knowing what that routine was. Of knowing she was favored first among the Menagerie, with all the added bonuses that came with it.
There was no routine now. There was no comfort and no certainties, and certainly no bonuses. Everything she had was either borrowed from Hadlee, purchased through someone else, or a giant unknown.
What was she doing here?
Getting up, painfully aware of how thin the walls here were, Kitty unzipped her bag and took out the sleeping shirt Hadlee had given her. She hated the feel of it. With Ethen, the Menagerie were never allowed to wear anything to bed. They were never allowed to wear anything at home at all. They were to be open and available to him at all times. For all that he’d done terrible things to her, she missed the comfort of that. Every moment she spent in clothes now made her skin itch and her heart beat anxiously. Most days, it was all she could do not to think of herself as a traitor. Like now, right now, as she turned out the light in her new prison and crawled beneath the light patchwork quilt to lay her head awkwardly upon the pillow. The thin glow of light spilled in under the door, providing only the most shadowy illumination across the hardwood floor of a room she should never have been in.
He must have left the bathroom light on for her.
She closed her eyes, but they wouldn’t stay closed. She thought she heard breathing from the room next door. Her skin kept crawling, kept waiting. And yet, in the back of her exhaustedly wide-awake mind, instead of imminent rape, all she could see was the minor stack of dirty dishes that Ethen never would have tolerated in the kitchen sink, no matter how late it was or how few needed to be washed.
The bed was too comfortable and too squeaky, although she knew that part was only an excuse since the only time it made any sound was when she tossed from her side to her back, casting her wide-eyed stare to the ceiling. She couldn’t sleep, though God knew it wasn’t because she wasn’t tired. She was exhausted and had been for days, even before she’d set foot on that plane.
Unable to stand the itching any more, she sat up long enough to peel out of her nightshirt, throwing it onto the floor before flopping back down and pulling the soft quilt up to her chin. Now she couldn’t sleep because there was a castoff piece of clothing on the floor of her room, something Ethen had tolerated even less than he did dirty dishes.
The box springs squeaked in symphony as she scrambled out of bed, grabbed the nightshirt and folded it neatly. She put it back in her duffel bag and then got back into bed. She rolled from her back to her other side, putting her back to the soft sliver of light creeping beneath her bedroom door and locking her stare on the wall beneath the window.
She was going to be here for a while. She ought to put her clothes away. It was silly to live out of a duffel bag for heaven only knew how long. Plus, duffel bags did not belong on bedroom floors any more than dirty clothes did. A place for everything; everything in its place. She’d been here an hour now at least; there was no excuse for not having put what few things she had into the closet.
Getting up again, she turned on the light and, as quietly as she could, unpacked her things. Her bare feet made only a whisper of sound as she crossed to the closet and opened the old-fashioned door. She leapt back, dropping everything as she clapped her hands across her mouth. She barely muffled her inadvertent scream. An effort had been made to empty the closet enough to provide space for her. Indeed, ther
e were no other clothes hanging there, just seven empty wire hangers and a minor mountain of more boxes stacked almost waist-high inside, as many as could be made to fit. And in the very back, like brown snakes on wall hooks, were a series of belts and leather straps, all of varying lengths and widths and thicknesses. Only two of the three belts had buckles. The widest of the straps had a worn wooden handle. All were supple, and well taken care of despite their age—every one of them the sort capable of delivering the most agonizing bite of a kiss if ever they were to be put to such a purpose.
Kitty gasped once, the only breath she was aware she had taken since opening the closet door. No longer in danger of screaming, still she kept her hands over her mouth.
Noah was a dom.
Well, of course, he was. He’d been at Black Light, hadn’t he? Snapping that whip of his against Hadlee’s naked back and buttocks while Ethen stewed in the audience, silently furious that anyone would dare touch what was his. For her part, Kitty remembered the sound of that scene more than she remembered watching it. The sound had been crisp and loud. Almost as loud as Hadlee’s gasp as she broke under the cracking snap.
Of course, Noah would have his own toys. It only made sense that he would keep them in his spare room. This wasn’t some unspoken threat. He wasn’t Ethen, leaving such things as a silent promise that her behaviors had not gone unnoticed any more than they would go uncorrected.
Shivers danced up her back as, with equal parts trepidation and helpless fascination, Kitty reached far enough into the closet to touch the nearest strap. The aged leather was deceptively soft. Snatching her hand back again, she tucked both beneath her chin, trying to banish how her fingertips tingled and now so too did the backs of both her thighs and her naked, cringing bottom.
She was being silly. Tearing her eyes from the collection of belts and straps, she picked up her fallen clothes and hung them up, some two to a hanger. Laying her duffel on the stack of boxes, she quickly shut the closet door and hurried back to bed. Clicking off the lamp, she tossed onto her side again to face the wall, hands clasped tight against her lips and burrowed so far under the quilt that it practically covered her head. Sleeplessly, she lay there, still feeling every bit the traitor as before, only now it was different. Better somehow, the way misbehaviors always felt both dreadful and better while she lay caught in that purgatory of waiting for correction.
