by Stella Noir
I don’t care. He can see me crying if it pleases him.
In an odd sense, I feel betrayed by him. I thought we were playing a game. Testing, challenging, exploring the dark corners of our minds and the pleasure we receive while doing so.
Instead, I got yelled at and put back into the chains I despise.
I curl up to the side, turning my back to the camera, and cry myself to sleep.
Chapter 5
LEONARD
I retreat to my office next to her room with the intention of watching her. One quick glance at my desk tells me that she has been in here, too. I always put my pen next to the notebook, but now I find it lying on top of it. I may have been inattentive enough to forget about locking her door, but things like this never escape my eyes. I’m a sucker for details and order.
It doesn’t surprise me that she has been in here. It’s the natural thing to do, to snoop around your captor’s house when you are on the loose and he is gone. The computer and camera screens are password protected and have not been switched on, so while she may have had a peek inside the notebook and saw the things I have written about her in there, I can rest assured that she hasn’t found anything that would bring her real trouble.
Yet, she will be punished for this.
Once the picture on the screen appears, I see her lying on the bed, exactly where I left her. She is crying.
I cannot believe how close I was to losing her. How could I have been so stupid? She could have made a run for it, hurried out onto the street, and told the very first person she encountered about the pervert who locked her up.
She has been lying and hiding things about herself for so long, I’m sure she is a pretty good liar, and her story would have been adorned with a few little extra details that made me look even worse than the facts already do.
It would have destroyed everything. My work with William, the Kidman deal. I would have to say goodbye to all of it, and I would be on the run again, sooner than intended.
And I would have lost her. I know that will happen eventually, it always does. But I need to be done with her before I can let her go again.
We are not there, yet.
Liz moves and turns her back to me, deliberately, I am sure. She curls up into embryo position, and only the faint jerking of her body tells me that she is still crying.
Why did she not run? I was so surprised and angry at myself for leaving her door open that I never cared to ask. She has had enough time to snoop around the house, so it doesn’t seem like she found out about the open door shortly before I came back home. Besides, she was standing in the hall as if she was waiting for me. It didn’t seem like I caught her in the act of fleeing.
She wanted to talk to me. She expected me to react differently than I did. She thought that it was a test and that I left the door open on purpose. It flatters me that she thinks that, and I wish she was right.
If she thought I wanted to test her with this, what should I make of the fact that she didn’t run? That she stayed with me by her own free will, but struggled and protested when I put her back into her confinement? How does all of that make sense?
She could have left, but she didn’t, and now she is lying on her bed, crying desperately.
I flinch in surprise when my phone rings. Who the hell could that be on a Saturday afternoon? I produce it from my pockets and check the screen. The number is hidden which makes it all the more suspicious.
“Yes?” I answer cautiously.
“You fucking bastard!” a hoarse and unfamiliar voice exclaims at the other end.
“Who is this?”
“Didn’t think I’d find you, did ya?” the caller says. His voice sounds husky and spent like that of someone who has been drinking and smoking too much his entire life. I have encountered many of the species in my life, but cannot for the life of me figure out who this one might be.
Since he talks about finding me, he appears to be someone I would not be interested in meeting again. Someone who has a score to settle with me. There are plenty of those, too.
“I’m sorry, buddy, you have to help me out here,” I say. “If I am supposed to be scared right now, you should, at least, let me know who you are and why you were so keen to find me.”
He laughs. A hoarse, fucked up laugh like that of a sickened mad person.
“Don’t play stupid with me,” he says. “You know who I am.”
“I seriously don’t.”
He grunts, followed by silence. This doesn’t seem to go his way.
“Fucking bastard,” he repeats his first statement. “Just meddles with our affairs and then takes off to his next adventure without any regard of what he leaves behind.”
That does sounds like me. I smile and get up from my chair to walk over to the window. My eyes scan the valley that stretches along the entire view out of my window, soaked in dull light. Today’s weather gives the impression of stagnation. No sun, no rain, no light. Uneventful. I hate it.
“I don’t have time for this,” I say. “Get to the point, buddy.”
“Stop calling me that!” he complains, sounding like a child. “I’m not your buddy, I can tell you that much, Mr. Miller. Or should I say Clark? I hear that’s the name you go by now?”
I freeze, but just for a second. The fact that he calls me Miller does give me enough of a clue to understand where he knows me from. He must be part of that money laundering enterprise I worked with before coming here—before I became Mr. Clark. I got out of that business just before it blew up, so it’s no surprise that some of the guys involved bear grudges. But how did he find out where—and who—I am now?
“What do you want?” I ask.
He chuckles.
“Getting scared now, are we?” he says. “Well, you should be! I got into some shit because of you, and I won’t let you get away with it. I know where you are. Let’s just leave it at that.”
With that, he hangs up.
I stare at my phone screen for a few moments, unsure what to do. This call was just as unexpected as finding Liz in the hallway—I hate surprises. For all I know, he could just be a random figure who has never been close to me. Someone who knows enough about me and my past business to try to get something out of me for keeping his silence.
Then again, he didn’t blackmail me. He phrased a vague threat.
I turn around and look at the screen where Liz is still lying with her back to me, curled up and lonely.
Anybody who is a threat to me is a threat to her as well. I know that much.
Chapter 6
LIZ
It’s dark by the time I wake up. I’m still curled up to the side, facing away from the camera and the door that just opened.
He enters the room and places a tray on the table. Dinner time.
I don’t move and remain in my curled up position while he closes the curtains and switches on the light. When he approaches the bed, I close my eyes, acting as if I was still asleep. Of course, he is unimpressed by that.
“I know you’re awake,” he states. “And I know you’re hungry. So, get up.”
He unfastens the leash from the hook and gently pulls on it. I open my eyes and glare up at him, still motionless. He is wearing different clothes, dark pants and a soft cashmere sweater in gray. His hair is still combed to the side, creating a contrast to his otherwise casual appearance. He looks down at me with an apathetic expression, neither happy nor unhappy. I hate how handsome he is, even now.
I shake my head, unable—and unwilling—to speak.
“Yes,” he disagrees. “You have to eat.”
I bite my lip. If there is one thing that really aggravates him, it’s my silence. I know that much. He cannot stand it. If I want to torture him, all I have to do is to keep quiet. The silent treatment.
He yanks at my leash again, and I groan in pain when it cuts into the flesh around my neck. He doesn’t stop until I give in and sit up. I lower my head and get out of bed.
“Good girl,” he says,
but right now it does nothing for me.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I keep my head low, fixated on my naked toes.
“I said: Look at me,” he repeats, yanking at the leash again.
But I still resist.
He grabs me at the chin with one hand and forces me to lift my eyes up to him. I know it’s futile to try to withstand his physical violence, so I just let it happen, but I vow to keep my mouth shut and my face blank. If he wants reactions, he will have to beat them out of me. I know he might do just that.
He looks at me for a few moments, stern but on edge. Even with all of his strong and masculine attempts to hide any outside reflection of what is going on inside of him, I can tell that this is not easy for him. It’s obvious that he is shaken and unhappy.
I hate how sad it makes me to see him like this. A part of me yearns for his approving smile. For his smug grin when I do something to please him.
I miss it.
He doesn’t say a word, but lets go of my chin before he turns around and leads me to the table, holding the leash as if he was escorting cattle.
“Sit,” he orders, and this time, I comply.
He sits down at the other chair but never lets go of my leash, even when he beckons me to eat.
“Something healthy. Alaskan salmon, red kale with mushrooms, and quinoa,” he explains when I look down at my plate. “And dessert.”
I’m almost tempted to smile when I see the dessert. It’s a mini cake with raspberries on top of it, very cute and delicate. I look up at him and see him smiling.
“Raspberry and chocolate nest mini cake,” he says, visibly amused. “And no, I didn’t make it myself. But I know they’re good. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” I whisper, almost throwing my hand over my mouth. Well, so much for my silent treatment. “The last time I did that I ended up chained to this room.”
“A room that you could have escaped from today,” he reminds me. “But you didn’t.”
I frown at him and pick up the fork with an aggressive motion. I may be furious, but I am hungry and not eating will only punish myself, not him.
The food tastes just as delicious as everything else he has served me so far. Again, I want to ask him if he made it himself, but I know he won’t give me a clear answer anyways, so I don’t bother.
As it seems, tonight is his time for questions.
“Why did you not run?” he wants to know, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He is not smiling anymore but looks at me with a curious expression.
I let him wait for a few moments and eagerly work through my dinner. All this anxiety and excitement left me hungry and with great appetite.
“You know what would go well with this,” I say, ignoring his question. “Wine. White wine.”
I don’t have to look up at him to know that he furls his eyebrows at my comment.
“I’ve said it before: I am not your servant,” he says. “And you’re not getting any wine tonight. There’s plenty of water, drink that.”
He points to another bottle of water that he brought along with the food.
“Answer my question,” he insists. “Why did you not run?”
“I had nothing to wear,” I say between bites.
“So, you were looking for your clothes?” he asks.
I nod. “Yes. But you did a good job of hiding them. I bet they are in that chest. In your bedroom.”
His eyes flicker but he lets it pass without comment.
“Were you still searching when I got home?”
I stuff my mouth with another bite of salmon and look at him, chewing thoroughly while he looks at me with calm anticipation. He looks strangely old right now. It might be the way the warm light falls on his face and his strong jawline, but he looks very different from just a few days ago. Exhausted, tired, older.
Maybe I’m just reading my own exhaustion onto his face.
“Answer me,” he urges. “Were you still searching when I got home?”
“Yes,” I lie.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Okay, no, I was done with searching,” I bark at him. “I went through this whole goddamn house and could not find a single piece of my belongings. In fact, I couldn’t find much of anything. There is nothing here, this place is creepily sterile and empty. Do you even live here?”
He raises his eyebrows, and I shove another load of quinoa into my mouth before I continue rambling. I don’t even know where I’m trying to go with this.
“So, you were done looking by the time I got home,” he summarizes. “And you decided you don’t want to leave without your clothes on? Is that it?”
We look at each other in silence for a few moments, me chewing aggressively and him raising his eyebrows in question.
“Is that how little you value your freedom?” he asks. “To let something this silly keep you from escaping?”
I lower my eyes.
“No,” I whisper. “I want to be free.”
“Then why are you still here?” he wants to know. “You could have run. You had all the time in the world to get out of here, run over to the street and stop the next car to-”
“I know!” I interrupt him, unusually loud. “It’s not that easy…”
“Yes, it is,” he objects. “The doors downstairs were locked, but you could have climbed through one of the windows and just walk up to the street. It’s not very far, you know.”
I glance at him. “I know that. I’m not talking about practicalities.”
He tilts his head to the side, and a faint smile appears on his handsome face. “What are you talking about then?”
I blush. It feels as if he is looking right through me. He seems to know about my inner struggle, about my desire to be with him despite his actions. But he wants me to say it.
“It’s not… I mean,” I stutter. “I… like I said. I thought this was a test.”
“What kind of test?” he asks.
“Well, you know,” I say. “First I thought it was a trap. I thought you wait for me behind the door once I dare to step outside, ready to punish me for trespassing.”
He chuckles and I bite my lip, glaring at him.
“Go on,” he says.
I cast him another look before I continue.
“When I realized that you weren’t around, I thought you’d test my… loyalty, if you can call it that.”
“Test your loyalty?”
“Yes,” I say. “To see whether I would stay with you even if I could leave.”
“I thought you said you were looking for your clothes because you didn’t want to leave without them?” he asks. “So, you wanted to leave, but not naked?”
I sigh.
“Yeah… I don’t know. Maybe,” I utter, lowering my eyes. “I told you, it’s not that easy!”
“So, you don’t know what you want?” he wants to know. “And just let me make that decision for you?”
I look up at him. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “You were still here by the time I got back. Still in this house, not even trying to hide from me. But when I picked you up and brought you back to your room, you started fighting.”
He pauses for a moment and touches his arm, casting me a reproachful look. “And you bit me. Quite bad actually.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not going to apologize for that.”
“You should.”
We find ourselves in another staring contest for a few moments, and I am beginning to see it. Him. His mood has changed, and he no longer has that sad and lost part look on him. Instead, he now looks at me the way he always has. Domineering, intense, and self-assured.
I hate and love it at the same time.
“So, if what you say is true,” he whispers. “And you thought that this was a test to prove your loyalty to me, what did you think would happen when I came home and found you standing in the hallway, waiting for me?”
I swallow hard.
&n
bsp; “I don’t know,” I reply. “Maybe, I thought we could just be…”
“Normal?” he asks. “Like a normal couple?”
I sigh.
“Is that what you think I am?” he wants to know. “Normal?”
“Obviously not,” I say. “A normal person wouldn’t do this.”
“Exactly,” he says. “I don’t do normal. I don’t like normal.”
I sigh and ponder for a few moments. Should I say it? Do I dare to say it? I don’t like admitting it even to myself, but it’s all the harder to say it openly in front of him. I know he would rate it as victory, and I still hate giving him that satisfaction.
“The thing is,” I say, lowering my eyes. “I want you. I want to be with you.”
Awkward silence poisons the atmosphere between us. He doesn’t react, not with a single sound or gesture.
Because he knows that I’m not done.
I dare to look up and meet his dark eyes, fixating on me with anticipation.
“But,” I add. “I want to be free, too. Not chained up to a room or bed like a pet.”
He presses his lips together and nods with understanding.
“Yet, this is what you have been fantasizing about, isn’t it?” he asks. “To be restrained, used, fucked mercilessly-”
“Yes, but not-”
“For real,” he finishes my sentence. “You don’t want to be a captive. You want to play captive.”
I pause for a few seconds until I find myself nodding. “Yes, I guess you could say that.”
His gaze darkens. “Well, I don’t play. I want you my way, and I will take you my way.”
His words have an effect on me that frightens me. I try to ignore the silly jump beneath my chest and the warm throbbing at my center and continue to eat the last few bites of my meal.
When the plate is clean, I drop the fork on it with an audible clash and reach for the water to wash it down.
He looks at me expectantly.
“Thank you,” I say. “It was delicious.”
“Don’t skip dessert,” he says. “You deserve it.”
I turn to him. “Do I now?”
