by Kira Barker
Like that this must have been going on for years, judging from the decay visible in some of the… older models. Or that they weren’t just wearing any light color dresses, but wedding gowns. Some had on makeup, some didn’t. Here and there a neck or bare arm showed what looked like signs of chafing that made me think of restraints similar to the ones that kept me locked so aptly in place. That, in turn, made me wonder if he was still using them for something else than the most macabre kind of interior decoration.
One thing was obvious. “Till death do us part” was not part of Darren Hunter’s vocabulary.
As time passed, either shock set in, or maybe my mind just shut down until the horror gripping me hard got bearable again. That made me focus on other things like my crippling thirst, but whenever my gaze fell on one of the “dolls,” the burning in my parched mouth and throat lessened just a little bit.
And slowly, bit by bit, my conviction to get out of here alive pushed away the sure knowledge that I was going to become number thirteen. I had no idea how, and certainly didn’t think I was in any way special and would survive what they hadn’t, but that didn’t matter. I was not going to die down here, if it was the last thing I ever did. Death as a general concept had lost a lot of its horror compared to spending eternity down here. I wasn’t a very spiritual person, but these women deserved so much better. Anything better, really.
I needed a plan, that was certain. Now that I felt I could assess my position a little more clearly, I realized that we really were only in the beginning stages of Darren’s game. Shock and awe to break my spirit, and then he could do to me whatever he wanted, or so he probably thought. Staring at the “dolls,” I could easily see where that might actually work for him, because there was only so much a human mind could take and still recover. Before that fateful evening, I’d known he was a ruthless bastard capable of a lot of things, but the time since then had taught me that there likely wasn’t anything he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do. I hated that thought, but I knew that I couldn’t rely on anything revolting him enough to keep him from doing his worst to me, so provoking him was not going to work.
I tried analyzing his behavior next. That evening he had been upset, and that had still been going on that first time he had visited after I’d woken up. His temper had been hot, his emotions all over the place. After that, he’d had time to reflect and prepare himself, to fully assume the controlled, measured bastard. But that had been just another persona, a role that he played just like the civilized lawyer or the charming lover. Yet how he had been in between was, very likely, a lot closer to the real Darren Hunter than he’d ever been in my presence. It was that Darren I had to drag back into the foreground, because there I had room to maneuver, and maybe, just maybe, the tiniest chance of finding a way to survive. I’d seen brief glimpses of it before, here and there—when he’d been upset, when he’d gotten worked up over something or passion made him throw caution to the wind.
With a sinking feeling in my gut, I had to accept that it had been those moments that had always gotten under my skin and had made me fall in love with him. And with that realization came another, even more painful one: in some twisted way, deep down, my feelings for him hadn’t changed.
As time crept by, I felt like I was becoming my own worst enemy. There was no sense in screaming, so I stopped. There was no sense in feeling sorry for myself, so I stopped that, too. Denial was the last veil that my mind tried slapping between my conviction to survive and what remained of my sanity, but even that wore down and fell away. If I wanted to survive, I would have to fight with everything I had, and that included the part of me that I started to loathe now, that part that still loved him. He had seen right through me, been actually surprised about that, and it was that sick, twisted piece of me that would help me prevail where all the others had failed.
Of course, by the time he returned I’d gone through a few more spells of just jerking around senselessly in my bonds, trying to scream my head off. Probably a good thing because I didn’t doubt that he was watching me closely, so remaining too calm might look suspicious.
After closing the door behind him, Darren hesitated, looking at me from across the room. I tried one last time to tear myself free, mostly to vent that last bit of aggression still churning in my gut. The sooner he thought he had broken me, the sooner he would move on to the next stage, and maybe drop that cold, impenetrable mask. So, defeated and meek I had to be, even if the very thought killed me.
I also needed water, and that realization made tension leak out of my muscles.
When he finally approached, he did so slowly, if not cautiously. His eyes were flitting over my body and face, taking me in—judging me. I forced myself to look over at him and clear my mind of everything. Whenever my eyes snagged to one of the “dolls,” I shuddered, but that was the only motion I allowed myself.
He stopped next to me, his eyes never leaving my face. I had to force myself to hold his gaze but ultimately had to look away, hoping he would see it as anything but my inability to hide my revulsion completely.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I said, my voice no longer capable of anything above a whisper.
“I highly doubt that,” he replied, his eyes boring into mine.
I briefly looked away, maybe exaggerating the next shudder a little. “It’s easier when you’re here.”
That was something he seemed to accept, and his shoulders sagged as he relaxed.
“Are you ready to continue our conversation, or shall I wait another twelve hours?”
I wondered if that had been the interval of our previous interactions, but it really didn’t matter.
“I’m sorry.”
Those words stung, but I forced myself to stop caring. Pride had lost any value to me. Survival was what counted.
“What for?” he replied, not exactly cautious, but there was a hint of trepidation in his voice.
“That I laughed at you,” I started, then paused as if what came next was hard for me to articulate. “I know that you disapprove of me… I mean, you used to not want me to…”
“To what?”
I tried to shrug but my arms had stopped working, so all I could do was some ambiguous squirming. Looking up, I held his gaze as steadily as I could.
“You always say that I’m better than that. And I want to be, for you. Not just for you… I liked being that woman you loved.”
“That I love,” he amended with just enough sharpness to completely freak me out, but I did my best not to show it as I nodded.
“You deserve something better, and, if you still want me…”
All that trailing off in doubt that I didn’t feel was wearing my nerves thin, but it seemed to be working. A hint of a smile appeared on his face, and he reached for my cheek, his skin so wonderfully warm in contrast to my freezing body.
He couldn’t very well conserve his taxidermy masterpieces at a cozy temperature, after all.
“I will always want you,” he confessed. “That’s my curse. I love too much, too deeply.”
My eyes burned, and I closed them, nestling deeper into his palm. As long as he was only touching me there, I could pretend to enjoy it.
“I hate that I made you doubt me,” I went on, then let out the most pathetic, heart-wrenching sob I could manage. Not much acting was required for that.
He paused, and I wondered if I had laid it on too thickly, but then I felt a straw pressing against my cracked lips.
“Just a tiny sip,” he advised. “Else you’ll just start coughing and it will hurt worse.”
It took immense strength to hold back, but I sipped slowly, only using little strength to draw liquid into my mouth. Drinking hurt at first, but I didn’t care. He let me have about half of the juice, then put the pack away again.
“It’s a start,” he remarked, his eyes briefly straying from my face to where my chest was heaving with exertion and strain. “Convince me that you deserve the rest.”
I had no idea how to go
about that, but I felt like his order was progress in and of itself.
“I know I fucked up,” I whispered, my voice still cracking but gaining a little strength back with every sentence. “And I’m sorry for that. I should not have blamed you for my own shortcomings.” Exhaling slowly, I pretended that what I was about to say next was hard. It wasn’t exactly easy, but with every lie that came over my lips, the next was easier. “Am I afraid of you? Fuck, yes. But that doesn’t change that you’re still the man that I love, and I hate myself for disappointing you so deeply.” There certainly was enough self-loathing in me to make that come out sincere.
Darren’s brows drew together, but at least he didn’t outright laugh in my face.
“And you think I believe that?”
Letting my head fall back against the cold steel underneath me, I aimed for a level look.
“What reason do I have for lying? I gain nothing from it. And you know that I don’t like to lie. I told you so often enough. That was part of why I enjoyed being with you so much from the very beginning. You just wanted me, as I am. Is it so hard to accept now that I’m so deeply flawed that I simply cannot hate you, even if I want to? I want to be with you. And I want to please you. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”
I was afraid that I was pushing it with that, but it seemed to be that candor that convinced him of my sincerity. Or at least let me have a few more sips of juice, which was good enough in my book right now.
“What’s going to happen now?” I asked when he brought the straw out of reach again.
“That still depends on you,” he replied, his voice soft.
“Will you keep me like this? In this chair? In this room?” Because if that was his plan, my cards couldn’t be more against me. I was quickly discovering a new admiration for the girl who had held out three entire months of that.
“It’s a temporary solution,” he offered.
I didn’t ask what that meant. “Will you tell me why you’re doing this? I know that you are not just punishing me, because you could have done much worse to me already if that was your goal.”
Darren hesitated but eventually explained.
“I am well aware of the fact that I will never possess your untainted love. That chance is gone and will never return. But if you are telling the truth, if you love me, you can still be my perfect wife.”
That very idea was so out there that it took me a few moments to wrap my head around it.
“We’re not even married,” I pointed out.
“That can be arranged,” he replied cryptically, then snorted at my look of disbelief. “I keep telling you that I don’t care what anyone else thinks or says about us. This is between you and me, forever, so why would we need an outsider to approve of our vows?”
I just nodded because that was all I could do.
“Is that what you want? To become my wife?” he asked, emotion now swinging in his voice. I was definitely on the right track, and really, this was a rhetorical question.
“Yes.”
I had been wrong—that steely gaze from before, the mask that had freaked me out? It held no candle to how much more frightening his bright smile now was.
“I have a gift for you,” he said while letting me have the last of the juice. “I would have given it to you earlier already, but your behavior over the course of the last week made me dread that you’d end up down here sooner rather than later, so I had to bide my time.”
“What is it?” I really didn’t want to know, but he clearly expected my curiosity to get the better of me.
“Your engagement ring.”
He reached into the pocket of his pants and got out a small box, then presented it to me, opened. I couldn’t hold back a sob, but my momentary lapse of control seemed to work out in my favor because he smiled rather than frowned.
“I know, I know,” he whispered, his free hand stroking my cheek in what he likely thought was a comforting way. “You don’t deserve it, but as I keep saying, I love you, and I would have done anything for you.”
Darren picked up the ring, then slid it onto the fourth finger of my right hand, my circulation already so bad that I barely felt the deft touch of his fingers.
“Perfect,” he murmured, then pressed a kiss against the back of my knuckles, right over the ring.
I closed my eyes, exhaling slowly. This was progress. This was exactly what I wanted. Even if it was killing me.
“Why the right? Isn’t the left hand customary—“
“Because it’s your dominant hand,” he explained. The quality of his grasp changed, his fingers realigning. My lids fluttered open and I looked up at his face, but it was partly hidden by his shoulder. Then he yanked hard on the finger he’d just slipped the ring on, followed by a twist that was accompanied by a sickening crunch. Pain exploded in my hand and I screamed, but his palm clamped down hard on my mouth, muffling the sound.
“Shh, shh, it will be over in a moment,” he promised, his voice soothing and calm. I tried to jerk my head away, but to no avail, so I had to stare with wide eyes into his while agony slowly turned to a deep, throbbing pain. “I had to break it,” he explained. “To ensure that you can’t take my ring off again. By the time the swelling will go down, the bone will have started to knit together imperfectly and the resulting lump will forever be too thick to get the ring over. You see, I’m thinking of everything.”
With rising dread, I had to discover that just maybe he really was. But I didn’t get a chance to dwell on the horror that thought brought with it, because a pinprick, followed by a familiar burning sensation up my neck wiped my mind clear of everything.
I welcomed the blackness.
Chapter 33
This time, awareness returned much quicker. The first thing I noticed was that I lay outstretched on clouds. Then my right hand lit up in pain. I tried to pull it to my body, cradle it, but it didn’t budge. But what moved was the entire rest of my body, curling in on itself with just that arm remaining extended.
My eyes shot open. My face was pushed into a pillow—lumpy and old, but the best pillow I’d ever rested my head on—and the ambient light was different.
Raising my head, I looked up to where my hand was still lighting up with discomfort with every single heartbeat. Gone were the thick shackles, replaced by a steel handcuff, the other end attached to a bedpost. Belatedly I realized that I lay stretched out on a thick mattress, my body warmer than it had been in forever. Gazing down, I saw that I was wearing a thin négligée, one of those we’d picked up in Paris.
My heart seized up, but I forced myself to just breathe through the pain.
This was a step up. This was improvement. And I didn’t mean just the bed and the clothes, but everything.
The room I was in was small, the bed easily taking up a quarter of it. Next to it was a stool with a bottle of water resting on top, and beyond that a toilet. At the foot end of the bed was an open door, and through it I thought I could vaguely make out the shadow of what could only be the skirt of a dress.
At least I was in another room and didn’t have to stare at the creepy doll eyes all the fucking time. That alone brought tears to my eyes, and when I realized that I was able to cry again, it was as if the floodgates had opened.
I was still thirsty, but my throat no longer burned. At closer inspection I found a needle mark at my right elbow, likely from an infusion. I still reached for the bottle and fumbled with it until I got it unscrewed, letting cool, delicious water wet my tongue.
Stretching out felt like heaven, although my hips and shoulders were aching somewhat fiercely. I hoped that the damage done was only temporary and would subside soon now. My finger was swollen and blue, the white-gold band standing starkly out against the bruise, but I could still move it somewhat and retained a limited amount of sensation in the fingertip. If that was the worst injury that I’d take away from this, I would consider myself more than lucky, but I doubted it.
The last thing I checked was my new tatt
oo. The négligée was short enough that just moving made it ride up to my waist, and there had been no panties provided. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the semi-translucent material away, staring at the black letters forever etched into my skin. That I would survive, too.
With nothing else to do, I lay back and waited. I was still a little groggy and physically exhausted, hunger gnawing on my midriff, but I did my best to ignore it. My living situation had drastically improved, although I didn’t hold it beyond him that it was all just a ploy to lure me into complacency. While before I had accused him of seeing me just as a toy, now I had truly become one. It was hard not to let that realization dull my spirit even more.
I stretched, then sat up to study the cuff more intently, pretending I was just gingerly touching my finger. Not a normal cuff but custom-made, as it seemed. Just the very best for his wife. How I’d get out of that was definitely a problem for another day.
Just as I was about to lie down again, I noticed that the edge of the pillow had snagged on something. Trying not to look at it directly, I pretended to work the strained muscles of my shoulders, casually running the back of my hand across the fabric, dislodging it. Something pricked my skin, and when I looked at it, I saw a light scratch appear along that path.
I forced myself to ignore whatever there might be hidden right at the back of the bedpost, counting the seconds down from a thousand. Time dragged and dragged and dragged, but I simply didn’t dare react too soon. Rearranging my pillow, I made sure that it completely covered that part of the bed frame, then I turned over as much as I could and pretended I was trying to sleep, bunching up the pillow with my arm underneath it.
It took me forever to find that spot again blindly with my fingers, but I felt my heart rate pick up when something sharp cut into the pad of my forefinger. Bingo. Carefully, I kept exploring, one inch at a time. There was something wedged into a crack inside the frame, unlikely as it seemed that a steel frame like that would have cracks.
