by Gemma James
Rafe hadn’t just handed them over—he’d shoved them down his throat. That was the day he and Zach became best friends. Predictably so, that was also the day I developed the biggest crush on Rafe.
By the time I entered my freshman year of high school, I became Miss Popularity because of two reasons: one, I was a De Luca—the adopted daughter of Abbot De Luca, famous for his impressive record in the UFC; and two, I was sister to rising star Zachariah De Luca. Having a connection to Rafe Mason, who had surpassed my brother in skill, tenacity, and ruthlessness in the business sealed my fate. I became an “it” girl.
I hated “it” girls, but they didn’t seem fazed by my blatant indifference, as not one of them passed up an opportunity to hang out at my house. They were in it for the testosterone, and I didn’t really care, so long as they kept their hands off Rafe. He might have been six years my senior, but in my head, he was mine, though someone forgot to tell him.
However, Zach noticed me noticing his best friend, and that’s when the jealousy began, the dangerous possessiveness. Their friendship had shifted to more of a competitive nature.
Ever since our parents married, Zach and I had been tight, probably closer than most blood related siblings. We often slept in the same bed, huddled under the covers when Dad’s drinking got out of hand, or when my mom had another episodic break that necessitated a trip to the mental ward. Their marriage had crumbled under screams that pierced ears too young to understand the words being launched through the air like weapons of mass destruction.
Having Zach at my side calmed me, but as I grew older, I realized how off our relationship was, especially once Rafe’s presence got under Zach’s skin, and my brother had morphed into a stranger before my eyes.
The police arrested the wrong guy, and I let them.
In hindsight, I had no one to blame but myself for my current predicament—naked and freezing, ass chafed from the concrete, utterly humiliated. I almost pissed myself every time something scampered in the darkness. How silly to be scared of rodents when a man I once knew so well held me prisoner.
A door opened unexpectedly, and the overhead light came on. I squinted, the dim bulb too bright on eyes accustomed to nothing but suppressing blackness. Rafe stomped down the stairs and halted outside the cage.
I couldn’t say how much time had passed since I’d awakened in this hellhole, but if I had to guess by the coarse hair on my legs, the smell of unbathed skin, and the tangled, greasy mess on my head, I’d say about three days. I’d lost count of his visits. The first was the most notable, as he’d tossed a bucket to the ground for me to do my business in, left a tray of food and a bottle of water next to it, and exited without a single response to my pleas. The visits that followed wielded the same results, and I stopped begging, accepting I might be down here for a while.
Crouched in the corner, I draped my arms around shaking legs. “I-I’m cold,” I said through chattering teeth. “Can I have a blanket? Please?”
He unlocked the door and sauntered inside. “I spent weeks in the hole, naked just like you. Do you think I got a blanket?” He knelt and lifted my chin. “I usually got a beat down before they threw me in, and some days, they didn’t even feed me.” His mouth flattened into a grim line. “Lucky for you, I’m not as nasty as the guards who had it out for me.”
I stared, overcome by the guilt that chiseled off another piece of my heart. I wished I could comfort him, erase the last eight years. What an impossible idea.
“What do you want with me?” I asked. “Do you want to hurt me? Fuck me?” Whatever he was going to do, I hoped he’d just do it. The waiting made me a nervous wreck.
“You took eight years of my life. I think it’s only fair I take eight of yours.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. His words turned in the pit of my stomach like acid. “You’re going to keep me here for eight years?”
He tightened his hold on my chin. “Are you hungry?”
His refusal to answer didn’t escape me. Something felt different about this visit. He was deviating from his routine, and I wasn’t sure what it meant. The thought of eating made me nauseous, but I wasn’t about to argue with him. Maybe he’d finally let me out.
“Yes. I need to use the restroom too.” I prayed he wouldn’t make me use the disgusting bucket again. Even from the other side of the cell, the stench of port-a-potty contaminated the air.
He stepped back and gestured toward that awful thing. “Better go then.”
I climbed to my feet and stretched the deep ache from my body, then I suffered the indignity of squatting over the bucket while he watched, inked arms crossed as a corner of his mouth turned up. Once I’d relieved my bladder, I stood, unsure of where to put my hands. If I folded them over my chest, I might anger him, so I let them dangle at my sides.
“Follow me,” he said, “and don’t do anything stupid unless you want to end up back down here.”
I scurried up the stairs after him, each step landing with uncertainty. We entered a large kitchen where a burst of sunshine streamed through the skylight. Dark clouds roiled, a sign another storm threatened on the horizon and the rays were only a temporary reprieve. I searched the area beyond the windows and found thick and sodden greenery outside. A door off the kitchen drew my attention, and I wondered what my odds were of making it outside before he grabbed me.
I was peeking into the adjacent living room, as the cabin took advantage of an open floor plan, when he said, “You reek. Shower’s that way.” He indicated a bathroom straight ahead and to the left of the dining table. “Towel’s on the rack. You’ve got five minutes before I come in after you.”
I hurried inside and plopped down on the toilet, shaking too much to do anything else. I lowered my head between my knees and breathed deep. Five in, hold, five out. Repeat. By the time I stood on jittery legs, I’d lost at least two of my five minutes. Another thirty seconds passed as I puzzled over how to escape, but the bathroom was a windowless cubicle with no way out. As I switched on the shower and stepped inside the stall, I wondered where I’d go if I did manage to break free. I’d been an instant away from leaving my house, duffle packed, when he’d shown up. How stupid, considering I hadn’t put together even the flimsiest of plans, and if Zach ever tracked me down…I didn’t want to think of how he’d punish me for running.
A shiver went through me, and I quickly washed up before drying off with a towel. Despite spending the last few days in the nude, exiting the bathroom sans-clothing felt exceptionally violating. I finger-combed some of the tangles from my dark locks and returned to the dining area.
Rafe had his back to me, bent over with his head in the refrigerator, and I almost ran for it, except fear of what he’d do if I failed paralyzed me. But the real reason I didn’t run was harder to stomach. I wasn’t ready to leave. Some masochistic shred of my being didn’t want to walk away from him yet, even though staying defied logic and common sense.
Reality check, Alex. He’s kidnapped you, drugged you, and he’s obviously not right in the head. Run for it, stupid!
But running for it meant arriving back at square one. Still, my pride wouldn’t let me lay down without a fight. “My father will find me.”
He pulled out a carton of orange juice and turned around. “No one’s looking for you, so you might as well take a seat and get comfortable.”
I folded my arms. “You should know better. You spent enough time with my dad. You know how dogged he can be.” Especially when it came to his kids, Zach in particular.
Setting the juice down, he picked up a paper and shoved it across the table. Slowly, and with worsening dread gnawing my gut, I picked it up and read the headline:
Portland woman declared dead after car is found in the Columbia River.
I collapsed into a chair, thoughts buzzing in dizzying speed, and the paper fluttered to the table. Dad and I often navigated a rocky relationship, but even so, the news would devastate him, and Zach would go insane knowing I was gone
.
Wait…he thought I was dead.
Seconds slipped by as the ramifications sank in, and I worked it from every angle. If he believed I’d been killed, then he’d have no reason to come after me, and no reason to go after Rafe.
But that still didn’t give Rafe the right to keep me here and torture me. “You have to let me go.” Surely, he didn’t intend to keep me locked in this cabin, or God forbid, the horrible cellar, for eight years.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said through clenched teeth, “so get that through your head.”
“The guy I remember would never do this.”
“The guy you remember is as gone as you are to the world.” He yanked me up by my wet hair. “You can either learn that the easy way or the hard way.”
“And this is the hard way?” I asked, flinching as his fingers tightened. “Kidnapping me? Stripping me? Locking me up?”
“You sent me to hell, Alex. I’m just returning the favor.”
He let go, and I sank into my seat again as his words echoed through my heart. “Will you at least give my clothes back? Please,” I begged, sliding my hands under my thighs, as the urge to cover myself nearly overpowered me.
His gaze settled on my breasts, and I felt my nipples harden. “I like the view. Eight years is a long time to go without seeing a pair of tits. You’ll get clothes when I’m good and ready.” He set a plate of food in front of me, and the smell of scrambled eggs, something that had always reminded me of wet dog when I cooked them, turned my stomach.
“I’m not hungry.”
He sat across from me, his own plate in front of him. “It’s not optional. Eat your damn food.”
Rage erupted from me, refusing to be contained, and I had to act, had to do something, if only to alleviate the madness festering inside me. I knocked the plate off the table, and though I was disappointed it failed to shatter, the way the food spattered the floor gave some satisfaction.
He rubbed the stubble that shadowed his jaw, as if contemplating, and rose from his chair. He rounded the table, furious green eyes narrowed, and I grabbed my seat to keep from bolting. Oh God. I'd never been more sorry about losing my temper. He settled next to me, and I couldn’t comprehend what happened next. One second I was sitting upright, and the next he’d pulled me over his lap.
His palm came down fast and hard, but I didn’t make a sound, didn’t even fight him. I was too shocked, too aware of him underneath me as his thighs burned into my abdomen. His hand stalled on my ass, lightly massaging, then he continued spanking me, each smack landing with more intensity than the last. He set me upright again, and only then did I register the deep sting in my bottom. He reclaimed the seat across from me, and I opened my mouth but nothing came out.
All I could do was stare. There were no words, no fits or hysterics, just pure stunned silence on my part.
“If you think a tantrum will get you out of eating, you’re sorely mistaken.” He pointed at my breakfast on the floor. “Get down there and eat it.”
“I’m not a fucking dog.”
He jumped from his chair so fast, I didn’t have a chance to bolt. His fingers pressed into my jaw. “Last chance before I use that on you.” He forced my gaze to the thick paddle hanging on the wall by the door. “And trust me, that sucker is unbearable, so unless you want to experience it firsthand, get your ass on the floor and eat your breakfast. I won’t tolerate you starving yourself. Not under my roof.”
Warmth flooded my face as I slid from the chair to my knees, and as I used my hands to shovel in mouthfuls of eggs, the same old shame surfaced. It was never far, always hidden beneath layers of forged normalcy. “I haven’t had a problem with that in six months,” I said, despising the weak quality of my voice. The eggs didn’t want to go down, and I almost gagged. The potatoes weren’t much better.
“Good, and we’re going to keep it that way.”
“How did you know?” I asked. He’d just been released from prison, so how had he found out about my problem with anorexia?
“I know everything about you.”
Our eyes connected and held, and I searched for the truth, because surely he didn’t mean everything. Seconds ticked past, each one whittling away my thin grasp on sanity. I held my breath, horrified by the possibility that he knew.
He broke our stare, his expression unchanged, and I exhaled in relief. Silence ensued, interrupted by the scrape of his fork against china, but it wasn’t the uncomfortable kind of disquiet that made every second feel like an eternity. My mind was numb. I hadn’t processed, and I wasn’t ready to do so.
“Why did you starve yourself?” he asked, jerking me to awareness.
I had no idea how to explain. I couldn’t explain, not without going into things I didn’t want to reveal, like how after the first inpatient treatment, I’d relapsed on purpose because being locked inside that facility had been the most peaceful three months I’d experienced in a long time. My treatment had kept Zach away. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
I scooped up a handful of potatoes. “It started after…” I began, raising my eyes to his, “after you went away.”
“Your eating disorder is my fault then?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. I was dealing with a lot of stuff and—”
“Save it, Alex. I’m sure you were really struggling in your daddy’s mansion, going out on the weekends with boyfriends and friends, loading up your closets with expensive clothes. Spare me the sob story, ‘cause I’m not buying.”
“Why’d you ask then?” With a tilt of my head, I raised my brows.
“Don’t get smart with me. I thought you might actually tell the truth for once in your life.” He pushed back from the table. “Clear the table and load the dishwasher.” He swept a hand toward the messy floor. “And clean up this mess.”
Indignation rose, but I kept my mouth shut. Rising to my feet, I grabbed my plate from the floor and his from the table before making my way to the sink. I took my time scrubbing the few dishes from breakfast, and after I’d loaded them into the dishwasher, I slammed the door, turned around, and found him watching me. He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed and biceps bulging.
“I need a broom.”
He fetched one from a closet near the door leading to God knew where. Where the hell had he taken me? I saw nothing but trees, though the distinct hum of a highway gave me hope that help existed beyond all the thick foliage.
He shoved the broom into my hands, and our fingers brushed together—the kind of touch that lingered enough to make me shiver. I swallowed hard and swept up the mess, sensing him behind me the whole time. His warm palms settled on my hips, fingers curling around to my front. I swayed into his body.
“Can…can I ask you something, Rafe?”
“You can ask.”
“Have you…” My voice faltered, and I had to swallow hard in order to force the question out. “Have you had sex since getting out?”
He trembled. “No,” he groaned as he dipped a finger inside me, and I quaked at the thought that he hadn’t been with anyone in such a long time.
“Now it’s my turn to ask you something,” he said. “Just how badly do you want me to fuck you?”
A whimper escaped. It was no secret my body wanted him, had always wanted him. But me, the woman he’d kidnapped, she didn’t want him. That’s what I told myself, anyway.
“You wanted it back then too.” With a growl, he pushed me away. “I don’t want you like this.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I turned to face him, the broom handle keeping me upright.
“It means I don’t want you willing.” He knocked the broom to the floor and gripped my wrists. In the rays of the sun peeking through the skylight, my scars stood out as lines of abstract art on my forearms, sketched in blood by my inability to cope with stress. He pulled out my arms and put the marred skin on display.
“What the hell happened to you?”
“
Nothing,” I said, trying to pull away, but he wouldn’t let me.
“Who did this?”
“No one.”
He jerked me close, and his immovable hands framed my cheeks. “Who. Did. This?”
“I did.”
For the first time since he’d re-entered my life, he appeared speechless. His gaze scoured my face, as if looking for answers.
“Why?”
I shook my head, unable to speak, scared he’d see too much. But I couldn’t look away. I didn’t want to look away. I wanted to bathe in the gentleness breaking through in that instant when I glimpsed the old Rafe.
He blinked and the moment shattered, his emotions going into lockdown. Without another word, he dragged me toward the cellar.
“Don’t put me back down there,” I pleaded.
He flung open the door and herded me down the stairs. I was shaking too much to fight. Back in the cage, he fastened shackles around my wrists and jerked my arms high, attaching the chain to a hook in the ceiling. “This should keep you out of trouble for a while.” He held my chin, fingers bruising my jaw. “Every time you rebel, this is where you’ll end up. Learn to obey me, and we’ll get along fine.”
And that’s how he left me. Alone, cold, and in the dark, with my arms suspended above my head.
Dante’s Pass, population 893, and half of them thought I was guilty as fuck. The place still felt like home, in spite of the busybodies who wanted to see me rot in jail until I was nothing but bones for what I’d done to that “poor girl.” They were the ones who sneered at my reputation as Rafe “The Choker” Mason from my fighting days. They were the ones who sensed something was off about me.
But others, mostly people who’d had connections to my family for decades, or people who’d known me in high school, they believed I was innocent. Unlike the crowd that condemned me, they saw past Alex’s lie. They knew me, or so they believed.
