“Why are you here?”
“Thought I’d pop by. The one way mirror was a diversion on the way through.” Pop by? Delaney doesn’t pop by anywhere. I turn again, scanning the man for deceit and eventually giving up trying. Whatever he’s here for, it’s good to see him again, and it isn’t like I don’t trust the guy. I do. He’s one of the only people who understands, and one of the only ones I can talk to, have talked to, on many occasions. “How invested are you?”
“I’m not,” I reply instantly. Although, for some reason, I smile at the thought as I walk back past Delaney and into the house, patting the guy on the shoulder and sighing out a last breath of frustration.
“You’re just going to leave her there fucking herself?” I keep walking, rounding the corner and down the steps into the main lounge.
“I’m going to let her think about what’s she’s doing, yes.” Delaney heads straight for the bar, immediately tipping out two large shots of Tequila and returning to sit on one of the large couches.
“You mean you’re going to give yourself time to calm down before you give her what she’s asking for anyway?”
“I mean I’m going to allow some sense to prevail before I forget what happened the last time I lost control and indulged myself in something I shouldn’t.”
“Mmm. Why?” I roll my eyes at the man, wondering if anything will ever shock the guy into sense. He hadn’t flinched when we’d talked of Eloise. Death, it seems, means little to him. “Seems a waste of enjoyment to me.” Probably true, but then Delaney has a handle on his force, mostly, or he isn’t quite so bothered about the outcome of it.
“She hasn’t come for that. We’re not together.”
“What?”
“She’s researching.”
“What? How to push a sadist’s buttons?” I sigh, acknowledging that that is exactly what she’s been doing, too effectively for rationality to be employed. At least I’ve managed to walk away.
“A book,” I reply, picking up the shot and downing it. Delaney laughs.
“You’re serious?” he asks, pulling off his jacket and laying it out on the arm of the couch as he heads back to the bar. “Interesting research option.” It is; the man has a point. “And even more interesting that you agreed to the request.”
“Mmm.”
The ending makes me gaze out at the ocean for a few minutes more through the window, considering the best route forward and trying to work out why I’ve thought any of this acceptable. It’s not as if I’ve done anything like this before. I’ve taught others on many occasions, of course, but this is personal, Delaney’s right, something I’ve not had to consider since Eloise. I chuckle at myself, irritated and yet in some way enamoured with my own confused state of mind. Normally everything is so artless. The lack of emotional involvement makes touching flesh predictable in its absence of care. Now, though, with her, I can feel again. I can almost taste her still.
“She’s like Eloise was,” I mumble, mainly to myself, but it’s not shocking that Delany laughs again, amused, no doubt, by the thought of the professor upturned.
“Obviously. You wouldn’t have brought her here if not.” My brows rise at the comment as I blow out a breath in defeat and wonder why the fuck I did bring her here. It just happened, perhaps instinctively or rashly, but it had felt right at the time. There isn’t any point trying to hide or cower from the precarious situation I’ve put us both in by bringing her now. I know it, as does the man sat behind me. And as I stare out at the ocean still, rallying every control technique I have and failing to employ them effectively, I feel myself resigning to the inevitable. “You should just get on with it. See where it leads,” Delaney continues, still laughing as if this is the funniest diversion he’s had in some time.
“You don’t have to be so self-satisfied about it.”
“I’m a priest. It’s what we do.” I snort again, remembering night’s that the idiot’s dressed as one, dabbing crosses on women’s heads before he whips them halfway to hell, apparently absolving their sins with every strike.
“There is nothing priestly about you. It’s just a fucking name.”
“Good confessional, though.”
“Mmm.” He is; that much is true.
“Look, I know you, Blaine,” the guy says, coming over and standing beside me, a smile still attached to his too fucking attractive for his own good face. “You’re a good man beneath it all. She’ll be fine. You’ve learnt from your past.” I’m not so sure that’s true. The thought of delivering pain again is unbearable in ways I’ve not had to think about for some time, freeing too, but fundamentally insane given Eloise’s dead body. “Just do whatever you brought her here for and stop chastising yourself for being a man.” Being a man isn’t the problem. Being the sort of man I am, with the needs I have, is. “She’s a pretty thing. You’re going to be interested, aren’t you?”
“It’s more than that,” I reply, still staring at the marine blue sea and considering any other options that might tame my cock. “You know it as well as I do. As you said, I brought her here.”
“You could give her to me instead. I could teach.” I grunt at the thought. If there is one thing Delaney Priest can’t do, it’s teach. Break, yes. Cajole, certainly. Train for research purposes, no.
“You go anywhere near her and I’ll kill you.”
“See? Invested,” the guy says, another laugh reverberating around the space as he backs away and heads for the bar again. “Just do it. Start her in the church if you want. I’ll watch. Keep you on the straight and narrow.” It isn’t the most comforting sensation, but it is a level-headed idea. At least with Delaney about there is someone to counter the mood, someone who is more able than Tyler to judge content. “Mostly.” I turn and snatch my keys from the hook by the fireplace, deliberately letting the sharp end sink into my grasp to try to stop the continued battering of my pants.
“She’s not to be touched,” I snarl out, staring the guy down to ensure the correct response will be met to that threat. “She’s not a nobody from the streets. She’s here for a learning trip only. That’s it.” Delany nods, a smirk still hovering across eyes that don’t give one fuck about any form of threat I’m delivering. “Delaney, I’m serious.”
“Of course you are,” he replies, another shot drained from its glass as the man pours another one and then widens his arms on the back of the sofa. “Deadly.” Sarcastic bastard.
“I need your help, not hindrance.” I try for that approach instead, willing the man to at least acknowledge some resemblance of care for her. “My fingers itch.” That should be enough to clarify the importance of the situation. Delaney just smiles again, his body lounging with little intrinsic interest to anything other than the further goading that will come.
“Anything you need, Blaine. You know that. Confessional’s always open here.”
I roll my eyes and pull in air, knowing that the one man who can help probably won’t. Or maybe he will, and then I’ll have to deal with the ramifications of falling again anyway. Either way, my fingers do itch, painfully. And the little thing possibly still fucking herself down the hall will do well to meet a priest. It might just calm her offensive little mouth to something that isn’t as questioning as it is. Thus improving my odds of not strangling the disobedience out of her.
“Bring her to me in an hour or so.” Delaney just smirks, his hand raising his glass as he lounges back against the sofa again and watches me move to the door. “Is Tabitha there?” A broad smile forms on the guy’s mouth, one that tells me everything I need to know. Good, Alana will need a woman’s focus to help her see it all in front of her.
“My little Tabby cat’s always ready to help.”
Chapter 13
Alana
M y hands are covered in ink. It looks like it’s bleeding out of me through my fingertips and onto the typewriter keys. It’s another metaphor I’ve not quite worked out yet. None of it makes sense. My behaviour certainly doesn’t. But it’s like
he made me do it. He did. I have to believe that because there’s no way in hell I’d be talking about Daddies otherwise, or sinking my hands in between my thighs. I don’t know why that came out of me. I must have read it somewhere, and in the middle of my odd tantrum decided to give it a go, hoping it would spur him into more action than just watching and leaving me with a fucking typewriter. Perhaps it was just the way he looked at me, or maybe it was the way he acted so calmly, like I wasn’t interesting enough for him to play with again. Not that I want playing with, I don’t think I do anyway, definitely not emotionally. Actually, maybe I do. Christ. I need to stop that. I just, well, I need to know more about what makes me act the way I do in front of him and no amount of tying me up in ropes is going to make that happen. Or maybe it was just his attitude when he slapped me, the kind that made me feel like a misbehaving schoolgirl who couldn’t work out whether to comply or rebel. I didn’t even come after he left, which was irritating. I couldn’t. The moment his eyes left me I lost it, the feeling leaving me as quickly as the irrationality took over.
My neck cricks in this strange sling he’s put me in, making my back ache further as I try to get comfortable. It’s been too long now, or at least too long for my own comfort. I don’t know how long people stay in these contraptions, but I’m tired of it. It’s scratching at me and making typing harder as I strain to reach. I have to give him the fact that being like this is helping me write, though. I’ve typed up all sorts of scenarios I couldn’t possibly have put together without this circumstance focusing me into it. There’s a sense of threat here. It’s uncomfortable, making me feel on edge, but it’s laced with a slow burning security somehow. I know that sounds outlandish, but it’s here nonetheless, making me feel I’m in a state of sanctuary as I keep pressing keys and letting the words come. It feels almost like a safe-haven, a writer’s retreat of some sort. It’s weird, and would be confusing me beyond all belief if I weren’t so intent on relaying the thoughts on this machine, regardless of my inked and bloodied fingers.
Looking at the stack of papers I’ve already done, I eventually let my fingers calm down and take a breath. I’ve done all I can for now. So much so that I stretch my stained fingers around, hoping to lessen the cramp that’s been winding its way into them. It’s not like a normal laptop. The slant is pitched high, making me ache from the act of continually depressing the ceramic letters. I’m exhausted, hungry, and still in need of a pee. That bucket’s been looking more and more tempting as I’ve been sitting here. I’ve contemplated it on a few occasions. I could easily hook it over, but then I’d have to hitch it underneath me where I sit. It’s not like I can move any further than this rope sling and these chains will allow, which is only about as far as the typewriter. Oh god, I’m so tired. I could quite easily sleep here if I didn’t need to pee so much. In fact, maybe I should just close my eyes for a few minutes and relax, try to ease the ache from every part of me that’s beginning to scream for freedom.
“You are a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” What the fuck? Who’s that? My eyes fly open again, barely ten seconds after I closed them. “Tired, are you?”
I stretch my eyes again, searching the man in front of me and looking around hoping to see Blaine beside him. He’s not there. I’m just alone in the room with another man I don’t know, one who’s looking me over as if I’m nothing more than lunch in a tatty dress. He’s the same height as Blaine but prettier and less aggressive in nature, with features that more than likely beguile most of the nation’s female population. Blonde haired and blue eyed, and his gait is relaxed, lacking any sense of urgency, more a relaxed amble than a measured stance. In fact, the more I watch him, the more I think I do know him.
“Where’s Blaine?”
“Gone.”
“What? Where?” What does that mean? Why would he leave me? My fingers dig into the edge of the table, ready to lift me away from it before the rope around my neck reminds me I can’t move.
“He’s left you with me,” he says, wandering his way around the room and apparently checking out the fixtures and fittings. I watch the way he moves, a sudden realisation setting in that I do know him as he walks. He was at the party. He caught me when I tumbled over the bench. He was masked, but I recognise the voice. He was jovial then. Funny even, but here there’s something about him that makes me fidgety, like the calm is just a veneer. He fingers a picture on the wall, making it swing back and forth, and then meanders away again, not bothering to straighten it. “I remember the last one he had in here.” I don’t know why, but that statement immediately makes me feel a sense of jealousy, which is quite preposterous. What did I think, that I was the first one? “She’s dead now.” My mouth gapes, not knowing what the hell I’m supposed to say to that. Dead? “What’s the book about?”
I’m still too busy gaping to have a rational thought about what he’s just asked. Dead? Why would a woman be dead because Blaine had her here? He strolls past me until he reaches the curtains on the far side of the room, and then swipes the key from the surface of the cabinet that Blaine left it on.
“What do you mean dead?” Sometimes I wish I could stop my mouth moving. Really, I do. I should just stay quiet. Shut up and not get involved in conversation with him about dead people. It’s hardly relevant to what’s happening here.
“Dead. What else is there to explain?” he replies, a quizzical look on his face as he walks back over and slides himself into the small space between the table and me. “Do you want a rundown of how she ascended to her heavenly dwelling?”
I shake my head, attempting to scoot further backwards to get away from him, as far as the rope will allow me, anyway. Something about him is not at all right. He seems too calm, too peaceful, as if the world is beneath his abilities and he’s just waiting for a reason to watch it all burn around him.
“What’s your name?” I ask quietly, watching his fingers turn over themselves in contemplation as he gazes at me. He smiles, titling his head and then reaching for the length of rope above my head.
“I’m just your priest,” he says, his smile turning into more of an amused sneer as he slowly pulls the rope towards us, slackening the tension on my back. “Come to absolve you of your sins before you enter the lion’s den.” He’s clearly insane. Or just strange. There’s nothing that seems honest about him. Nothing reliable or even relatable. He’s not like the funny version of himself I met at the party, the one I told to get his cock out, stupidly by the look of this situation.
“I’m not religious.”
“They all say that. It doesn’t stop the screams for God coming from their mouths, though,” he replies, his fingers reaching for the side of my face. I snatch it away from him, the slight slackening allowing some movement again. “I’m trying to help, nothing more at the moment.” He doesn’t wait for me to agree. He just takes hold of my chin firmly and then yanks at the rope. The instant he does, all pressure keeping me aloft dissipates, sending my frame into a spiral downward. Everything begins to collapse. My muscles give in, exhausted by their fight to keep me upright, and if it weren’t for his hand on my chin I would have doubled over instantly. Pain crashes though me, as the aches seem to cramp in on themselves, magnifying in intensity. I hang in his hand, my neck unable to hold itself up without his support regardless of how much I might want to move. “See? Now say thank you.” I nod weakly, still panting my way through the excruciating sensations racking my whole upper torso. It’s hardly thank you, but at the moment I’m too breathless to get anything out. He just holds me there for a moment or two, letting my body adjust and balance itself back into normality. Whatever his creepy nature, he was right. He is helping. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop me feeling weirded out by him. He’s got no sense of believability, like I might have to second guess everything he ever says, making my own mind up about what he’s actually about to do or say.
“Thank you,” I manage to say eventually, trying to extricate my face from his hold. He doesn’t let me move, proving
he’s not to be trusted in the slightest. He just stares at me, his smile turning to something nefarious, possibly indicating his intentions. “Really, thank you. You can let go now.” I’ll try for civil. It’s not like I have many other options given the chains around my wrists, and the fact that he’s the one holding the damn key.
He eventually smiles again, brightening his face into the same look I saw at the party. There’s no denying he’s handsome, but that’s not what he is, not underneath. I can still feel the grab of his fingers long after he lets go of my chin. It bites in, still creating a pinching sensation. It’s nothing like Blaine’s hold, which while firm, isn’t sharp. It’s more blunted than that, giving it a sense of being enthralled rather than forced. This feeling still haunting my skin is bitter in its quarry, enough so that I just keep staring at him, nervously ducking my head a little and waiting for whatever he has to say.
“You look scared, pretty thing.” I am, for the first time since this whole thing started. Blaine doesn’t make me feel scared. He seems to wrap me up in a blanket, enveloping me with a sense of realization rather than making me feel frightened by the thought. This man doesn’t do that. He darkens the scene, making it feel more like a murder mystery than a book about kink.
“Are you taking me to Blaine?” I ask, nodding at the key in his hand and hoping to deflect the conversation away from wherever he’s wanting to take it.
Once Upon A Page 22
