by Mara Black
I had never heard his voice like that. Not once. My blood chilled in my veins. If I thought I'd ever been afraid of Tate before, it was nothing. Absolutely nothing compared to this.
"I let you get away with it once." He took another step towards me. "I won't be merciful this time."
I'd wanted to unnerve him, but instead, I seemed to have unhinged him. Unleashed something I didn't understand, and didn't want to.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
"Too late," he replied, his chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. His tone was pure venom, pure sin, pure fucking evil. "Too late for apologies."
In that moment, I had three choices.
I could fight him.
I could run.
Or, I could tie myself to the mast and meet him, measure for measure.
I chose the storm. With the hurricane himself standing there, his pulse pounding so loud I could almost hear it, I chose to stand tall.
What was happening? What was he about to do? I had no way of knowing, no way of guessing what he'd do. How he'd ruin me.
But I knew I could survive.
His hand lashed out and grabbed mine, lifting it to his face. Eyes half-lidded, he brought my fingers to his lips, my thumb pressing past them and up against his teeth. Finding resistance, for a moment, until he parted them and suckled it into the soft, wet heat of his mouth.
I moaned softly. I couldn't help it. This was the last thing I expected, any show of tenderness from him - a harsh, uncharitable corner of my mind suggested he might try to bite it off, but I knew that wasn't even close to reality.
His teeth did clamp down, just enough to scrape gently as he pulled my hand away.
Briefly, his eyes locked on my face. I shivered at the cold, unending darkness in them. He was still Tate, still very much Tate, and yet he wasn't.
"Tate," I said, softly.
He blinked, very languidly. "Yes?" he said, his voice soft now, but no less dangerous. He'd turned my arm over and was examining the underside of my wrist like it was a cut of meat at the butcher.
"Are you still there?" I whispered, afraid of the answer. I could tell that he was - but could he?
"Good lord, Autumn," he intoned, sounding very bored, momentarily lapsing into the mood of some dark joke that only he understood. "I don't have dissociative identity disorder, if that's what you're asking." His eyes turned black again. "But that would make it much easier for you to understand, wouldn't it? Give you some measure of comfort."
He let out a soft breath through lightly pursed lips, gusting over my still-damp finger. Chilling it instantly.
"No," I said, unsure if I was lying or not. "I just wanted to understand."
"You'll never find an explanation for me in something as pedestrian as the DSM-IV," he said, drawing one fingertip lightly along the underside of my arm, until I was covered in goosebumps, every hair follicle standing on end. "And I'm sure you know what that is."
I nodded, in case he actually wanted an answer.
"So well-read, for a slave." He sighed, eyes flicking up and down my body, still holding my arm out on display. "Tell me, all that time and effort you spent educating yourself - how does it feel to have thrown it all away?"
He wanted anger, but I wasn't going to give it to him. "Books were all I had, for a long time," I said. "Until we started burning them for fuel."
"So you only learned because you had nothing better to do, is that it?" With a rapid movement, he tilted his head down towards my arm, clamping his mouth over the pulse point in my wrist. I cried out, feeling his teeth sink into the tender skin, his tongue flicking rapidly across the place where my heartbeat fluttered ever faster.
He didn't break the skin, I realized, a moment later. But it would be a nasty bruise.
"What were you planning to do before the world fell apart, then?" he demanded, releasing my arm, looking up at me, panting slightly. I didn't dare break his gaze, but I could feel the heat radiating from his groin. "Be a pretty trophy wife? Empty-headed and spending all her days on her back, or in the nail salon? That life would've suited you, wouldn't it?"
I slapped him.
I slapped him because he wanted my anger. I slapped him because I'd read more books than he could imagine, because I'd written stories in my head more beautiful than he could ever hope to know. I slapped him because he had so much disdain for me as a slave, when he himself had been plucked off the streets. Just like me.
He stood there, for a moment, just staring at me. A red handprint bloomed on his skin, but still, he didn't move. Didn't react in the slightest, except for a twitch of his jaw.
Then, he pounced.
I was on the floor, we both were, and my tailbone ached, my spine - but the impact would have been much greater, were Tate's hand not cushioning me, just between my shoulders. He slotted his body against mine, and when I felt his hard hot length against my thigh, I whimpered softly.
"Shut up," he growled, clamping his teeth on the lobe of my ear. I choked back a moan as wetness flooded my panties, a heavy shudder of arousal lighting up every nerve ending in my body.
He yanked my dress up over my thighs, his tongue flicking inside the shell of my ear until I moaned again, unable to help myself.
He reared back, his hand curled around my bare hip.
"Shut up," he repeated. "If you know what's good for you."
Clearly, I didn't.
His hand curled around to the front of my body. I braced myself for the pain of his intruding fingers, but it never came.
I heard him unzip.
Oh God - this was it.
But a moment later, his cock settled against the juncture of my thigh again. Skin on skin, this time, but unmistakable. With a shaky groan, he rutted against me, his mouth inches from mine.
God help me, I wanted to kiss him.
I wanted to sit up and look, to finally see him, or at least part of him - but I didn't dare.
His fingers found my aching cunt, just caressing the parts that were exposed to him, never dipping any deeper. A moment later I was shocked to realize I wanted him to, wanted it badly, even though I knew it would bring burning and pain and the humiliating realization that I'd let my virginity be taken like this. By a madman.
My house, my rules.
I brushed my lips against his. It was an accident, only it wasn't. Dizzying pleasure spiraled from where he touched me, up through my whole body, a feeling I could never have imagined or done justice in any words. I felt nothing but the desire for more.
"Fuck," Tate panted, in my ear. He lifted his head, slightly, to grin down at me with a ferocity that only fanned the flames inside me. He never relented his movements, fingers still toying with me, hips still moving against mine. "What makes you so hot for me, pet? Is it how nice I am?"
"Please," I whimpered. "I need..."
I didn't know what I needed.
"Tell me." He pressed his forehead against mine, his fingers still circling, maddeningly slow. "Tell me why you want me so badly."
I couldn't. I didn't know. There was no answer for my body's fucked-up reaction to his proximity, for the fact that he'd singlehandedly awakened desires and sensations that I'd never had the time to explore. I went straight from childhood to scraping for survival on the streets. And now, Tate, the first man to ever touch me like this, had apparently invoked such a reaction that he needed to know why.
"Tell. Me."
"I don't..." A ripple of pure bliss seized my heart. "Aaahh...Tate..."
"Tell me."
"I don't know." My hands, my feet, my legs and arms and every part of my body felt numb, like they were floating away, except for my clenching core.
"Tell me."
His demands were growing more and more breathless, every time. I was suspended on the precipice, but I wasn't alone there. Tate was with me.
"Because..." I panted, my hips rising to press harder against his hand. "Because...I belong to you..."
"Fuck, yes, you do." The words bu
rst out in an exhale, and his hand quickened, sending me slamming into climax so abruptly that I screamed. For a sweet split second I was lost in rapture, suspended in place where there was no shame or fear or doubts. It was like nothing I had ever felt before. Furtive pleasure at my own hand, even when I dreamed of him, couldn't compare. Moments later, still twitching, my nerves singing, I felt his hips jerk compulsively a few times and then finally still, as a long, low groan escaped the back of his throat.
A moment later, the heat of his body abruptly left me. I was still boneless, weak, and when he grabbed my arm and hauled me upright, my head started spinning.
He turn to look at me, just kept on dragging me forward. Through the hall, down the stairs, where I stumbled, but he showed no sign that he even noticed.
"Tate," I half-shouted, but he didn't pause. Didn't turn around.
"Tate!"
"TATE!"
I struggled, trying to get my footing, a rug slipping beneath my bare feet as he dragged and dragged. Into the kitchen. To the door in the wall, that I had wondered about before.
He yanked it open, revealing the yawning darkness beyond it. And then, he shoved me forward.
I stumbled, reaching out instinctively and grabbing into something I couldn't see. A banister. Heart pounding, I jerked my head around, only to see the last sliver of light from the house disappearing.
"TATE!" I shouted, as I was swallowed up in darkness. "Tate, what the fuck?"
There was nothing. No response, no reaction. Nothing. Maybe he'd walked away. Maybe he hadn't. These God damn silent floors.
I stayed there, clutching the banister, refusing to turn around. If I didn't face whatever the hell was behind me, then I could pretend it didn't exist.
It could be anything. Visions of dismembered bodies, heads on spikes, a veritable horrorshow that might be inches from my back, took over. Bile and panic were rising in my throat, and I forced myself to take in a long, deep breath.
If Tate was a killer, he would have killed me already.
What the fuck makes you think that? Maybe he likes to toy with his victims first.
The complete lack of a smell was my only comfort. Well, that wasn't quite accurate. Like any cellar, it had a faint odor of dirt, of ozone, concrete and cinderblock. I noticed it now, as the adrenaline began to ebb enough for my senses to switch back on.
What the fuck.
He'd enjoyed it. I knew he had. So that must be the problem - he was angry about our encounter, about the intimacy of it. He probably felt like he'd revealed too much of himself, or some shit. And, sick bastard that he was, he blamed me for it.
It made so much sense. I'd been caught up in the moment - I'd let myself forget what kind of man he really was. I let myself believe I could touch his body without touching his madness.
I could feel his come, turning sticky, drying on my hip.
I wanted to cry. But as the tears began to prickle, I once again forced myself to breathe. I could survive this. I could. All I had to do was find a way out of this room. He'd probably blocked the door with something, but I just had to wait for the right opportunity. He wouldn't leave me down here forever.
I'd been down here long enough. My eyes were adjusted so that I could actually see the staircase I was curled up on.
Slowly, I turned around.
As far as I could see, the room was empty. Small, too. Smaller than I had imagined it, when the walls were blanketed in darkness. There was only one source of light in the room, a small, red LED that glowed in the upper corner.
A camera. Of course.
I shivered. There could be a hundred girls buried here, under the concrete.
I had to stop thinking like this. My brain was scrabbling for the worst horrors I could imagine, to try and convince myself Tate was irredeemable. Not worth saving. Because in spite of myself, in spite of everything I knew and everything I knew I should feel, I was obsessed with him.
Of course I was obsessed with him. He was my world now. I'd never allowed anyone to have that level of influence over me, and now, I remembered why. Going to Stoker had been a mistake. A huge mistake, and one I might never recover from. But without them - without him - how long did I really have?
I was about to find out.
As soon as I could escape, I would. I'd run away and never look back. It didn't matter what kind of person Tate was, or what kind of person he seemed to be. Whether the skeletons in his closet were imaginary or real, I couldn't trust him. I couldn't trust anyone with my own survival, except myself.
And even that, I was beginning to doubt.
I knew what Stockholm syndrome was. I understood the mechanism. It even made sense, in a sick way. So then why couldn't I control it? Why couldn't I stamp down the impulses I felt towards Tate, the desire to please him, the ache I felt for his tenderness and his approval? I hated myself for being a slave to my own emotions, for being unable to control the way my whole mind and body lit up for him.
If I couldn't rely on myself, I had nothing. I might as well be dead.
CHAPTER TEN
The Broken Room
By the time he came for me, my throat was dry, and my stomach growled. I had no idea how long I'd been down here. My mind was beginning to play tricks on me, my eyes putting on light shows in the oppressive darkness.
When I heard the sound of his footsteps, my heart jackhammered against my ribs. I crawled up the stairs, clutching at the banister, my muscles screaming from being too still for too long.
The door swung open, and I had to duck to avoid being winged across the head. The light blinded me, and I felt something tumble down the stairs, knocking against my shoulder. The door slammed shut again, and I rasped his name.
"Tate!" I was trying to scream, but my throat was still too raw. "Tate. God damn it! You can't do this!"
It took a few more moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness again. Defeated, I went to find whatever he'd thrown down here for me.
A bottle of water and a loaf of bread. It was better than nothing.
Once I was sated, I took a deep breath and began to form a plan.
It would have been easier if the door swung outwards, rather than inwards. But I was pretty sure I could break my way out, with enough leverage.
I waited for the sound of the rushing water in the pipes, and began my work.
There was a loose board on one side of the wall, near the glow of the security camera. I just had to pray that he didn't actually have screens in the bathroom, mounted on the shower wall.
With a small amount of effort, the board broke free. I dragged it up to the door and pulled back on the lower corner, with all the strength I had, until I could wedge the board in the crack.
My hands ached, and I probably had a hundred splinters, but I was about to be free.
How had things deteriorated so quickly? Why had I taunted him? Why had I let myself become so intoxicated with such a dangerous man?
I leaned on the board with everything I had, with all the weight of my body, straining and heaving, and hearing the encouraging creaks and groans of the wood. I'd never break the lock, but I could loosen the hinges. There was a chance.
Finally, there was a popping sound, and then a crack, and I knew I was on my way to freedom. Heart leaping, I gave one last push, and the door gave way just enough.
The slice of light was almost more than I could bear, but I couldn't afford to lose any time. I slipped through the gap, ignoring the scraping and scratching against my skin.
I looked longingly at the bottles of water and a few more loaves of bread in the kitchen, but if I was going to take the time to gather any supplies, a weapon made the most sense.
Tate kept his guns locked up, obviously. And a quick glance around the kitchen indicated he'd put locks on some of the drawers. No doubt, anything sharp was housed in there.
There were several rooms down here on the main level I'd never seen before, and I figured they were worth a shot. The water still rushed through the pip
es. Thank God for psychopaths with luxurious showering habits.
The first room I checked was locked. I moved on to the next, feeling the handle give immediately, and breathing a silent prayer of thanks to whoever might still be watching over me.
A light flickered dimly in the corner, and I gasped at the sight in front of me.
The room was utterly destroyed. Furniture upended, the fine leather upholstery ripped and stabbed, stuffing scattered across the floor. I was walking across a graveyard of books, their pages torn and spines ruined, like I had fantasized doing to the ones in my room. One of the bookshelves lay on its side. Every lamp was knocked over, and one of the bulbs had shattered. I stepped gingerly around it, heading for the desk. I had a feeling that I'd find something I might use to defend myself, and my instinct was right. An old fashioned letter-opener wasn't much, but it was something.
I wondered if that was what he had used to destroy his furniture. Even in my frantic state to get out of this house, back out into the world, into the clutches of the devil I knew, it was hard not to picture it. To see him flown into such a rage that he thought nothing of tearing all these things apart. Most of them were probably irreplaceable, especially now.
I couldn't believe I ever thought I could stay here.
Clutching the letter opener, I made my way back towards the front door. Just then, I heard the sound of the water subside.
A stab of panic went through my chest. I ran to the door, struggling with the complex locks for a moment before it finally swung open. I didn't dare turn back to see if I was being followed. I didn't even bother to close the door.
I just ran.
Running, running, with my brain pounding fit to burst in my skull and my lungs heaving, I ignored the pain and ran some more. On the streets, I'd been pretty wiry and pretty fast, whenever I wasn't badly malnourished. But since Stoker, since Tate, I had grown soft and easily fatigued. My leg muscles were already tensing and burning. How much longer could I keep up this pace?
Long enough.
It has to be long enough.
How far had I gone? Could I still see the lights of Tate's house in the background, or was that the moon and the stars glowing behind me? I couldn't stop, couldn't even pause, to turn and look. What if I saw his shadow coming after me?
