by Pam Godwin
Her fingers grabbed the hair on the back of his head and yanked, exposing his neck. Her lips caressed his ear, and his penis throbbed. “Stop. Grinding. Your dick.” She released him with a shove. “Kinky fucker.”
Crack.
Ahhh. He melted into the heat of her strike. He couldn’t remember what the infraction was that led to the current punishment. Couldn’t recall what day it was. Didn’t care. It was during these highs that he trusted her implicitly. And ignorantly. The flow of his thoughts whispered in jumbled bursts of nonsense, his give-a-crap drifting beyond reach.
The mattress dipped as she knelt on the edge.
Time passed. He might’ve dozed. Somewhere along the edges of his drowsiness, her phone beeped. When he opened his eyes, her knees hadn’t moved.
He licked dry lips. It would’ve been delusional to expect leniency from her after every punishment, but sometimes, while the pain ebbed, she gave him a small window of sympathy. Sometimes, during these moments, he tested her. “Come here.”
She sighed, and it was sexy, soft. His lips floated into a smile. At least he thought they did. Her gentle response surprised him as much as it had the first time he’d given her the same order. In those rare moments when she came to him tenderly, it didn’t last long before the detached Mistress appeared again. Still, he wanted her, craved her body against his, and this time she obliged.
Black pleather encased her from chin to ankle, and she wrapped all that material around the length of his side, stroking a hand over his sore muscles, soothing him as he fell out of the sky.
It was the only time she held him, and he didn’t try to understand her intent. He simply savored her tender attention, turning his head to peer into her eyes.
In place of a mask was an expression he hadn’t seen since Van had sex with her in front of him. Beneath the yellowing bruise around her eye was pure, unrestrained fear. It paled her complexion, hardened her jaw, and flattened her lips.
“Liv?” He raised his head, his stomach hardening. “What’s wrong?”
She recoiled, clutching a cell phone to her chest. In the next breath, her face blanked, her tone equally vacant. “I’m failing. I’ve tried everything I can think of.” She released a shuddering exhale. “You’re the worst slave ever.”
He wanted to laugh at that, but something was wrong. She hadn’t let up her grip on the phone. “What’s going on? What are you doing with the phone?”
She lowered it, staring at it like it was about to detonate. Then her eyes flashed to the door. “Mr. E is on his way upstairs.”
CHAPTER 20
Josh was treated to the soft strains of Liv’s a cappella as they stood side by side before the door in her room. She stared at her phone, perhaps waiting for a text. He stared at her profile, trying to capture the quiet words woven in her melody. Something about hounds and chains and teams. The tune was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.
Her dark chestnut hair was smoothed into a ponytail that swung over the toned lines of her arm. Black vinyl painted her limbs and torso, giving her a sleek, wet look. The catsuit was so compressed, he could’ve spanned the cinch of her waist with two hands. He knew her costumes were intended to intimidate and hypnotize, but her musical voice held that power all on its own.
Her lips froze mid-verse, her attention locked on the phone’s blank screen in her hand. “Where are your eyes, boy?” The stiffness in her neck matched the aggravation in her voice.
She wasn’t pleased with his wandering eyes, but his last punishment had ended with her body curled against his. It gave him enough temerity to break more rules. He watched her beautiful, expressionless face. “What does this visit from Mr. E mean exactly?”
She turned, facing him with her back to the door and her stony eyes packed with grim promises. He considered it an accomplishment to stand before her, as he did every day, with his wrists wrapped in chains, every inch of his flesh bared and unprotected, and his backbone proudly intact.
Her scrutiny leveled on his raised chin, and her brown eyes melted for a millisecond before hardening again.
“I saw that.” He was being reckless. Despite the bumps and bruises riddling his body, the threat of her whip had lost its edge. But she could still threaten his parents. Or have sex with Van. His jaw locked, smacking his teeth together.
“You saw nothing, boy.” Her stillness suggested a disciplinary strike would follow, but her expression was hesitant, as if distracted by some inward conflict.
He stepped closer, raising his hands between them, the coil of chain around his wrists a reminder that he wasn’t the enemy. “If your boss is right outside this door, why are we in here?”
Her throat twitched as if she’d stifled a swallow a second too late. “Eyes down.”
Of course, she wouldn’t answer him. He’d have to make a guess and read her reaction. “He’s out there with Kate. Van’s probably catching him up on her training. When that’s done, he’ll text you to open the door, so he can inspect his new property. Do I have the gist of it?”
The flash of her eyes told him he’d guessed right. “On your knees. Now.”
Arrgh. He stayed on his feet. “You always do that. You deflect with those damned rules.” Still, she seemed off-kilter, and he might not get another opportunity to poke around for a soft spot. “I’m just trying to understand.” He searched her face. She kept it guarded. So he rested his fists against the door above her head, no physical contact, but the bond was there.
“Step. Back.”
Maybe bond was too strong of a word, but she could’ve ducked out from beneath his arms. Instead, she stared up at him with an unfathomable mien on her face. Something was hidden there, an expression, a truth, etched in the delicate creases around her mouth. Her lips parted and pressed together, bending the scar that mapped the struggles in her life, the ones he suspected she fought alone.
Then it clicked. “I know that song you were singing. Isn’t it about loyalty and friendship and—”
“Team.” Her eyes were wide, watchful, and maybe a little skittish.
“That’s right. ‘Team’ by Lorde.” He wanted to ask what the song meant to her, but she wouldn’t have answered. Didn’t matter. He could guess its significance, knew it had to do with why she slept where her prisoner slept, confining herself with him for five days, only leaving to fetch food. “Better to be enchained with someone on your side than to be alone with a false sense of freedom.”
The expression on her face transformed from that of captor to equal. Her posture loosened, her features gentled, the phone forgotten in her hand. She stared into his eyes, blinking, nodding slowly, subtly. It was a poignant moment of connection, the opening he’d been searching for.
He touched his forehead to hers, his chains rattling above her head, and waited for the punishment that never came. “We may not be trapped for the same reason, but we’re looking in the same direction, reaching beyond these walls together. Tell me what we’re up against.”
A low-pitched noise groaned in her throat, and her head relaxed against his. He kept his shackled arms balanced on the door, afraid the smallest movement might spook her.
Was she considering his words or formulating a safe response? Maybe she was worried about Van hitting her again. Or raping her. His throat hurt as he replayed Van’s groaning thrusts and the pain in her eyes. The two times he’d asked her to talk about it, she’d whipped him for speaking without permission.
Too soon, she straightened, breaking the point of contact. She took her time meeting his eyes, and when she did, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, her chin slowly moving left to right. “I give you an inch—”
“And I’d be six-foot-three.” He lowered his arms, nudging her chin with his bound hands. “I love your smile.”
Her lips trembled and stilled. The smile remained, but her eyes dulled. “You’ve got balls, distracting me despite the consequences.”
He blew out a breath and retracted his arms to his waist. “So you�
�re tallying my infractions?” He dreaded what those consequences might be and tried for a light tone. “When do I get my spanking?”
Her fingers touched his navel, sending a quiver through him. She traced the dusky trail to his groin and coiled a finger tightly through the thatch of hair. “Spankings aren’t effective. You’re a pain slut.” She tugged, sparking a twinge of discomfort over the sensitive skin there.
A half-laugh, half-groan escaped with his exhale. “I am not a pain slut, whatever that is.”
“Oh please. Five welts and you fall into a hypnotic trance.”
Okay, maybe he felt some out-of-body weirdness. Wasn’t that normal in adrenaline-charged situations?
She glanced at her phone, and a sharp line rutted between her eyebrows. Her anxiousness was bleeding onto him.
“What is it?”
She angled the phone long enough for him to glimpse the text.
Unknown number: Open the door.
An unnerving metamorphosis washed over her, stripping the emotion from her eyes, smoothing out her breathing, and hardening her body into an armored shell. “You want to be on the same team?” Her voice was cold and terse. “You want to save me?”
He nodded, hoping it wasn’t a trick. Her sudden change in demeanor tightened the muscles in his jaw.
She dropped a hand to her side, snapped her fingers, and pointed at the floor beside her feet, an unmistakable order to kneel. “Then don’t fuck this up.”
Whatever was about to happen, it was evident that her bearing, as well as his, needed to broadcast that she had the upper hand. He knelt at her side, holding her gaze as he lowered. Sure, she appeared dispassionate at a glance, but the hand at her side trembled.
As she entered the code in the keypad—too quickly for him to catch the pattern—he gripped the fingers digging into her thigh. The door clicked open, and she pulled her hand away but not before giving him a tentative squeeze in return.
He kept his eyes on the floor, taking in the scuffed black boots that entered first, followed by Van’s sneakers. The door shut, imprisoning the room with silence.
He’d expected trousers, paired with an expensive suit, a wardrobe that signified wealth and power. Instead, black cotton work pants gathered over the dusty boots. The mystery surrounding Mr. E compounded, surging dread through his veins.
“Raise your head, boy.” Her voice was so detached, even its iciness was absent.
His breath caught as he lifted his eyes and met the drab material of a cotton jumpsuit. The kind one would zip over regular clothes to change a tire or carry out an activity that might be messy. He stopped breathing altogether when his gaze reached the man’s head.
It was wrapped in a potato sack hood, cinched at the neck, with two crudely cut eyeholes and vertical stitching where the mouth should be. Rough-hewed seams rounded the skull, pulling the material taut to maintain the curvature. Then it spoke.
“Stand, slave.” The mouth, stitched as it was, didn’t move. The voice was soft and masculine and cruelly calm.
Van leaned against the door in a display of arrogant composure. Liv stared at her feet, frozen and pale, as if the masked man had chased her into some unseen recess of her mind.
Don’t fuck this up.
Josh climbed to his feet and let his bound wrists loll over his groin. At his full height, he stood four or more inches taller than Mr. E.
“You’ll address me as Sir.” Mr. E glanced at Liv and back to Josh. “Did you give her the black eye?”
His shoulders tensed. “No—”
“That was me, sir.” Van’s smirk oiled the tension in the air.
“Ah.” A chuckle rustled through the canvas mask. Mr. E reached a gloved hand to Van’s jaw and patted it. “I suppose you can’t fuck up her face worse than it already is.”
“Nope.” Van popped the P with a smarmy exhale and slid a toothpick between his curved lips.
A storm of rage boiled Josh’s blood, twisting and shaking his insides. She should’ve been defending herself. And what compelled Van to be at such ease with a man who hid behind a potato sack? The man who, Josh suspected, had given them their matching scars.
The whites of Mr. E’s eyes shifted inside the depths of the eyeholes and settled on Liv. Under the decomposing scrutiny, her shoulders curled forward, her gaze fixed downward.
It was in that moment that his assumptions about her place in the hierarchy were confirmed. Just because she wasn’t a slave didn’t mean she wasn’t viewed as property and used as such. They seemed to think of her as scarred and ruined, and she certainly wasn’t sexually innocent. Her usefulness to them was limited to her proficiency in training slaves. A replaceable skill. Was Van’s apparent ownership of her the only thing that held her there?
There was so much obscurity surrounding the operation, and seeing her like this shook the hell out of Josh’s hope. He bit down on his cheek, checking the turbulence of his emotions, and put on his own phlegmatic expression.
“Have you fucked him yet?” The potato sack cocked toward Van, and Josh balled his fists.
The silver cut of Van’s eyes sliced through Josh, but it was Liv who answered. “He’s not ready.”
Mr. E’s stillness was deafening, cranking the room’s temperature to scorching. Then those elusive eyeholes shifted to him. “Let’s see how well he kisses.” He curled a gloved finger. “Van.”
Josh fought the heart-pounding urge to swing his bound arms into that stupid mask and stared directly into the soulless eyes. “I will not kiss that man.”
Liv’s finger twitched against her thigh, but she was otherwise unresponsive.
“I see.” Mr. E clasped his hands behind him and spent an eternal moment moving through the room, testing the strength of a dangling chain, nudging the mattress with his boot, and building a terrible anticipation. He returned to Van’s side. “She still sleeps in here.”
A muscle jumped in Van’s jaw. “Yes, sir.”
“You haven’t won her over yet.”
“She’s mine.”
“I’m not arguing that.”
Josh felt like he’d fallen into a state of surrealism, where crap that should never ever make sense was sickeningly transparent. They talked about her like she wasn’t standing right there while ignoring the fact that Josh refused to kiss Van. It was a game, a tactic to mess with his head, and maybe hers, too.
Mr. E snapped his gloved fingers under Liv’s bowed head. “Get his clothes.”
Her stillness unfurled into a steady, flowing stride to the trunk by her mattress. She placed her phone on the bed and returned with the jeans, t-shirt, and boots he’d arrived in. They were just things, inconsequential possessions, yet the sight of them made his heart race.
Mr. E scratched his chin through the mask. “I’m a huge Baylor Bears fan. The news reporters are saying you’re the best linebacker in college football.”
His shoulders curled in. How much was the news covering his disappearance? Would they be camped out on the farm, shoving cameras in Mom and Dad’s faces, and magnifying their grief?
“Get dressed.” Mr. E pointed at the clothes.
The taunt of freedom thrilled in his chest as she removed the padlock on his wrists and unbuckled the cuffs. He massaged the skin that had been rubbed raw by metal for a week. Were they letting him go? “What is this?”
“Too many people are searching for you.” Mr. E angled his mask toward Liv. “She picked the wrong boy and has made no progress in your training. You’re a liability.” He placed a hand on Josh’s shoulder and squeezed. “Besides, the Bears are getting crushed. They need you.”
What? No. This was crazy.
Mr. E laughed. “I was kidding about the last part. Seriously though, you’re a risk I can’t afford.” The hand on his shoulder shifted to his throat, gripping his jaw to tilt back his head. “I’ll drop you in the middle of nowhere. By the time you find your way to a phone, we’ll be gone from this house.”
Letting him go home was a risk. Even if
they fled, he could identify Liv and Van. There were no suspicious bulges on the men, but Liv had proven how easily a weapon could be concealed. He imagined a gun trained on his head as they pushed him from their car. Boom! Body dumped, never to be traced backed to their operation. His chest hitched. “You’ll kill me before you’ll let me go.”
The grip on his throat released. “Been doing this a long time, boy. Never killed no one. And this is the first time I’ve offered freedom.”
He could taste the promise of it, felt it awakening every cell in his body. Liv pressed his clothes to his chest. He stared into her eyes, searched for the truth, and found an expression as lifeless as Mr. E’s mask. Even Van was gazing at his feet. “What about Liv and Kate?”
“Not your concern.” Mr. E waved a dismissive hand. “Take the offer, boy.”
It would be so much easier to help the girls if he were free. Even if the operation vanished, detectives could track it.
Why was he even debating this? Would he seriously choose the woman who’d been beating him over his parents’ happiness?
But he couldn’t protect Liv if he left. She was as much a victim as he was. His head swam. He couldn’t protect her in chains, either.
He dressed, and with each piece of clothing covering his skin, he felt more hopeful, more anxious. He watched her expression as he tied his boots, wishing she’d look at him and give him some sign she understood. He wasn’t abandoning her. He was going to get help. He was going to save her, dammit.
Clothed and trembling, he waited at her side while she punched in the code. Was this really happening? He was wearing his clothes. They were letting him go home. Mom and Dad’s joyous faces filled his vision and spread through his chest. He was going home.
The door opened. Mr. E and Van exited first. When Liv stepped through to follow, Mr. E pivoted, grabbed her throat with two hands, and shoved her back against the door jamb. Her mouth gaped, gulping without sound, hands clawing at the ones on her neck.
Josh leapt forward, pulse racing, a roar bellowing from his chest. “You’re choking her.” He tried to break the grip, yanking on unmovable wrists.
