Tamara, Taken (The Blue-eyed Monsters Book 1)

by Ginger Talbot

  I shoot him a nasty look. “If you shut the fuck up and let me eat my food without talking to me. Forever.”

  “How unfortunate.” He gives me that bland, maddening smile that reminds me who’s in control here. “That’s not going to happen. Anyway. I find that I’m interested in your ideas, your perspectives.” I scoop up a forkful of fettucine, avoiding his gaze and trying not to let myself feel flattered. I know what an intellectual snob he is, how few people he respects enough to carry on more than a brief conversation. The fact that he never seems to tire of me, that he considers my thoughts and ideas worthy, it makes me feel good about myself. But also angry with myself. After everything he’s put me through, I refuse to be that easy.

  “I’d like our conversations to be civil,” he continues, “and I’d like to achieve that without having to revert to my more brutal methods of chastisement, but my patience is nearing an end. And if you tell me to kill you one more time, I’ll hang you over the electric plate until you pass out. Or maybe I’ll heat up my branding iron.” And just like that, the warm feelings that were fizzing around inside me evaporate.

  The thought of my flesh being burned makes me quail inwardly, so before I lose my nerve, I drop my plastic spoon, casually pick up my plate of pasta, and throw it in his face. “Kill me, Joshua crybaby Smith.”

  And I brace myself for pain. A lot of pain.

  Instead, his eyes flare with what I swear is arousal as he sits there with fettuccine alfredo sauce dripping onto his shirt.

  He loves it when I fight him. It turns him on.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Toy.” He picks up a napkin and mops strands of pasta from his face. “If you were smart, you’d start negotiating. How about a million-dollar donation to the battered women’s shelter?”

  That sends a shockwave through me. He says it so casually, but that’s an enormous amount of money. My God, the lives that could be changed with that money. I could actually do some good before I figure out a way to end myself. He’s offering me a little bit of power.

  “What would you ask in return?” I ask cautiously.

  He cocks his head. “First answer a question. This is the first offer of mine that you’ve shown any interest in. Oh, and you briefly got excited when you thought I could use my software to benefit law enforcement. You talked to me then, but after that, you stopped. Why don’t you want things for yourself? Why do you care about helping people so much?” I hate the mockery lacing his voice.

  How can you answer a question like that? How can you explain compassion and empathy to a man with an iceberg heart?

  “Penance for my sins, maybe. I just… I want to make a difference to people.”

  “That’s pure ego, you know,” he says with mild contempt as he picks up his napkin and scrubs at his face. “You just want to do good things for people so you can feel better about yourself.”

  I shrug. “All philanthropy is selfish at heart. It doesn’t matter. Yes, it feels good to do good things for people, to make the world a better place. So what? Does that mean I should do bad things, and make the world a worse place, so I don’t feel good? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Interesting point.” He chews it over, considering it, then nods. “This helps me understand philanthropy, on some level. So are we agreed? Anonymous million-dollar donation, in exchange for you answering questions when I ask them?”

  Fuck. Damn. Hell.

  He’s doing it.

  He’s breaking me down. He swore he’d make me accept my life here.

  And I’m letting him.

  Just for now, I promise myself.

  Not forever.

  “I will accept the deal, if you answer one question for me.”

  “Depends on the question.”

  “You keep offering me things—physical objects, money, a walk in the prison yard—to try to get me to accept what you’ve done to me. What would make you accept having your life stolen from you and living as someone’s slave, under their complete control, and knowing you’ll never talk to another person again for the rest of your life?”

  “I’m not you. I’m me. We’re different people.” That baffled look appears on his face again.

  “Right. That’s Joshua-speak for ‘I utterly fail at understanding normal human emotion.’”

  He shakes his head chidingly. “I answered your question as best I could, given that your question made no sense in the first place. Now, my turn. I want you to tell me ten things that you love about being here.”

  I could be petty and tell him nothing, but that would be a lie, and he might cancel the deal. If I can really get him to donate a million dollars to the shelter, that would be huge.

  Frowning, I stare down at the table and force myself to open up to him, as I’ve done too many times since he kidnapped me. “I…I love it when you bathe me. I love sex with you. The gentle, sensual whipping, and when you spank me just right—I love that too.” My face grows hot with resentment, and I clench my fists and press my thighs together tightly. I don’t want to give him this. It’s like validating what he’s done to me, and again, he’s invading my mind and making me feel disgustingly vulnerable. Like being strapped down to an ob-gyn chair and put on public display.

  “That’s three.” There’s an impatient snap to his voice now. “Go on. And don’t stop until you get to ten, or the deal is off the table.”

  “Can we just have a damn conversation without you threatening me?” I yell at him.

  He gives me a nasty smile. “Given who and what I am, probably not.”

  I heave a sigh. “When you made me confess to what I’d done to my stepfather, it took an enormous weight off my shoulders.” I hold up my hands to tick the numbers off. “That’s four. When you made me talk about my mother’s death and told me it wasn’t my fault…sometimes, you have a way of saying things that can make me believe almost anything. I have felt a darkness lift from me ever since that day. I haven’t done my tapping rituals in a long time, and I don’t wake up in the middle of an anxiety attack any more. That’s five. I love the selection of books that you have here. That’s six. I love the food that you serve. That’s seven. I love sparring with you every day and getting to pretend I’m actually hurting you for every rotten thing you’ve done to me. That’s eight. I love the artwork here. That’s nine. I love the furnishings in the house. That’s ten.” I clench my splayed-out fingers into fists.

  That’s ten pieces of my heart and soul he just pried out of me. I’m hyperventilating, tears burning in my eyes. Damn him. I swore to myself, when I reclaimed my identity as Tamara, that I would never again let him hurt me emotionally. And here I am. He knows exactly how to get to me.

  “What about when I gave you the dresses?” he asks.

  Again with the damn dresses. I flash him an annoyed look. “No, frankly, I didn’t love that at all. Why do you care so much about the dresses?”

  “Because it was the first time in my life that I’ve ever attempted to buy someone a gift and genuinely wanted to please them.”

  The look on his face… If it were any other man, I’d say it was a look of hurt and confusion. But this is Joshua Smith, the world’s slickest psychopath. He’s just manufacturing that look to mimic a normal human response, isn’t he?

  If I’m forced to be honest with myself, I’m not entirely sure. He isn’t lying when he says that my presence here has changed him. I know he’s opening up in an odd way, doing things he’s never done before. He’s treating me differently than he’s treated anyone in his entire life. Perhaps I have touched something inside him, made him a little bit more human.

  I shake these confusing thoughts from my head. He’s staring at me expectantly.

  “You never buy gifts for Elizabeth?”

  His perfect brow wrinkles. “No, why would I?”

  “You just don’t get people, do you?” Then I laugh at myself. “Right, right, look who I’m talking to. So you never show her the slightest appreciation or acknowledgment of what she d
oes for you. No wonder she’s miserable. Then again, if you bought her gifts, it would just give her false hope. All right, you wanted to know why I didn’t like the dresses. Seeing them just made me think that nobody but you would ever see me wearing them.”

  “Who else do you want to see them?” There’s a dangerous edge to his voice now. Is Joshua actually jealous? What new level of madness have we reached? Dear God, the look in his eyes. I think if he ever saw me flirting with another man, he’d gut him like a deer.

  “I would just get the pleasure of wearing them to a restaurant, to a play, to a movie, to an art gallery opening… I mean, I can’t explain it. Why do you wear nice clothing when you’re here?”

  He smiles mockingly. “Why, to please you, Toy.”

  “That’s Tamara Bennett to you, Joshua Smith. And bullshit. You wear nice clothing because it pleases you and feeds your grandiose ego. Where are we, by the way?” I throw the question out, since we’re actually having something resembling a conversation. Maybe he’ll give me something for free.

  “What will you give me if I tell you?”

  Nope. Nothing’s that easy.

  “What could I give you? Thanks to you, I have nothing of value.”

  “Self-pity is unattractive, Toy.” He’s really quite cuttingly nasty when he wants to be. “Try again.”

  “I promise I won’t try to kill myself.” I give him a weary shrug.

  Genuine anger flashes in his blue eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t lie to me, Toy.”

  I laugh, a harsh, bitter sound that grates on my own ears. I can’t remember the last time I laughed with joy rather than mockery. “Why not? You lied to me. The one thing you swore you’d never do, and you’re so fucking weak and cowardly and pathetic that you couldn’t even follow that one little rule. You couldn’t control me without lies. Do you have any idea how much contempt I have for you because of that? God, you make me nauseous.” I’m angry all over again as I say that. Rage burns through me like a cleansing fire.

  He leans back in his chair, the anger fading from his face. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we, Toy? I wonder what’s going to become of us.”

  “One of us will die at the hands of the other.”

  “Perhaps. Well, if you plan on killing me, you’ll need your strength.” He shoves his plate of pasta at me. The remains of my own plate are splattered on the table in front of him. “Eat.”

  I shake my head.

  “Do you know what a funnel gag is, Toy? It would allow me to shove food into your mouth and down your throat.” He says the words politely, and I feel a bizarre shiver of arousal.

  He has well and truly screwed me up for life. His threats turn me on now. God help me, even if I escaped, I’d never be free of him.

  I look up and meet his eyes. “I’m genuinely not hungry right now, Joshua. When you forced me to tell you the things that I love about being here—that was hard on me. I lost my appetite.”

  He looks at my hands and sees that they’re shaking. “Why?” He seems to be genuinely interested.

  “It’s painful for me to open up like that. I spent a lifetime building up walls, and when you tear them down like that, it makes me feel weak and exposed.” My muscles tense up, and I clench my fists to stop the trembling.

  “I see.” He thinks about it for a moment, then stands up and walks over to me. He pulls me to my feet, and…wraps his arms around me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, astonished.

  “It’s called a hug, Toy.” He says it with gentle mockery.

  He’s hugging me to make me feel better.

  His arms tighten around me, and I melt into him before I can stop myself. His body is so strong, his grip so firm. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes and breathe in his warm, masculine scent, the faint whiff of cologne and sweat and male musk. Then I circle his waist with my hands and hug him back.

  I hug my kidnapper.

  I hug my torturer.

  I just want to feel better about everything, I want to leave my nightmare behind even if it’s just for a few moments of make-believe, so I pretend that he’s none of those things. I keep my eyes closed tight and pretend that he’s my boyfriend, my lover, my protector. And in a way he is. I have no doubt that if anyone tried to harm me, Joshua would kill them or die trying. He’s the only man in my life. The only man who’s ever given me an orgasm. When we have sex now, it feels like making love, and he always, always makes sure that I come first.

  Why couldn’t he have been like this when he first took me? I think I’d have been in love with him by now.

  He begins stroking my hair, gently, fingers trailing through the tresses.

  “This isn’t so bad,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or me. And a little bit of me melts. This is probably the first time he’s ever hugged anyone, and, heart-breakingly, the first time he’s ever been hugged. Several minutes slide by, slowly, sweetly.

  I open my eyes and tip my head back to look at him. He’s staring down at me, and the look in his eyes is pure tenderness. It looks like love.

  “You could let me go, Joshua,” I plead for the millionth time.

  “If you truly knew me, Toy, you would understand that I can’t.” I think his smile is tinged with sadness. At least, if it were anyone else, that would be a sad smile. “I simply can’t.”

  How can anyone truly know someone as fucked up as you, Joshua?

  I step back out of his arms, as far as I can go with my ankle still chained to the chair, and my body cries out at the loss of his warmth.

  He bends down and uncuffs my ankle.

  But he doesn’t set me free.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Tamara

  “I need your help,” Joshua says over lunch one day. Six days have passed since he promised that donation to the shelter. I’ve started keeping track of time again, counting each day of my life that I’m trapped here.

  I need to do that so I can stay angry at Joshua, because the new Joshua is addictive and I’m starting to crave his company too much. When he has to miss lunch because of work, I actually miss him. And I can’t stop thinking about what it felt like when he hugged me. I have to toughen up or I’ll lose myself to him. The idea of falling in love with him frightens me even more than the idea of being his mindless slave.

  “We all have needs. For instance, I need a sharp knife so I can slit your throat,” I say, and I take a bite of quiche.

  He ignores me. “Elizabeth fainted an hour ago, and she’s still losing weight. But she’s eating more than ever. I watch her eat, now, and she finishes everything on her plate. She should be gaining weight. There’s the possibility she has some kind of illness, but given how withdrawn and distressed she is, I think that it’s somehow psychological.”

  “And?” I look up from my Portobello mushroom burger. “You know my feelings about Elizabeth, or frankly anyone who would choose to keep me prisoner. And before you start bringing up all the weepy girly crap about how much she suffered as a child, that’s all the more reason for her not to help keep another woman prisoner. My ultimate goal is to kill both of you. Squash you like cockroaches.”

  His eyes snap with anger. “If you don’t help me, I’ll find a way to close down the shelter.”

  Shock lashes through me at the thought of all those women being forced out onto the street, but I’ve been practicing hiding my emotions, and I just shrug. “Whatever.”

  “My, my.” Joshua leans back in his chair and looks at me appraisingly, like a piece of art he might bid on. “What happened to kind, sweet, caring Tamara? Where did this nasty bitch come from?”

  “Spending time with you was bound to rub off on me.” I shove my plate away. “Also, close the shelter down, and I will never voluntarily have sex with you again. That’s not a threat, that’s a promise.”

  Frustration ripples over that perfect face of his, and it makes me happy. “Elizabeth could die.”

  I put on the blank mask that I pr
actice in the mirror every day. “Cool. One down, one to go.”

  Joshua shakes his head, and contempt pinches those perfect features. He pushes his chair back and stands up. “Evil isn’t a good look on you, Tamara.”

  “Would you let me go if I helped you? If it was the only way to save her life?” I call after him.

  He shakes his head.

  “Worth a try,” I say with a bitter laugh. “And good to know exactly how much of a selfish prick you are. You’d really let her die rather than set me free?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I feel a well of rage swelling up in me. How can he be so heartless? And this is the man Elizabeth would die for. Poor her.

  He starts to walk away.

  Something stirs inside me, sinking sharp little claws into my conscience. “Wait.”

  He pauses and looks back at me expectantly

  Why am I helping him? Why am I helping her?

  Because that’s who I am. Because if he kills that part of me, then he’s won.

  “Do you have a camera in her room? In her bathroom?”

  He looks confused. “No. I don’t need to. Why?”

  “She’s making herself throw up.”

  “She’s what?” If the situation were different, the look of confusion on his face would be hilarious. It’s a sitcom twist of bewilderment. “Why would she do that?”

  “Joshua. Is it really that difficult for you to see things through a normal human being’s eyes?”

  “Yes. So help me.” He looks genuinely worried. He actually cares about her, as much as he’s capable of caring about anyone. “Please.”

  “She can’t fight you directly, so this is her passive way of getting back at you. She’s hurting herself, and disobeying you, to spite you. You’re causing her an enormous amount of pain by having me here. She could live with you banging anonymous prostitutes, but this is different. You’re forcing her to watch you court me. You’re finally developing something resembling feelings for a woman—and it’s not her, and she’s lived her whole life for you. It’s got to be agony for her, every minute of every day.” As I say this, I finally start to feel a little bit sorry for Elizabeth.