by P. J. Fox
“Have you talked to him about your…feelings?”
“Oh, right. My feelings. Like what—like we’re in a relationship?”
“But aren’t you?”
“Are you insane?”
“One minute you say you want to leave,” Luna insisted, “the next you complain that you might have to leave. That makes no sense!”
They weren’t really fighting, but they were both animated. Belle was surprised to see Luna animated; in the short time she’d known the other girl, she’d come to think of her as a mouse who perpetually wanted to climb back into her mouse hole.
“Every interaction with another person is a relationship,” Luna insisted. “Friends, parents, whoever.” She paused. “You live here with him, sharing these apartments; is it such an outrageous idea that you might actually communicate?”
“Yes!”
“Why?”
“Because—because I’m afraid of him.” There. It was out. “Because I’m afraid that if I tell him what I’m really thinking, he’ll hurt me. He hurts people, Luna. He’s not a nice man.
“He treats women like objects. He openly admits to having other women in his life, and makes jokes—jokes—about the immorality of his work. I’m afraid that if I tell him the truth, he’ll decide to lock me in a dog cage after all and I’m just as afraid that if I do what he wants, he’ll think that he owns me and can treat me however he wants and—”
“I do own you,” came the cool response.
Belle jumped. It was Ash, standing perfectly still in the door, his expression dark. She hadn’t heard him come in, and had no idea how long he’d been listening. The idea was—beyond mortifying. Horrifying. There was just…no word.
He was dressed similarly to how he’d been the night before: trousers expertly cut from some outrageously expensive wool, a white shirt. Only this time his shoes were casual, slip on flats far too glamorous to be called loafers—her father wore loafers, and the man who’d sold them their car—and his sleeves were rolled up. He looked like he’d been working for a long time. He looked tired. Tired and…something else.
Angry didn’t begin to cover it. “I came up to check on you,” he said coldly. “I’d thought I’d surprise you. You see, I’d had it in mind to do something nice for you. Like bring you out for coffee, although I see you’ve had far too much already.
“But then I heard yelling,” he continued, “and stopped to listen.” His already unpleasant expression turned glacial. “Now, if you’re satisfied that you’re quite finished with verbally abusing Luna, I think she can go.”
Luna needed no further encouragement, scuttling out as quickly as a water beetle escaping a cormorant and leaving them alone to face each other.
“I wasn’t aware that your parents were in trouble,” he said.
She blinked, confused by the change in subject. “They are,” she said defensively.
“You hadn’t told me.”
“You hadn’t asked.” That urge to cry was back; she dug her fingernails into her palms in an attempt to fight it. She felt like a misbehaving child, being lectured by an especially cruel teacher. Her consciousness of her own guilt—she had yelled at Luna—only made things worse. And who was Ash, to treat himself as some moral authority? “You don’t care about me,” she accused, “only using me and hurting me and getting rid of me.”
“You sound grasping,” he said acidly. He placed his hand on the back of the couch, where Luna had just sat, as he continued to study her with that same glacial expression. “Is that what you’re afraid of, being without money?”
“You make it sound so tawdry, so sordid,” Belle shot back, “the idea of a woman being concerned about the state of her finances. I’m not afraid of being without money; I’m afraid of being without resources. Without friends. Without a roof over my head or food to eat and of having to prostitute myself to get by.
“You don’t understand, because you’ve always had it. The people you know, at least according to what you’ve told me, worry about having enough money to keep up with their neighbors or keep up appearances or keep up with their own vision of how their lives are supposed to be. I know it’s the fashionable thing these days, for the young ingénue to be so innocent and pure that she doesn’t think of money at all. Hardly, indeed, understands what money is for. Her lover, no doubt, tries to shower her with all manner of baubles and she refuses them, protesting that such things are irrelevant to the life of the heart.
“And they are irrelevant to the life of the heart. But there’s more to real life than romance. I got my first part time job when I was fourteen, so I could help my mother buy groceries. I got my second part time job—so I was working two jobs, while I was at school, when I was sixteen—so I could afford to buy shoes.
“I’m not worried about being denied a handout. I don’t want a handout. And I’m not the kind of woman who wants jewelry, either, or to live in luxury while she does nothing. That’s just—a dream. It’s not real. However long it lasts, doesn’t matter—don’t you see? I’d rather suffer, and slave, to build a real life than enjoy any number of goodies as some hothouse flower. What I want, what I’m being denied, is the right to forge my own path. To earn my own living.
“I don’t want to be dependent on you,” she finished, “or anyone.”
He sat down.
She breathed deeply, recovering herself. She felt as out of breath as if she’d just run a half marathon. He appeared as calm and collected as ever, although the expression on his face had changed. Become thoughtful.
Finally, he spoke. “All employees,” he said, “are dependent on their employers. And even the possession of wealth beyond one’s wildest dreams doesn’t free one from obligation—to business associates, to governments, to any friends and family one might have managed to retain and, of course, to oneself.”
She nodded slowly.
“I’m your employer. Your job is to entertain me.”
“And when my contract’s terminated?” Now it was her turn to be acidic. “Will you write me a recommendation?”
“What makes you think it’s going to be terminated?”
“You’ll tire of me eventually.”
“And if I don’t?”
She didn’t respond.
“I regret that you’re afraid of me,” he said. “And regret too that you feel no urge to share with me. Your feelings on the subject of your parents, or anything else. But,” he added, “perhaps that will change.”
He studied her. She studied him back. Outside, the wind had intensified. It sounded like howling banshees, beating against the walls.
“Belle,” he said quietly, “you have no need to fear me.”
“You admit that you consider me your property. You want to hurt me. From one minute to the next, I never know what’s going to happen—or what form of torture you might decide to inflict.” The tears were back. “How could I not?”
“I see.”
“Isn’t that what you want, honesty?”
“That one wants honesty,” he said carefully, “doesn’t mean, therefore, that one finds every honest statement equally pleasing.”
“And then—and then you’re going to put me in a cage.”
“What?”
“I saw the cage and—”
“Belle, I would never do such a thing.”
“How do I know that? You’re a sadist and…and….”
The tears came.
This time, she couldn’t stop them. She didn’t understand this man, she didn’t understand anything. She didn’t understand herself. The night before had been—terrifying—but more than that, too. And most of the day had been spent in that same dreamlike state of unreality that had defined her existence since her arrival here. But this…too much truth was like a slap in the face. She couldn’t bear to be so forcibly, and cruelly reminded that she had no control over her own life. And he actually looked down on her for being upset? For not wanting to just—what? Say, oh, okay, I’ll live here with you an
d be your concubine and be sweet and loving toward you no matter how much I hate you and pretend to trust you even though I don’t?
The girl—the girl who’d been put into the cage. What had happened to her? Was she even still alive? What did she think about all day? Was she sick? In pain? What did he do to her? Almost worse than the idea of constantly being used by some sick fuck was being forgotten about, left to rot, alone, in some dungeon….
She felt his arms around her. She leaned into him, letting him hold her. He was another human being and right now, that was what she needed.
Never mind that she hated him more in that minute than she’d ever hated anyone.
THIRTY
She met him for dinner regardless, determined to reassert herself after what had happened earlier.
She’d read an article once called Love and Stockholm Syndrome: The Mystery of Loving an Abuser. Despite such a florid title, the information it contained had been fairly interesting. One line in particular stood out, even now: patients are often amazed at their own reactions. And wasn’t that the truth; she’d cried, yelled, and laughed more in the past few days than she had in the past few years. Always skilled at keeping herself to herself, a wallflower by trade, Belle had been more astonished than anybody to see and hear herself do these things. What was wrong with her?
Freud identified the phenomenon long before a group of men robbed a Stockholm bank in 1973. Traumatic bonding was a common feature to many of the family dynamics he studied, wherein an ongoing cycle of intermittent reward and punishment created powerful emotional attachments that were resistant to change. In other words, even though a mother beat her son unconscious and locked him in the closet, he still loved her because once, years ago, he’d been sad after being bullied at school and his mother had taken him out for an ice cream. It wasn’t about the real nature of the relationship; it was about survival.
Belle was a natural academic and she’d often coped by going inside herself: when her parents fought, when her father disappeared, when they were forced to move again and again. When she began to realize, inexorably, that her life was on the wrong path. She did so now, sitting on the window seat in the small parlor and staring out into the gloom.
She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there; she didn’t care. Ash hadn’t appeared. She didn’t know whether he was early or late, as she hadn’t paid attention to when she’d gone downstairs. She’d gone when she was ready.
Bonding, Freud wrote, represented the individual’s response to the initial trauma of becoming a victim. To, for example, being captured and sold as a sex slave. The ego was a fragile thing and such life-altering trauma, without some sort of cushion to protect the mind and keep it intact, often wasn’t survivable. In the case of what had popularly become known as Stockholm Syndrome, the ego defended itself by identifying with the aggressor. When a victim shared the same values as his—or her—attacker, his attacker was no longer a threat but an ally.
So in essence, people tricked themselves into believing that they had hope.
But Ash hadn’t abused her. He hadn’t hit her, or yelled at her, or threatened her. Or locked her in a cage. And what had happened the night before…her insides still hurt. She’d think she felt better and then she’d move suddenly, forgetting, and feel another stab of pain deep within. Like a thousand scabs ripping open.
She didn’t know how she felt, only that she was confused. Confused and….
“I like that dress on you.”
She didn’t turn from the window. She was wearing a simple cocktail dress that hit just below the knee. Light, lilac-colored silk was banded at the hem with a darker color in the same family and again at the waist. The dress had a certain vintage appeal without being stuffy. Under other circumstances she might have liked it, too.
“Do you plan on responding?”
She turned. She still wore her hair in the same messy bun as earlier, and strands of loose hair framed her face. She wasn’t wearing more than eyeliner, mascara and lip gloss, and even that much had been at Luna’s insistence. Ash might want a charade, despite his claim to the contrary, but Belle didn’t.
Honestly…honesty was this. Honesty was what she’d said earlier, however much he’d disliked hearing it. Peep not through keyholes, lest ye be vexed, her grandmother used to say. So if he wanted honesty, she’d decided, he’d get it—and he could choke on it.
“If I didn’t,” she said, “I’d hardly tell you about it.”
“Fair enough.” He was being his usually chilly self, unmoved by her expressions of distaste. If the mask had cracked earlier, it was back in place now. He regarded her with a bland expression. Eventually, he held out his hand. “Would you care to eat,” he asked her in a similarly bland tone, “or sulk? Because if it’s the latter, I’ll have my food sent in.”
She stood up. She hated how he made her feel like a child. If she didn’t go with him, she was pouting. But if she did, she was treating him like some sort of—of parent. Either choice was unbearable; she was an adult woman and, moreover, she had the moral high ground!
She followed him into the dining room. He held the chair out for her. She sat.
The room smelled faintly of wood polish, and old things. The candles had been lit and smelled of beeswax. Someone’s ancestors glared down disapprovingly from the walls; not Ash’s, they were noticeably of the European persuasion although similarly tan in skin tone. Both he, and they, had aristocratic features; inbreeding was the same the world over, she decided. Aquiline noses and bloodless lips and sharp eyes and long, pale fingers.
The first course was served: some kind of chilled cucumber soup garnished with smoked salmon. Ash seemed to enjoy it. Belle thought it didn’t suit the weather.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
“Why?” She sipped her wine. White wine this time, but it still tasted like dirt.
“You’re shivering.”
“These clothes are ridiculous.”
“I think you look quite fetching. But you could have worn a sweater,” he pointed out.
“I don’t have one.” Yet. Most of her things wouldn’t arrive for another week.
“Would you like my jacket?”
“No.” She glared at her soup, as though the pale green liquid had offended her somehow. “Besides,” she added caustically, “I thought men such as yourself preferred their women naked? Parading around in tasseled pasties, perhaps?”
“I should, as a punishment. You’re being insufferable.” He sat back in his chair, and sipped his wine. He looked just as put out as she. And then, “what’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” She stared at him, aghast. “What’s wrong?”
“Yes. It’s a simple question, and you should feel fortunate that I’m asking instead of taking a paddle to you.”
“What’s—what’s wrong is that—”
How could she explain? How could she explain that she was angry with herself, disappointed with herself? For letting down her guard, for experiencing even a moment of pleasure with this hateful, evil man, this creature? For betraying her own principles and letting him—letting herself—think that any of this was alright. She was a prisoner, God damn it. What had she been doing, sleeping in the bed he’d assigned her? Chatting with Luna like they were girlfriends? Letting him—letting him touch her and—
“Come,” he said, standing up. “Now.”
“What?” she stumbled. She stared up at him, surprised. Surprised, and more than a little frightened. If she’d thought the expression on his face was thunderous before, it was murderous now. She’d crossed a line, and in that moment she knew it.
“I have something to show you.”
“I—alright.”
But before she had time to stand up on her own, he grabbed her hand and all but pulled her out of her chair. Leaving her no time to get herself together, or recover from this sudden change, he pulled her to him and, turning, marched her out the door and down the hall. Her shoulder was sore, from where he�
�d practically dislocated it. He seemed to know where he was going, seemed equally not to care how she felt about their sudden departure from dinner, and said nothing.
She, too, remained quiet.
She had the sensation of having made a horrible mistake.
THE END OF PART ONE
The story continues in PART TWO of The Prince’s Slave, BOUND IN HIS BED. Look for Bound In His Bed, available NOW from Evil Toad Press. In the meantime, P.J. Fox welcomes visitors to her website, pjfoxwrites.com, where they can learn the latest updates on her characters as well as on what she herself is doing (and writing). She encourages fans to contact her, and welcomes questions and comments of all kinds.
THE PRINCE’S SLAVE
Bound
In His
Bed
P. J. FOX
THIRTY-ONE
He pushed her into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. Then he turned and faced her. She swallowed, nervous.
“I can’t stand the suspense,” he said, “and neither can you.”
Her heart was almost pounding out of her chest. Suspense? What did he mean by that? Suspense over what? She swallowed again. Anxiety was a knot in her stomach as she stared at him. Waiting. She’d felt so brave, earlier. What had been wrong with her? Why had she antagonized him like that? God, she was so stupid. And now…and now….
“You’re frightened of me.”
“Yes.” The word was barely audible.
“Terrified, even.”
She nodded. It was true. She supposed that by egging him on she was trying to prove something to herself—prove that she was not frightened, that she still retained some kind of power, here. But that was an illusion, albeit an illusion she clung to and wanted desperately to be true. She was terrified of him. He was a terrifying man and he literally held her life in his hands. She’d been acting like someone who, having just been diagnosed with a terminal illness, decides to go skydiving and proverbially give death the finger.
