by Watson, Meg
Defeat.
“I... I need water, please,” I whispered meekly. My head fell forward and I fought the urge to lie down again. But I had been lying down for so long, I was numb. At least sitting, I knew I was alive because everything hurt.
He turned back to me after a few more long seconds, his arms still folded. When I tried to pick my arm up to point to my throat, I found it laying still and largely useless at my side. Like it wasn’t even mine. Like it was meat.
Rafe slipped through the doorway without a word and returned a few moments later with a large glass of water. It was startlingly clear and glittering in the glass. My mouth ached to taste it.
He held it out to me, and I shook my head softly. I tried to move my arm again, showing him how futile it was.
“I can't hold it. I can't even pick my arms up. I need help.”
He came close and sat on the edge, gently tipping the glass to my lips. I took slow sips at first like I knew I should, then took much more, letting the water spill from the corners of my mouth. I slumped back against his strong arm and let the liquid take me over. Vaguely I thought I felt his thumb stroking my arm affectionately, encouragingly.
“There now, slowly,” he cautioned.
I tried to slow but couldn’t. When the glass had been drained, I managed to rattle out a request for more. It was if I'd been without food or drink for years, my neglected stomach springing to life in a confusing combination of elation and stabbing cramps as I took down another glass.
By the time I finished the second glass, I'd begun to feel a bit stronger. He moved as though he was done supporting me and I shifted slightly, looking up at him with pleading in my eyes, hiding nothing.
“Please, Rafe. Let me go. I didn't... I didn't do anything.”
I thought I saw something then, flashing through him. His voice and face betrayed nothing. “You know I can't do that, Jolie. I do apologize for bringing you into the chapel.”
Chapel. I had heard the word before.
“That’s where I was? Where I woke up?”
He nodded slowly then took a deep breath and sighed.
“You were never meant to be here. Not like this. You must understand that.”
I shook my head.
If it’s a mistake, then let me go!
“Why are you doing this?” I pleaded in a whisper. His closeness was encouraging. If he was close, then couldn’t I make him understand? “I have to go. I want to go home. I... I need to go home.”
“That would be a shame, wouldn't it?” The first hint of a reaction—a slight smile tugging at one corner of his lips. “We were just getting to know one another. I'm quite enjoying you being here.”
Enjoying?
I could feel the anger bubbling up inside me again. I shook my head slowly. “I don't want to be here. I don't c—care.”
“Where is Rachel?” he said yet again.
I shook my head in defeat. He didn't want me. He wanted the drugs. Or Bronson did. I wasn't sure anymore. Did it matter? She'd burned a few people, it'd make sense if someone wanted to beat her up or rob her or something, but this was too much.
“I’m not herrr,” I mumbled, the words going thick on my tongue.
“I know, and it doesn't matter, Jolie. It's...” He checked his watched. “Mm, yes. Just about time for you to head back to sleep, don't you think?”
I leaned toward him a little. “What do you mean? I j-just woke up. You just woke me up.”
That familiar jolt of fear, the tightening at my chest. “You're not going to stick me with the needle again, are you? Please, please, don't—”
My eyes felt heavy, and I swooned. I began to fall toward him and off the table, but he placed a strong hand just beneath my shoulder before I slid out completely.
“There you are. None of that. Sweet dreams, Jolie.”
Sweet dreams. Such a lovely thing to say...
I wanted so badly to be angry—to thrash and scream, to hit him as he gently laid me down. All I could manage was a weak sigh of the word “water” before I began to drift off completely. He'd drugged me again, and I had drank it down gladly, cradled in his arms like a child.
CHAPTER 4
What I found beneath me when I woke was quite a bit different from whatever they had me strapped to before. It was soft, yielding. I realized almost at once that it was a proper bed, a pillow under my head and all. I felt oddly grateful, despite everything.
With a groan, I turned over on my side. The world stayed still, to my surprise, and I stayed awake. Maybe I was getting used to coming out of the murky fog of whatever they used to drug me now.
I quickly realized that my hands weren't bound when I turned over, and brought them up to my face with a small smile. “That's... better.”
The room was half-dark, silent. I seemed to be alone. Listening carefully, I waited for some sound somewhere to indicate Rafe or Bronson was close. But nothing.
How many times had I woken up in a strange place? Dozens. That part was almost laughably normal. Recently I had woken up for weeks on one or the other of Rachel’s several sofas, sometimes with my cheek stuck hard to the plastic covering. I’d woken up on the rigid, long benches in the Greyhound station before that, or curled in booths at diners.
Before Aunt Rinna’s antique farm bedroom, I had woken up between cousins on long car rides, and on a row of dining room chairs at my grandmother’s house. When I was younger, I’d woken up on couches during some grown-up parties at friends’ houses. Some of my first memories were of waking up curled around my little brother in his bed, peering at the slice of light under the door when the hall switch flicked on. And earlier than that, or maybe at the same time, I remember waking up under my bed, confused and lost, knocking my head against the furry felt of the box spring when I pushed myself up. How did I get there? I never knew.
Waking up in this bed was almost luxurious. The sheets felt smooth and silky against my heels. The down comforter was so heavy it was almost like a lover on top of me.
I curled inward, making a few weak attempts at sitting up before giving up for the moment, and tried to focus my eyes on my surroundings instead. It was obviously a woman's room, and I pushed sludge around in my brain to dig up the name they'd mentioned when I first awoke.
Gretchen.
This was Gretchen's room. I waited patiently while my eyes adjusted slowly, but I could eventually make out some basic details. I was in a large bed - queen size at least - with a dark wood headboard carved with lilies and vines in tiny detail. A huge bureau stood against the wall to my right with a leather side chair next to it.
The walls were mostly bare, but for an oval mirror in an ornate gold frame over a small, modest dressing table. Still the room was feminine, almost palpably so. It had a spirit in it. Maybe a scent.
Rubbing my eyes hard, I heaved myself to sitting and pivoted for the side of the bed cautiously. As my feet hit the floor, I heard the distinct rattle of a chain being stretched. I felt the weight of the tight clasp around my right ankle, and gave a little shake of my foot. Disappointment curdled in me somewhere.
Still?
I'd taken for granted that I would've been completely unbound when I woke up with the use of my hands. I glared at the dully gleaming links. But at least now I could move.
My body felt rubbery and unfamiliar. I raised my arms tentatively over my head, stretching. As the muscles elongated they seemed to invigorate, and I sighed in relief. It seemed perverse and terrible to be thankful for anything then, but I couldn't help it. I loved the feeling of the cold marble under my feet. I loved it that I could feel anything.
Slowly, I shuffled toward the white, flowing curtains in the corner. A breeze must have been coming through and they waved slightly. Inhaling deeply, I tried to smell the night air and thought I caught just a whisper of peaty mud.
Springtime. Did the weather change so soon?
My toes pressed carefully against the tiles as I inched forward, not confident my legs were going
to hold me up much longer. I could feel my knees too loose in my skin. With tentative fingers I reached out to the flowing, silk panels and drew them aside, then bit back a groan of disappointment.
Bars.
The black metal design curled around in complicated floral and braided shapes, a cruel imitation of the beautiful headboard design. What a strange way to keep someone in, I thought, behind something so lovely, so fierce. My fingers traced the design, pressing one of the spiked ends hard against my fingertip, just to feel the edge.
A wave of dizziness and nausea suddenly flowed through me and up, like water sloshing in a jug. I steadied myself against the bars and let my forehead fall against the cool, hard iron. After a few moments, the feeling passed and I gulped deep lungfuls of outside air into me.
Squinting into the dark garden, I tried to see if there was anything of note outside. Nothing out of the ordinary caught my eye—no landmarks, no vehicles. A grassy hill flowed down to a row of trees that looked like it might line a road or a drive, so far away that it was just a hazy shadow. Beyond that I couldn’t see anything.
The courtyard could have been in any one of the dozens of estates that ringed the city. This was a county of old money, when there was any money at all. It was a beautiful garden, I could tell even in the cool darkness. Topiaries stood out against the charcoal sky like curved spikes. White statues huddled like ghosts on their pedestals.
From where I stood, I could see across to the other wing of the house, though there were no lights or indications of any activity. All was quiet. I couldn't even begin to guess how far I'd been taken.
Turning back to the room, I stared at the door. I knew it was locked before I could even really make out any of the features, but it had to be worth a try. As I shuffled toward it, I could see that there were definite deadbolt housings. Four of them, and not new. Someone had spent a lot of time in this room before me, and apparently she wasn’t allowed out either.
I gave a single, sad tug, and then dramatically moped back to the bed. Nothing short of a tank was going to take the door down without a key. But strangely, I felt slightly comforted by the walls, the locks, and the bars. It was like I had a place. Not a rolling gurney or table or whatever I had been on before.
Yeah, like I finally got my own room.
A cell.
But at least it was defined. It had furniture and hard, square edges. It had locks and a cold floor. And it had a breeze that smelled like spring.
Stronger now, I reached down and tugged at the chain that curled from my cuffed ankle and along the floor, ending at the heavy, solid footboard. The final link of the chain was bigger, bolted through a tunnel in the wood and secured with a padlock. Someone had thought of everything.
Sighing, I brushed a curl of my hair back from my face. Then stopped and pulled it back in front of my eyes, sniffing deeply.
Oh god... it's clean.
My hair had been stuck to my face before, soaked with oil and sweat from the terror of being taken. It was as wavy and full as ever now. I touched my face, my arms. My hands wandered down my hips and I stared at the nightgown that covered me in disbelief.
Someone… bathed me. Dressed me.
He bathed me.
The thought was completely bizarre, and the prospect flashed through my mind like a video montage. Passed out in some tub, being washed down? The image in my head wasn't like any prison scrub down. It wasn't quick, or utilitarian. I imagined Rafe sliding the cloth over my skin, cleaning me like some prize. Cradling me in his arm like when he let me drink from the glass. I saw his fingers in my hair, massaging the shampoo through, gently cupping water in his hands and rinsing it from me.
The visions felt a little too real to be fantasy. Maybe I'd been awake when he bathed me, and I just couldn't remember it.
I should be terrified.
But somehow, I wasn’t. I was clean. I had a bit of that homely satisfaction I sometimes felt at Aunt Rinna’s after some chore was done well: this is clean now. Did that come from him? Was it part of the memory?
Struggling, I tried to push aside a pervasive fog, to see if I could remember more clearly. Did I know? I couldn’t tell, but I didn’t have an echo of fear or anything like that. It was like a dream, almost, that I had forgotten but I knew it wasn’t a nightmare.
I could remember water. I could almost feel the heat and the gentle rocking as the warm liquid moved around me. Where was I? Was I with him?
The image slipped away from me and I shook my head, cursing. It was so close, so almost there. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, tried to feel it again. That warmth. The feeling of being cradled.
Yes, he’s there.
I felt his arm behind me, a soft voice in my ear. I felt my hair being tugged as it was cleaned, pulling my head back. I was so comfortable. I heard myself sigh, felt the twang and swell of warmth between my hips, between my legs as my knees fell open...
This is fucked up, Jolie. You should be terrified.
I heard the click of approaching footsteps, followed by the the hard, loud thunk of the deadbolts being unlocked. My heart absolutely soared for a moment before I remembered that the only thing that could come through that door would be trouble of one kind or another.
Rafe?
Instantly I chastised myself for getting excited at the prospect of Rafe coming through. He was the one keeping me here, though it was definitely preferable to whatever Bronson had in mind. I was sure of that much, at least.
The heavy door slid open, and Rafe slipped through, letting the only barrier between me and freedom creak and thunk shut loudly behind him.
“Ah, you're up. I hadn't expected you'd come around so soon.”
I glared at him, though I wasn't sure he could see my expression. I could certainly see him, my eyes having adjusted to the darkness of the room long before he entered. I spoke with just as much venom as I could muster.
“Me either, to be perfectly honest.”
“Yes, well... that was unfortunate, true enough. But it was necessary. There will be no more of that, you have my word.”
I watched him carefully as he walked in, stepped to the back of the wardrobe and brought the chair out, then sat in it. With my legs folded beneath me where I sat I knew I seemed too subservient, but I wasn’t sure I trusted my legs to get me to standing.
“I’m chained,” I said, the outrage perhaps too plain in my voice.
Try to make him like you this time, Jolie. Try. Please.
“My apologies,” he said, sounding like he meant it.
“Why am I chained?” As much as I wanted to, I couldn't stop my indignation from spilling out. “There are bars on the windows, locks on the door… Why bother?”
One shoulder rose and then fell in a small shrug.
“It seems you are stronger than you look,” he said simply.
I couldn’t help the smirk. What did that mean? What did I do?
Act like you’re flattered.
“I’ve been told that,” I replied, my eyes level with his. He seemed to have adjusted to the low light and cocked his head slightly, nodding. I felt like our gazes connected precisely across the darkened room.
“Why am I here?” I asked, my voice very small in the huge room.
His lips pressed hard together and I saw the muscle jump at his jaw again. I knew that expression: constrained displeasure. I needed to try something else.
“What are you going to do with me?”
His gaze seemed to harden for a moment before he relaxed, a strange sort of peaceful smile spreading over his face. “That depends entirely upon you.”
“Me?”
“Your... level of obedience.”
My obedience?
“What do you mean? You haven't commanded me to do anything—not since, er...”
“Ah, so you remember.” He leaned back, basketing his hands in his lap.
“Well, of… Of course I remember,” I whispered. I could hardly hear myself over the rising sound of my heart be
at.
“Then you remember the rewards… For your obedience?”
I said nothing, quaking where I sat like a trapped rabbit.
“Answer me!”
His bark was as loud as it was sudden, and I leapt to a crouch, wrapping my arms around my knees.
“Yes! I remember!” I admitted, the knowledge sour in my stomach. My thighs quaked insubordinately. My body remembered, even if my mind was trying to forget.
“Directions, Jolie,” he reminded me in a cool, controlled voice. “All you have to do is follow my directions. It’s really very simple.”
“So... if I'm obedient, what happens? What if I say no?”
He sighed impatiently as though my denseness was wearing on his nerves. “Let’s come to an understanding: If you're a good pet, you'll be rewarded. If you're difficult, you'll be punished. It's as simple as that.”
“A pet?” I spat, unable to stop myself. His face hardened to marble.
Just agree, Jolie. Just try. It may be your only chance.
I tried to correct myself, to appear like I was considering it. I stared at his hands the way I had in the bar, my hair falling softly over my cheeks as I stood to face him.
“That’s more like it,” he said in a low voice.
He stood from the chair, tugging his shirttails down efficiently before striding toward me. I remained stock still, my eyes downcast, my fingers twisting the thin fabric of my nightgown.
I shifted a bit as he circled me. As much as I hated to admit it to myself, I knew I would do it. Being entirely at his mercy, my fate entirely dependent on how submissive to him I would be... I didn’t know. It seemed… too wrong. Did I even have a choice? My heart flopped around in my chest like a wounded bird.
But he didn’t say he would let me go.
“I don't… I don’t think I like the sound of that,” I whispered timidly. “I still don't even know why you're keeping me here, and you want me to be obedient, like some... pet?”
