Doll Face

by Sadie Grubor

  It's a command that my body is too eager to follow. The large hot tub immediately soothes any aches from my workout and from Saint fucking me. But as my body goes lax, my mind does not.

  In a short period of time, I've completely submitted to my captor. Logic sends up every red flag, alerting me to the insanity of it all. He hunted me down, took me, and kept me locked away in his penthouse. Then he brought me here, unleashing my terrible urges and twisted desires. And the entire time, I've allowed myself to sink into the promise of his dark manipulative devotion.

  I wait for the fear to take hold. The panic that usually works its way into my veins and muscles, pushing me to run, secure my mask, and protect myself. But it doesn't come. In its place is something far more dangerous and terrifying. My own obsession. With the very man who's uncovering my secrets, killed me over and over again, and left his mark so deep on my soul.

  Realization stirs the evil parts of me. Stretching through my chest, limbs, and causing a throb between my thighs, I turn and straddle my captor, my killer, my demon.

  "We have dinner plans." No matter his warning, his hands still come to my ass, squeezing as I roll my hips against him.

  Stabbing my fingers into his damp hair, I grip and tug his face to mine. His eyes widen with a mix of surprise and approval flashing in them. Crushing our mouths together, a deep sound vibrates his chest.

  Closing my eyes, I hum my satisfaction, but images immediately begin to play behind my closed eyelids. His knives, the feel of his hand at my throat, the way my body burns from just a look, how each touch leaves a mark, and the way he looked at me three nights ago, covered in the blood of the second person I killed. A person he delivered to me with a zip tie bow at their wrists.

  Without penetration, I drop my head back and grind down hard against his length.

  "That's it," he urges, "Use me. Take what's yours."

  My captor. My killer. My demon. Mine.

  I cry out as my orgasm crashes over my body, mixing with awareness and knowledge.

  Not only that Saint is mine, but that there is absolutely no question of how much it pleases me.

  Mei

  The next morning, I wake up sore and bruised, but a hot shower helps ease any discomfort.

  Walking the hallways and descending the stairs, everything feels different. Any hesitation or suspicion I'd once held disappeared overnight. I move with an ease through the house I hadn't felt until now.

  While these feelings are new and very dominant, there is still a small niggling of caution in the back of my mind. Warnings trying to go off in my head, it's too fast, too far, too much. Don't trust anyone.

  Pushing the mental struggle away for later, I enter the kitchen and find Jacob setting a place at the island. The smell of bacon, butter, and toast fill the room.

  "Good morning," he says around a smile, but, like yesterday, it feels guarded. He motions to the place setting, indicating for me to sit.

  "How do you like your eggs?"

  "I can make—"

  Sketch stumbles in and says on a yawn, "Don't give her anything sharp."

  He rubs his bare stomach, drawing my attention to his half naked body. Wearing only a pair of loose shorts, the waistband hanging low on his hips, he puts all his tattoos and toned abdomen on display. But it's the raised skin that takes my focus. Three long scars decorate the center of his chest. All of them camouflaged behind a large black skull tattoo with extended bat wings stretching over his pectorals.

  "Quit checking me out," he taunts.

  I avert my eyes, but want to ask if Saint gave him the scars.

  "I'm not trying to get tossed into the dungeon of death because you can't resist me," he continues.

  "It's not my fault you're walking around half dressed," I blurt. "If I look where you are actually covered then I'm left staring at where your vagina is located."

  Jacob coughs, covering a laugh.

  "Awww…" Sketch coos, a sneer curling his lip. "Look who's biting back again. Don't think just because you're probably the most fucked up person in this house that—"

  The slam of a metal bowl to granite makes me jump and draws my eyes to Jacob.

  Focused on Sketch, Jacob gives him an undeniable shut the fuck up look.

  "Whatever," Sketch grumbles, pulling open the fridge and leaning inside. Once he finds what he's looking for, he leaves in silence.

  "So, about those eggs?"

  "Scrambled," I reply, all too aware that their hiding something. I don't know what it is, yet, and I'm not sure I want to. But the warnings have returned, screaming louder in my head than before.

  Jacob doesn't make my eggs how I requested. No, he turned the scrambled eggs I'm used to into a culinary masterpiece.

  "I have no idea what you put in those eggs and I don't even care. Not even if it's heroin. They were amazing. Thank you," I praise his cooking.

  "You are very welcome," he gives a mock bow.

  While helping to clear my dishes and the pans, Jacob surprises me.

  "Everything is waiting on the back patio if you are interested, of course."

  Smiling up at him, I say, "I would love that. It's amazing how quickly you fall out of practice." Stretching my arms and rolling my shoulders, I walk to the set of French doors.

  "Yes, it is," he responds.

  Reaching the doors first, he pushes them open. I stop short just outside them.

  In only a pair of low slung sweat shorts, Saint stands at the center of the stone patio. He crosses one arm over his chest, curling his other arm under it to stretch the muscles in his extended arm. Then he repeats the warm up on the opposite arm.

  "Good morning," he greets dropping both arms and shaking them out at his sides.

  The sky is clear today, allowing the sun to highlight each rise and dip of his chest muscles. The black ink on his shoulders and pectorals look wet in the warm rays, and each abdominal muscle rippling with each move he makes.

  Clearing my throat and giving myself a small mental shake, I finally respond, "Morning."

  Locating the same gloves I used yesterday, I move to them. Warmth fills my back as I slip the red leather over my right hand.

  Brushing my braid over my shoulder, Saint plants his lips to the back of my neck. Instead of pulling away, he says against my skin, "You'll spar with me, not Jacob."

  Annoyance tingles over my skin. Remaining silent, I slide on the other glove and secure it.

  "Mei?" He presses, wanting confirmation.

  "And when you aren't around?" I ask, fidgeting with the closure on the other glove even though it's already secured.

  Large warm hands grip where my shoulder and biceps meet.

  "There's a workout room," he offers. "I'll have a punching bag installed."

  "I don't just punch," I retort, my annoyance leaking out. "That's why a sparring partner works best."

  His hands tighten and his mouth lifts from my neck.

  "I think skipping a day or two won't be detrimental," he growls against the back of my head.

  "And those times when you're gone longer?" I push, not knowing exactly why I'm forcing an argument before I go one on one with him in a match.

  "An unnecessary worry," he grounds out. "If it's more than a day or two, you'll be brought to me."

  I'll be brought to him. The words echo in my head. The thought of being put away like a toy until he's ready to play makes my blood pressure rise. Turning to face him, Saint takes a step back.

  "Different partners offer different…" I hesitate and then finish, "experiences."

  His jaw flexes and his gloved hands return to my biceps, pulling me closer.

  "In this partnership, there is only you and me."

  I snort, knowing damn well he could still turn to his wife whenever he pleases. While all I'm asking for is a work out partner.

  "No," I challenge, pushing my face into his. "There's only you for me, it's not the same for you." I shrug off his hold on my arms and finish, "But I'm only referring to spar
ring workouts. And when you aren't around, I'll do them with whoever is willing."

  Crossing his arms over his bare chest, he lifts a brow and curls the right side of his mouth up.

  "And don't go threatening people," I add in a shout.

  His grin falls, the eyebrow lowering to meet the other in a scowl.

  "Only Jacob," he concedes.

  "Fine," I agree, then add, "But don't force him to leave when you do or I choose whoever is willing."

  Brow still low in displeasure, a muscle in his jaw ticks. He doesn't respond, instead dropping his arms, he takes three steps back to the center of the patio and goes into a fight stance.

  Moving in front of him, I lift my fists and spread my feet apart. Our dance begins.

  "A personal shopper will be arriving this afternoon," he says as if we aren't throwing jabs at each other.

  "For what?" I ask, grunting when his fist catches my shoulder.

  "Conversation is distracting," Jacob scolds from the sideline.

  "For whatever you need," Saint says, ignoring the reprimand.

  "Raise your arm, Mei," Jacob instructs.

  I listen.

  "You mean clothes."

  "I mean whatever you need," he repeats.

  "So, tampons, girl razors, and wax are options?"

  My question distracts him and I land a punch in his side.

  "Good," Jacob praises. "But watch your aim."

  "Wax?" Saint asks, deflecting my right leg when I kick.

  "Yep," I retort, jabbing out and missing him.

  His brow lifts, wanting clarification.

  "To wax my legs," I answer, quickly adding, "And other places."

  "I see." His tone gives away his amusement.

  "I guess I'm not allowed to shop for myself." It's not a question.

  "Not right now," is all he says.

  Sending a jab at his head, he catches my wrist and yanks me forward. Instead of crashing into his chest, he sidesteps. Using his other arm, he bands it around my neck, pulling my back to his front.

  "Damn it," I grunt, grabbing at his forearm.

  He doesn't cut off my airway. The pressure is just enough to secure me.

  "You'll also need to choose a dress for an upcoming dinner," Saint says in my ear. "It's Felix's birthday and you will be at my side, along with another engagement before the party."

  I stiffen, remembering the last party he took me. Noticing the change in me, he releases my neck and spins me around. Recapturing me in his arms, pulls me against his chest, digs his fingers into my hair, and tilts my head back.

  His fierce hazel eyes lock on mine.

  "You will be at my side and Sketch will be there as well," he tries to reassure.

  Pursing my lips at Sketch's name, I deadpan, "Yeah that makes me feel better."

  The fingers in my hair tighten.

  "No one will touch you again," Saint promises. "I've made it known what you are to me."

  "Your mistress," I whisper. The words are more painful to say than I expect, so I wasn't prepared to hide the cringe on my face.

  "My everything," he corrects, slamming his mouth to mine.

  As promised, a personal shopper arrives after lunch and keeps me busy for over two hours looking through fashion books, taking measurements, and pictures. Saint makes one appearance informing the shopper that he will handle jewelry. He also, before making his exit, makes one requirement.

  "No panty hose," he states, "Garters only."

  "Would you also like to choose my underwear?" I blurt.

  "Preferably none," he retorts, exiting the room.

  The playful responses are a new development, so I'm left wide eyed and flush with embarrassment. The shopper simply smiles knowingly and soldiers on. At the end of our visit, the shopper accepts a list of personal items I created. She doesn't bat an eye or ask questions. Instead, she shoves it into a small portfolio and promises to return tomorrow.

  More exhausted than I thought possible from looking through magazines and books, I lounge back into the leather couch with the remote in hand.

  It takes me a couple tries, but I finally get the channel guide to come up. Scrolling through the cable channels, I accidentally hit the wrong button and bring up a show called Dexter. I'm instantly entranced by the duality of the character and his process, getting lost in the shows dynamic.

  "Uh oh, you've got competition," Sketch's voice breaks through a particularly intense scene.

  Twisting my head, I find Sketch and Saint standing just inside the room. I'm not sure how long I've been watching, but I am certain that my annoyance at being interrupted is evident on my face.

  Stepping down and entering the room, Sketch sits two cushions away. Settling in, he continues, "Someone has a thing for twisted fucks."

  Looking back to the TV, I lift one hand out toward him and flip my middle finger at him.

  A burst of laughter comes from him, but I move my attention to Saint when he says, "We'll be going back into the city tomorrow night."

  My muscles tense and I take a breath.

  "You'll be visiting your old hooking grounds," Sketch taunts.

  "I," Saint's voice raises, silencing him, "Have a meeting with a few of the men at the club." When he says 'the club', his eyes land on me.

  My throat suddenly feels hot and dry, so I just give a nod.

  Seeing my panic, Saint reassures, "You will be safe."

  Clenching my jaw, I bite back a snort and the urge to remind him how unsafe I was last time.

  My nightmare replays the night Felix shot Vicky. Only this time, she's dancing at the party where Arman attacked me and it's not Felix who's pulling the trigger—it's me.

  After a night of terrible dreams waking me up early, I'm filled with nervous tension and unease. Dressing in a pair of blue yoga capris, sports bra, and gray tank top, I decide the best way to get it out of my system is to work it out.

  Reaching the first floor, I find it quiet. It's not that there has been a lot of noise since we've been here, but this silence feels loaded. Like someone or something would jump out at any moment.

  Steeling my resolve, I cross through the large courtyard to the other side of the house and into the kitchen. This morning there is no Jacob or smells of breakfast. While my nervous stomach is thankful for the lack of bacon and eggs, I was hoping Jacob would be here to show me where to find the workout room.

  Returning to the courtyard, my eyes travel to a hallway I haven't walked. My stomach flips, a nervous action, but I chalk it up to my dreams and the anxiousness toward tonight's plans. Brushing off my panicky feelings, I make my way toward it.

  Reaching the far end, my eyes travel of their own accord to the stairs leading to the basement.

  I wonder if he's still down there, rotting away like the garbage he is.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I turn and enter the hallway.

  The first door is open, revealing a restroom. The second door is closed. Flexing my fingers a couple times, I reach out and twist the handle. It opens without effort to a linen closet and cleaning supplies. Closing the door, I rest my forehead to the wood and release a heavy exhale.

  "He said you can go where you want," I remind myself on a whisper.

  The words are supposed to reassure me I'm doing something or going somewhere off limits, but when I reach double wooden doors, it all flies out the window.

  Gripping both golden door handles, I hesitate before pushing them down, finding them unlocked and easily opened.

  It wouldn't be unlocked if the room is off limits.

  Even though it's not the workout room, a calm settles over me. The book filled shelves line two walls. A large dark brown wooden desk sits against a wall with a large painting and fireplace behind it. The other wall has two windows with a liquor shelf between them. In the far corner is a makeshift desk with computers and electronic devices littering the top.

  Sketch.

  Turning to leave, my eyes catch the familiar red yarn peeking out of a
box on the corner of the large desk.

  Why would he bring that here?

  Unable to resist the lure of my past, I take tentative steps and flip the lid. A warm feeling of home warms my belly.

  There she lays, black button eyes staring back from a dingy worn cloth face. Part of her smile has rubbed off and there's a black smudge near her chin. Lifting a hand, I let it hover just above the frayed yarn on her head. Her familiar face and all the memories she carries come back.

  "But the hair makes me hot," I whine.

  "You don't match without the hair, doll," my father says, fixing the red wig back on my head.

  "No," I shout, forcing myself back to reality and snatching my hand back.

  With quick, jerky movements, I grab the lid and close the rag doll away. My ears fill with the rush of my blood and pounding of my heart. Pressing both palms to the surface of the desk, I close my eyes and drop my chin. Breathing in through my nose and out my mouth, I try to restore some semblance of calm.

  Nervousness still tingling along my body, I lift my head on my next inhale. Exhaling, I open my eyes, and that's when I see it.

  Moving around the desk, I grab a black and white picture peeking out from beneath a manila folder. My reaction is instantaneous and the printed out article crinkles from the shake of my hand.

  Home. I stare at the house of my childhood and read the caption.

  Local House of Horrors. Authorities still trying to determine the body count.

  It's not the first time I've seen this photo. I came across it multiple times during my online searches at the public library. I really shouldn't be surprised to find it in Saint's office. He's not the type to rest until he gets all the answers he wants.

  Setting the article back on the desk, I pick up the folder and review the contents. Dropping it back on the desk, I take a step back. New articles fan out, but it's the photo of my father staring up, taunting me from the desk, I can't look away from.

  Local craftsmen of celebrated dollhouses and signature dolls believed to be involved in a more sinister craft.

  Gilbert Dandry suspected to be The Dollhouse Killer.

  Covering my mouth, I swallow a sob and blink back the tears.