The VIOLENT Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Linnea May

  Done.

  I saved myself from immense disappointment, and cannot help but smile as I carry her inside, eagerness building in my gut for the actual reveal.

  Chapter 5

  Liana

  I feel as if I’ve drowned in a big puddle of mud, immersed in a numbing darkness that pulsates inside me and around me like the heart of a giant beast. When I try to open my eyes, they refuse, as do my limbs when I try to move. They lay limp and heavy on the ground, as I realize that I am sprawled out on a wooden floor, unable to move or even see where I am.

  There is no sound and no light, but there is pain. I have a blazing headache.

  As I try again to open my heavy eyelids, I realize they are covered by something that’s been wrapped around my head. A soft and warm piece of fabric that’s pressed tightly against my skin, pushing my eyes shut and only leaving a small slit right below my mouth to allow me to breathe.

  What the hell is this? What happened? Where am I?

  I want to verbalize all these questions, but I can’t. When I try to speak, I’m suffocated by the same scarf that’s keeping my eyes shut. I need to get it off of me.

  A strange-sounding groan leaves my mouth when I send another command for my arms to lift. This time, they obey. My hands feel as heavy as dumbbells when I move them up to my face to remove the blinding scarf. I expect there to be light once I manage to unwrap my head as well as I can without lifting my tired and throbbing head, but there is hardly any. I’m still consumed by darkness.

  I find myself staring around a very dimly lit room when the scarf is removed. The only thing I can see clearly is a ceiling far above me, and a pitch of the roof to my side. A single light bulb is dangling from the ceiling and providing what little light there is. It provides nothing more than a low glimmer that helps me recognize contours and vague orientation of the room around me.

  Wherever I am, it’s in a room on the uppermost floor of a rather old building with high ceilings and a wooden floor.

  I remain on the floor, as if my body was nailed down to it. A terrible sense of foreboding sends trickles of fear through my veins, and it forbids me from moving.

  Where is this? How did I get here?

  I lazily turn my head to the side, only to find an empty wall about three feet away from me. There is nothing there, only a wall.

  But then I notice something.

  I’m not alone.

  I hear another breath joining the faint sound of mine.

  I roll my head to the other side and almost let out a shriek of panic when I see him. Suddenly, my entire body is painfully awake and my mind suddenly aware of the danger I might be in.

  I jerk up to a sitting position so suddenly that I escape unconsciousness only by a whisker. An aching vertigo claims me as I tumble backward until my back is brushing against the empty wall, and I hold up one hand in a silly attempt of protection.

  A short and violent cry fills the room as I try to cope with everything at once, the confusion, the pain in my head, that fucking dizziness, and the realization that there is a strange man sitting at the other end of the room.

  Who the hell is he? Did he bring me here?

  For what seems like an agonizingly long time, we just stare at each other while tense silence stretches between us. My eyes needed a while to get accustomed to the dim lighting, but now that they are, I cannot only detect the shape of the man sitting across from me, but I also get a better picture of the room we’re in. It’s small, the roof sloping on three sides, and there is only one very small window, which appears to be closed with a shade on the outside. An attic, that’s what this must be. I am in someone’s attic.

  Probably his attic. The man is sitting on the floor, less than ten feet away from me, his legs crossed and palms resting on his knees, and his dark eyes are fixated on me. Even in his sitting position, I can tell that he must be rather tall, and powerfully strong. His shoulders are broad, and his upper arms stretch the material of the gray shirt he’s wearing, his muscles forming prominent lines.

  All things considered, I have to admit that he is stunningly handsome. His dark eyes, thick eyebrows, and defined cheekbones give him a very sharp and mature look, even though he doesn’t seem to be that much older than me. A peppered stubble graces his chiseled jaw, and strong, dark strands of hair partly hide the left side of his face, as he wears it in a casual side-swept. It’s hard to tell many details under these circumstances, but I know that he is shockingly gorgeous. He would have taken my breath away anywhere else, but right now he does nothing but scare the hell out of me.

  “Who are you?” I croak.

  My hoarse voice breaks the silence between us, and even though it was nothing more than a whisper, my question comes out awfully loud and intrusive. I almost wish I hadn’t spoken.

  He doesn’t reply, but I can see the hint of a smirk fleeting across his face.

  Does my misery amuse him? Who is this sick bastard?

  Instead of answering my question, he continues staring at me, the expression on his handsome face changing from a mischievous glare to a smile that frightens me even more.

  I flinch when he suddenly rises to his feet, his impressive height towering over me.

  “Beautiful,” he says with a deep, but low voice.

  “Perfect.”

  Chapter 6

  Joseph

  This must be the best one yet. Her horror seems so real, so raw and natural. It’s easy to forget that most of this is all an act. Her widened eyes when she gazes through the room speak of nothing but fear and confusion, and they are set in the most beautiful face I have ever had in my house.

  She looks younger than I expected, way younger. I usually order them slightly older than me, because that is what I typically go for. Older women with experience, mature enough to make responsible decisions, but still physically firm and young enough to be attractive and keep my attention. Her file said that she was in her early thirties, but her face looks like that of a girl in her early twenties.

  It’s been less than ten minutes since I placed her unconscious body on the floor, already coming to know the feel of her in my arms as I carried her up the stairs from the car. She is shorter than I expected, and not very heavy. I did nothing but bring her up here and lay her down on the floor. While I’m haunted by a wide range of twisted thoughts and ideas, necrophilia is not among them. I take no joy in abusing her body in this helpless state.

  I need her awake to fully enjoy her. And I want to be there with her to watch her when she opens her eyes for the first time.

  My heart skipped a beat when a subtle motion and an even fainter moan suggested she was about to regain consciousness. The drug only acts for a very limited time, but it’s hard to shake it off completely right away. Even with that knowledge, it was a joy to watch her struggle as she slowly comes to herself and fights to get the scarf off of her face.

  I held my breath when she finally revealed that face I have been so eager to see. My eyes are fixated on her every breath as she takes in her surroundings for the first time, her eyes locked on the ceiling above her in a blank stare as her scattered mind tries to make sense of her situation. Even when they know this will happen, they are still shocked to find themselves actually here. Nothing can prepare a person for this, nothing. They only understand after waking up in a dark attic, lying on the floor with nothing but the things they had with them when I took them.

  Just as required, she is dressed up beneath the red fur coat, wearing a dark ladies’ suit with a tight-fitting skirt that is driving me crazy. The protocol dictates that they wear stockings underneath that skirt, and I can’t wait to see them as I push up her skirt for the very first time.

  Soon.

  It only takes her a few moments to fully regain consciousness, and she’s back with a bang when she sees me sitting next to her. I suppress a chuckle as she jumps up like a frightened deer and scuttles away from me until she can go no further.

  And then she concludes our first enc
ounter with the perfect question.

  “Who are you?”

  Next to “Where am I?”, this must be the most often posed question for a victim to ask their kidnapper after waking up from a drug-induced slumber. What a good girl she is, playing the part to perfection.

  The girls are instructed to act as if this really happened out of nowhere, unexpectedly. Not all of them stick to protocol, though. More than once I’ve had to put them back into place, inflicting enough terror to make them realize that this is not a joke. It’s not a silly game between lovers who got bored of each other in the bedroom. There is no breaking character, no escaping, no joking when you forget the lines. None of that.

  This one, Ruby, appears to understand that. I like her already, despite her earlier misconduct. My slave training follows the carrot-and-stick policy: every misstep will be followed up with punishment, while compliance will be met with a treat.

  The fear written all over her young face turns to panic when I stand up and rise to stand above her, my eyes never leaving the shivering and scared little person she has turned into.

  “Beautiful,” I say. “Perfect.”

  They are never able to appreciate a compliment when they first enter this dark world of captivity under my roof. Ruby, just like so many before her, only furrows her eyebrows, her tiny nose wrinkling as if she’s confronted with an unpleasant smell.

  “You will call me Master,” I announce. “Do you understand?”

  Her eyes widen with a new wave of terror.

  “What?” she gasps. “Where am I? What is this?”

  Her voice is trembling, and her face turning into a grimace as if she’s about to cry.

  She’s brilliant.

  “Tell me you understand,” I tell her. “You will call me Master. Understand?”

  A horrified gasp escapes her lips when I approach closer, taking only one single step.

  “Why would I…? Who the hell are you?!” she hisses at me.

  Okay, now she’s taking it too far. I want to put her in her place, but I can’t break character either. I won’t remind her of the contract she signed, the contract that clearly states she’s giving up any freedom and free will while she’s my captive. That contract also stated how she is to address me, and I don’t feel like spelling it out to her again.

  I dart forward, too quickly for her to react before I get my hands on her. She shrieks in horror when I pin her against the wall she’s been leaning up against, grabbing her by the throat without actually choking her, and using my other hand to keep her held in place. She’s too shocked to fight back, her terrified eyes fixating on me as she comes to terms with the fact that there is nothing she can do to escape my grip.

  “Do you understand?” I repeat my question, emphasizing every word.

  She whimpers and her lower lip begins to tremble, her eyes watering with despair.

  This I can work with. Raw terror and desperation. She’s good.

  I tighten my grip around her throat, pushing her further back against the wall, while moving my face so close to hers that I can feel her anxious breath on my skin.

  “Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, yes, yes.”

  She hesitates, leaving a moment for the first of many tears to roll down her delicate cheek.

  “Yes, Master,” she adds.

  I smile at her.

  “Good girl.”

  Chapter 7

  Liana

  What the hell is happening to me? I’m so confused, overwhelmed with questions and an anxiety that runs deeper than mere bewilderment about my current situation and how I got here.

  This is fucked-up on so many levels that I don’t even know where to start. When he comes at me, his strong hand clutching around my throat just enough to send a warning without really hurting me, I’m not only horrified because he’s threatening me.

  I’m not just afraid of him - I’m afraid of myself.

  I should be nothing but terrified, I should scream for help and at least try to fend him off, until I can’t fight him. I should cry, I should kick him, I should head for the door and try everything within my power to get out of this room, to escape.

  That is how I should feel.

  Scared. Horrified. In panic and tears.

  I should not be excited about this. I should not be turned on.

  Nothing about this is appealing. I was ambushed, drugged and kidnapped to a spooky attic, and am being held down and intimidated by a daunting stranger.

  A man who looks like a fucking god.

  A man whose hand feels alarmingly good braced around my throat.

  No!

  I close my eyes, trying to shake off those sick thoughts.

  What is wrong with me?!

  “Look at me!” he barks, as soon as my eyes shut.

  I oblige immediately, met with his dark gaze right in front of my face. I can’t help it. He looks fucking gorgeous.

  Did someone set this up for me? Is he being paid to fulfill a fantasy so dark that no one ever dares to explore it?

  Is that why I can’t be entirely scared of him? Because I don’t believe it’s real?

  But who would do such a thing? No one even knows about those twisted dreams I’ve had. No one knows that I’ve been fantasizing about something like this for years. No one but Luke, and I’m positive that he has nothing to do with this.

  Unless this is his way of punishing me. Did he hire someone to make this come true, only to scare the hell out of me and show me how sick I am for wanting this?

  Is that it?

  My stream of thoughts is interrupted by a sharp pain when the man, who I am to call Master, lifts my face up to his while still holding my throat.

  He looks at me, wondering, waiting, studying every inch of my face. I have never been looked at like this before. There is an intensity to his gaze that is new to me, and for the first time in my life, I begin to understand what people mean when they say that someone’s look is piercing. He observes me with such depth that his gaze feels like a touch, just as much as his hand does.

  “Now, you will listen to me,” he whispers. “From now on, you’re mine. You’ll do as I say, no backtalk, no objections, no arguing. It’s as simple as that. You’ll forget everything you were outside of this house. Your name, your friends, your family, your hobbies. You’ll just exist to please me.”

  He pauses for a moment, waiting for me to react to his insane demands, but I don’t give him anything but a blank stare.

  “You no longer have a name,” he adds. “From now you’ll just be Pet. My Pet. Understand?”

  Again, he pauses, waiting for my reply. I suggest a nod, but can’t move my head enough, because he’s still pinning me firmly in place.

  “Yeah,” I croak, annoyed at the weak sound of my voice.

  I thought this is what he wanted to hear, but instead of a pleased smile, he squeezes my throat even harder, taking my breath away for real this time. I moan in pain and my arms fly up, instinctively reaching for his arm in an attempt to get him away from me. Of course, this is futile. He doesn’t even flinch or acknowledge my defense in any way, but his pressure doesn’t loosen.

  I can’t breathe! He’s going to choke me!

  I want to warn him that he’s actually hurting me, that I will faint any minute now, if he keeps this up. Maybe that’s what he wants? Is he trying to kill me?

  But just when I feel actual panic emerging, he lets go of me, withdrawing his hand from my throat, and ready to catch me as I collapse forward, coughing and gasping for air.

  “What did I tell you to call me?” he asks with a calm and steady voice, entirely unfazed by my desperate struggle for air and the obvious pain he inflicted upon me.

  Shit. This man is seriously disturbed.

  I try to speak, but I can’t. My throat is sore from his violent treatment and I am caught in another coughing fit as I try to give him the reply I hope he’d rather hear.

  “Master,” I finally manage to utter. “Master. You said I should call
you Master.”

  He’s holding me by the shoulders and sets me upright with a gentle push. My chest is still heaving in abrupt bursts, when I look up at him, met with a stoic expression that makes my blood run cold.

  “That’s right,” he says. “When I ask you to do something, you don’t say ‘Yeah’, you say, ‘Yes, Master.’ Understand?”

  I cast him a sinister look. This is ridiculous. He must know that. Why would I just agree to any of this before he gives me an explanation?

  “Where am I?” I ask. “Who are you? Did Luke send you?”

  He furrows his eyebrows and lets out an angry growl that is probably supposed to scare me. But I only react when he squeezes my shoulders, a subtle yet effective warning on how much power he possesses over me.

  “I am losing my patience with you,” he hisses through gritted teeth. “And trust me, you don’t want that to happen. So, let’s try this again. You will listen to me, obey me, please me, and you will address me as your Master. Do you understand?”

  The grip on my shoulders intensifies. I squint, fighting an internal struggle between defiance and fright. I have no need for further pain, but I also refuse to just go along with his ridiculous demands before I get an explanation as to what this is all about.

  But maybe the only way for me to get an explanation is to go along with his wishes. For now.

  “Yes, Master,” I whisper, lowering my eyes in defeat. “Yes, Master. I understand.”

  Chapter 8

  Joseph

  I’m inclined to call her a good girl again, but decide that she doesn’t quite deserve that yet. She’s been more of a struggle than most, if not all, of her predecessors.

  And who the hell is Luke? If this was some guy from the agency, shouldn’t I know him? I assume it must be someone who is only known to the girls, but is never in contact with the clients.