by Linnea May
"You don't want to talk about this," I say, verbalizing what was meant to be a question as a simple statement. "But I'm unwilling to lay off just now, even if it hurts you, my toy."
This is all part of it. At least that's what I keep telling myself. Unraveling her, baring who she is, exposing the person underneath. To me, that means more than fucking her senseless.
"No, it's fine," she says, lowering her eyes before she adds, "It's just that... no one has ever asked me that before. About any of this. No one ever wanted to learn about... me."
Her words and the sorrowful way in which they're spoken fills me with guilt.
I feel guilty because I know why she's saying this, why she never met anyone who showed a real interest in her, why she's not used to being allowed to talk about herself. The men she's been with during the past few years were clearly interested in only one thing: her marvelous body.
I know, because I was just like all the rest.
I've been one of those men for as long as I can remember.
Chapter 25
Ruby
My insecurity surprises me. Why don’t I trust him when he says he wants to hear about these things? Why do I keep feeling like a bother, like I'm boring him to death?
Because that's what I've been led to believe my entire life.
That I don't matter. That none of it interests anyone but me.
He looks at me expectantly, his eyes attentive, and his silverware resting on the table next to the plate of half-eaten food. His chin is resting in his hand as he observes me, patiently waiting for me to continue speaking.
I almost feel pressured to keep talking, just so he can continue eating his steak. I feel bad for making him pause. He was right when he said that he knows how to prepare a piece of meat. This piece of filet mignon is one of the best things I've ever eaten. I can't say the same about the sides, and I want to remember to tease him about that later, if only to do something to incur the punishment that I crave so badly.
"Well," he says. "I do want to hear about this - and I'm growing impatient over here. Trust me, that's not what you want to happen."
I nod. "Yes, but-"
"Your sister is different than you how?" he cuts in.
I smile. I still don't know what to make of this, but it's hard to deny that his interest in my stories reaches a part of my heart that hasn't been touched in years – or possibly ever.
"She's very... put together," I answer. "She's married, has a kid, a job. She never did anything out of the ordinary."
"Did she go to college?" he inquires. "Is that why you wanted a degree - to keep up with her?"
I can't stop myself from laughing at his question. His assumption couldn’t be further from the truth.
"No, she didn't," I reply. "In fact, she made fun of me for wanting to go to college and get an education, just like my parents did. They all regarded it as a way for rich people to spend their money, nothing useful for 'our kind', as they called it. My sister graduated from high school, and then she started working right away as a non-retail sales worker. Her main goal was to make enough money as soon as possible so she could move out and have a life of her own. And she’s doing very well; she was promoted to supervisor the last time I talked to her. Climbing the ladder instead of falling after the first two rungs over and over again as my parents did."
I pause as I recall that time she left our family home. The time right after my sister moved out was probably the worst of all. I was fifteen and still had most of the high school years ahead of me. I was dreading every single day of it, especially now that I was faced with having to deal with my parents all by myself.
"I was so fucking jealous of her," I recall. "To get out of that goddamn house. I wish I could've gone with her, I even asked her if I could, but she didn't want me. I was just a nuisance, a burden that she didn't want. And I get that, I totally do. To be honest, I would have done the same thing if I'd been her."
"You're not mad at her for leaving you?" he probes.
I shrug. I've never really thought about it that way, because I could empathize with her decision too much to hate her for it. She did what she had to do, and in the end, her decision wasn't that much different than what I would have done.
"Maybe I was a little mad at her at the time," I admit. "But she's not the one to blame. It wasn't her responsibility to take care of me. She never asked to be born in that household, just like I didn't."
He nods, casting a contemplative look out the window. There are big french doors to my left that lead out to a terrace and the rolling property that belongs with this estate. For miles and miles, there's nothing but wide-open countryside, a green valley with trees dabbled across it in a random pattern. I have no idea where we are, but I doubt that he'd tell me if I asked. It's clear I wouldn't get far, even if I was able to escape the house.
Unless he's gone or... unconscious.
The ideas have occurred to me again and again. I have a knife in my right hand, a sharp steak knife. It surprises me that he thought of chaining my ankles together, but yet had no issue with giving me a knife. Did he seriously not consider the possibility of me stabbing him? Or does he just not think I'd have the guts – or smarts – to do it?
I've been studying the knife, playing the scene through in my head, wondering if I could reach him over the table, if I could be fast enough to get out of his reach when he tries to stop me. He'd have no trouble overpowering me if it came down to sheer strength. Once he gets a proper hold of me, there'd be nothing I could do. And there's no way to predict what he would do if I tried to hurt him or escape.
I might be too scared to find out.
"I understand what you're talking about," he says, pulling me away from my dark thoughts.
His eyes are still on the landscape outside, but his face is darkened by sorrow. I feel guilty thinking about potential ways of hurting him or getting away from him, especially considering how emotionally engaged he appears in our conversation.
"You understand?" I ask. "How so?"
He turns to me, a somber smile gracing his handsome face.
"I have an older brother," he explains. "And just like you and your sister, we're not very much alike, but each of us carried a burden very different from the other when we grew up."
"Burden?" I wonder. "Did you grow up in poverty, too?"
He scoffs, shaking his head. I knew it. I didn't think he was one of those self-made guys. He's too nonchalant about all the luxury that surrounds him to be someone who just recently acquired it. He's obviously used to it and has been in a financially comfortable position for a long time, most likely his entire life time.
"Poverty isn't the only hardship one can endure while growing up," he says.
Now I'm the one huffing with indignation. "Well, it is a fucking big hardship, I can tell you that."
"I'd never deny that," he says, angrily. "And I'm not trying to play a who-suffered-more game with you."
I feel dumb for implying that he couldn't have possibly suffered any hardships himself just because he grew up in a wealthy family. It's a simple-minded assumption that comes across as convincing all too easily.
"I'm sorry, I didn't want to-"
"I know we're not troubled by the same sorrow," he says. "In fact, our experiences are polar opposites when it comes to that whole college thing."
I cast him a quizzical look.
"You said you received little support when you decided to go to college," he elaborates. "For me, it was unthinkable not to go to college, because it was naturally expected of me, even though that was probably the only thing they ever expected of me."
"Doesn't sound too bad to me," I say, carefully. I'm still confused by all of this and don't know what to make of this conversation. It seems we couldn't be any more different, except for the fact that we're both the younger sibling, the one who feels like his or her burden was bigger than theirs. But there's one other thing we appear to have in common. Just like me, he doesn't seem to have any
one to talk to.
He smirks at me.
"I'm not trying to make it sound bad," he says. "I'm just telling you how it is. My older brother has always been treated differently because he's the heir to my family's empire, the one who's supposed to make sure our business will continue to thrive. Sadly, he's not very good at it."
"What kind of business is it?"
He looks at me, unsure whether he should confide in me.
"Construction," he says eventually. "My grandfather built the company, and my brother almost destroyed it."
"How?"
He sighs and shakes his head.
"That doesn't matter," he says, meaning that he doesn't want to tell me. Fair enough.
"What matters is that I was the one who helped him get out of the shithole he dug for himself," he continues. "And I'm the one who came out in a better position at the end, mostly because I'm not involved with his failing business."
My eyes widen in surprise. "You're not working for your family's business?"
He shakes his head. "I never really have. It wasn't what was intended for me."
"But...," I utter, gesturing around the room. "I mean... you're still...."
"Doing pretty well?" he completes my sentence. "Yes, I am, but it's built from my trust fund money and the compensation I received from saving my brother's ass."
He picks up his fork and cuts off another piece of steak, angrily stabbing at it.
"Construction has never really been my thing, anyway," he mutters before stuffing his face with food.
"So, what do you do?"
He looks at me, still chewing, and his facial expression changes to one I'm all too familiar with.
"You," he says. "As soon as you've finished your food."
Chapter 26
Loran
I'm not an idiot. I saw the way she eyed the silverware, the way her eyes darted back and forth between me and the knife in her hand. The way her face darkened every time she pondered potential chances to attack me, and her chances of getting out alive.
The ache these observations evoke in my chest is new to me, and I hate that it's even there. It shouldn't affect me the way it does. After all, can I blame her? She's not here according to her own free will, she's not getting paid for this, and she has no idea what I might have planned for her once I'm done with her.
To be honest, neither do I. I've become a complete living-in-the-moment idiot ever since I took her. She‘s like a fucking meteor, destroying everything in its path. I’m no longer the man I was, a man in control, a man with a plan. I've never been one to just wing it, taking each day as it comes. With her, it’s all I have done. She caught my attention without even trying, came along with me, albeit as a result of a confusion that neither of us realized, and been messing with my head ever since.
I shouldn't let this happen, and the only way I was able to make myself feel safe when I brought her up here for dinner was to tie her ankles together. I'll admit, I never even considered the possibility of her attacking me with a knife – attacking me period, for that matter – until I saw the look on her face as she held it in her hand.
Clearing the table, I can see the hope fleeting away from her as I move the silverware out of her reach as quickly as possible without making it seem obvious.
Her eyes follow my actions as I carry the plates and silverware over to the kitchen.
"Would you have gone through with it?" I ask, never looking directly at her, as I walk into the other room.
"Gone through with what?"
I load the dishes in the dishwater, leaving her wondering at the meaning of my words for a few moments as she waits alone at the table. She doesn‘t move an inch, but her eyes remain glued on me. Posing the question and then leaving her hanging was my strategy for preventing any further contemplation on attempting to escape on her part. If I hadn't distracted her, she might have started analyzing her restraints, maybe even going as far as testing them or searching around for some kind of object that could be used to help her escape.
"Stabbing me," I say, closing the dishwasher with such momentum that the abruptness of the sound makes her jump in surprise.
I return to the table, hands in my pockets in a move that radiates patience and calm.
"I saw the way you were looking at that steak knife, toy," I state evenly. "It was written all over your face. You can't hide anything from me."
I pause, enjoying the look of horror on her pretty face. Her hands are clasped in her lap, and she’s the image of sweetness and innocence the way she sits looking at me quietly.
"I'm just wondering, would you actually have gone through with it, if I'd given you the chance?"
"I didn't plan on doing anything, master," she says in a low voice.
She flinches in surprise when I dart forward, removing my hands from my pockets and closing them around her throat. My motions force her into a standing position as I pull her toward me.
"Don't lie to me, toy!"
She reaches up to her throat, trying to loosen my grip, but I know it's mostly for show. It may be uncomfortable, but she sure as hell is still able to breathe just fine.
"I'm not lying!" she insists. "I’m not saying that I never considered or the idea hasn't crossed my mind, but I didn't plan on doing anything. I’m being honest, master."
Her eyes flicker as she stares at me, her face contorted in a conflicting grimace of pain and determination.
"Because it has crossed my mind," she adds. "How could it not?"
She gasps out when I let go of her. She uses one hand to steady herself with the table since her balance is slightly off-kilter from having her feet bound to the chair. Her other hand reaches up to gently massage the area where I grabbed her throat.
Such a drama queen.
"So you have considered it," I confirm. "What an ungrateful little slut you are."
She glares up at me with fire flaming in her eyes. "Ungrateful?"
"You can't tell me you're not enjoying this," I counter. "You can't tell me you're not the one who comes every single day while tensing around my cock, the one who begs me to fuck her, the one who has experienced more orgasms than most will ever have during an entire lifetime just while you’ve been here. All of them orchestrated by me, your generous master!"
The blush on her face tells me there's truth behind my words.
"You said it yourself," I remind her. "You're doing this job because you enjoy it. Because you craved being treated like the little slut you are."
The look she shoots me is the fiercest one I've ever seen on her. Her cheeks are glowing a mad red, and her green eyes sizzle sinisterly. This is one of many moments when I’d love to see her natural hair color. Red. Fiery red.
"But this is no job," she hisses. "This is real. I'm in real danger."
"And you fucking love it."
She doesn't talk back, and before she can object in any way, I close in on her, wrapping my arms around her to make sure I'm in full and complete control of her when I kneel down to unfasten the cuffs to free her from the chair. She struggles in my arms, but her efforts are half-hearted at best, confirming she has no real intention of trying to get away from me.
Because she knows she can't. And, deep down, she doesn’t want to.
One of the cuffs is still locked around her left ankle when I pick her up to carry her over to the stairs leading to the basement. That's when she starts fighting me. She's struggling in my embrace, making it hard for me to keep my balance as I carry her across the living room. She's small and doesn’t weigh very much, but she's still a full-grown human being with a strong will and the vigor to match.
"No!" she shrieks. "Not back down there! Not yet! Please, let me stay up here for a little while longer. Please!"
I ignore her, only tightening my grip around her struggling body as I stagger down the stairs.
"Stop it!" I warn her, when she almost causes me to fall because of her silly attempts at fighting me off. "You'll kill us both!"
&n
bsp; "I don't care!" she protests, and before I know it, I'm reminded that I failed to take specific precautions into account with her yet again.
Her teeth dig into my left shoulder. It's bearable at first, but when she realizes this is not getting her anywhere, she intensifies the pressure on my skin, so much so that I'm sure she can taste blood.
I yell out, unable to fight my instincts as I let go of her. What happens next is something neither of us anticipated.
It's one of those terrible moments that seem to happen in agonizing slow motion. She's falling out of my arms, trying to stop her fall by grabbing for the railing on the side of the stairs. But there is no rail, only a flat wall.
I can see the expression on her face changing, overwritten by terror as she realizes she's about to tumble down the stairs, and there is no way for her to catch her fall.
And just as her facial expression changes, so does mine.
Furious rage and shock turns to worry, as I see her toppling down the stairs.
"Ruby!" I cry out, reaching for her.
My hand misses her wrist by only inches, and I'm forced to witness a greater horror, watching her plummet head over heels down the steps. There’s nothing I can do but watch.
Chapter 27
Ruby
He called me by my name. He's never done that before.
His voice still echoes in my head, that beautiful sound filling my heart as it fills my mind.
Ruby.
Ruby is my real name. I never considered taking an alias for my job. It's a part of me, what makes me the person I am. Why would I take a different name?
Until now, he refused to call me by my name. He didn't even want to hear it or know about it.
Those few seconds of free-falling seemed to stretch into an eternity. It seemed so long, in fact, that it allowed me enough time to envision what would happen to me once I landed at the bottom, the bones that would be broken, the possibility of having my head split open.
