Deadly Captive

by Bianca Sommerland

  The possessiveness of his tone propelled me into rapture even faster than the brutal force that my body seemed to crave. I could tell he wouldn't be hard much longer, but I was close. So close.

  "Now, Lydia." A feral growl ripped out of his throat. "Come now!"

  I screamed and clawed at the sheets, at the floor. The orgasm tore through me, the explosion he'd wanted to feel from within. My bones seemed to melt, and only his arms wrapped tight around my chest kept me from collapsing face first on the floor. He went slack and slipped out of me.

  The room came into focus, and my breath hitched. I couldn't reject reality by squeezing my eyes shut; it jarred into my mind with vicious insistence. I couldn't be in that wonderful place with Joe. I was stuck here.

  Joe picked me up and carried me to the bed. He retrieved the sheets and covered me with them, petting my hair until I got hold of myself and looked at him.

  "There are other places I want to bring you." His gaze fixed on the wall over my head. "I know it changes nothing, but do you want me to tell you about them?"

  Clinging to the sheets, scooting up to rest my head on his thigh, I nodded.

  "Please." I managed to choke back a sob before he could hear it. "Just take me anywhere but here."

  Chapter Six

  "Do you know I've drained this bottle three times?" I lifted the bottle of tequila, the liquor that hit me the hardest and thus the one I was most determined to master.

  "Every time I put it away and go to sleep—"

  Joe sighed, looking over from where he'd been sitting in the corner in a lotus position, trying to drop into a soothing trance. "You mean pass out."

  I frowned at him and took a nice deep gulp of tequila. "Sleep," I said stubbornly.

  "I get up, and it's full again. Like magic."

  Giving up on his meditation, Joe stood and walked over. He snatched the bottle and helped himself to a mouthful before he spoke. "It's not magic. They come in and replace it. There's no great mystery involved."

  I giggled and slapped my hand over my mouth. Fighting back more giggles, I tried to look serious as I met his so-not-amused gaze. "So, they come in here and don't try to eat us?" I blushed, the words making me think of what Joe had done to me just the other night. "Not that I don't like it. I do . . . well, when you . . . ."

  Joe rolled his eyes. "Were you getting to a point?"

  With another attempt at seriousness, I nodded. "Yes. I was just wondering. Why don't they bite us?" I grinned and stood, wobbling as I grabbed the bottle from him and toasted my sheer brilliance. "It's all the alcohol! They must not like it."

  Letting out an irritated groan, Joe took the bottle and slammed it down on the table. He swooped me up into his arms, carried me over to the bed, and dropped me on it. "They like it just fine. If they didn't like it, the alcohol wouldn't be here. They probably approve of your attempts at mastering drunkenness."

  I looked at the bottle morosely, decided it was too far away, and lay back. "Them happy. We live. Works for me."

  Joe grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Well, it doesn't work for me. What if we have an opportunity to escape? You understand the need to stay in good shape, at least when you get past your hangovers. What do you not understand about the fact that dragging you along with me, piss-drunk, when the chance comes, will get us both killed?"

  I wrenched out of his grasp, suddenly stone sober. Damn him for killing my buzz. "It's not going to happen, Joe. They're gonna use us up until they get bored. And then they'll kill us."

  Bracing his fist against the bed, Joe dropped his head. "Are you giving up?"

  I shrugged. Abruptly depressed, I began to push off the bed. "Why not? Feeling sorry for myself will be fun. Maybe if I give up, they'll get it over with."

  Joe latched onto my wrist, swung me around, and jerked me back against his chest. Placing one hand on my chin and the other on my forehead, he tensed his muscles. "Tell me now, Lydia."

  I tried to struggle, tried to use my usually infallible technique. Joe's solid grip held me still, and, though my head had cleared, my body was suffering from the effects of the alcohol. "Let me go."

  Pressing his face against my hair, I could feel Joe shake his head. "No. I'm not going to watch them tear you apart. If you don't want to live, then at least give me the mercy of seeing it done quickly. Please don't make me watch that, Lydia. I can't—" His voice broke off in what sounded like a sob. But it couldn't be. Not from Joe. Joe was strong; he was emotional steel. He was what I wanted to be when I was lying in bed, weeping over the past I didn't have. He always held me, told me it was okay, that I had every right to cry. I thought I was pathetic. I didn't want to be a weak, broken thing soaked in tears. But Joe was my rock. I was sure he'd never break.

  I'd just found a crack.

  "Joe, let me go." I made the words as soft and gentle as I could.

  Joe eased his grip, but didn't release me. "Not unless you promise. Promise me you'll hold on. Just a little longer, Lydia. I swore I'd find a way."

  Relaxing back against him, I nodded. "I promise."

  Joe dropped his hands. I examined his face, shocked. There were no tears, but his eyes were wet. I collapsed against his chest, relieved when he enfolded me in his arms.

  He whispered into my hair. "Don't ever do that again."

  I shook my head as I held it against his chest. "I won't."

  We both stiffened at the sound of clapping.

  Cyrus stepped into the room, grinning broadly. "Fabulous. That was quite a show."

  Three men stood behind him. Three. My breath caught. I imagined what they would do. I wasn't sure I'd survive it.

  Cyrus gestured at Joe. "Boys, if you would."

  The three men passed Cyrus, coming to the bed. Two of them grabbed Joe; the third grabbed me. Wrestling fiercely to free himself, Joe went still when Cyrus stood in front of him.

  "Would you have done it, Joe? Would you have killed her?" Cyrus asked.

  Joe bared his teeth. "In a heartbeat."

  Nodding, Cyrus walked around Joe, and then reached out to take my hand. The man who'd retrained me stepped aside. Cyrus bent down to kiss my forehead. "I've missed you, Lydia. It's been a while." He nodded back at Joe. "So, what do you think of that? He was ready to snap your neck."

  I lifted my chin and glared at him. "And I love him for it."

  At a sound from Joe, strangled and desperate, I looked his way. He seemed shocked, then horrified. He shook his head. "Lydia, no! Don't! You don't know what you're saying . . . ."

  Creasing my brow, I shook my head back at him. I didn't get it. Why did it matter? Why would they care?

  "Now, this is very interesting." Cyrus looked thrilled. "And sweet, Lydia." He leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Do you think he loves you too? Shall we ask him?"

  "No! I don't love her! She is nothing to me!" Joe strained against the grip on his arms, his tone contradicting his words.

  Cyrus nodded and shrugged. Reaching under his red velvet coat, he pulled out a curved dagger and brought the blade to my throat. I hissed in a sharp breath. "If she means nothing to you, I'll dispose of her now."

  I closed my eyes. The blade lifted, just a bit. I knew he was poising for a clean slit.

  "No! Damn you, Cyrus!" Rage growled deep in Joe's throat, making his voice almost inhuman.

  I held my breath. Cyrus held the dagger still against my flesh.

  "Well, what is it, Joe? Do you love her or not? Do you love her despite her indulgence in alcohol? Despite her whining and ceaseless chatter?" Cyrus laughed.

  "Because I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

  Joe looked away from Cyrus and met my gaze. The answer was there, in the steel depths of his eyes. I saw pain there as well. But not physical. He was afraid of what would happen when he answered. "I love her because of it. Because of all her weakness and strength. Because, even with all the loss she's endured, she finds reasons to live. To survive."

  He faced Cyrus. "With all you've done, I've crav
ed your death, Cyrus, sworn I would see you pay. Know now, for this, I will see you suffer."

  The threat made Cyrus grin. "Delightful. I do hope you get the chance to attempt it, Joe. But for now, how about I earn your vengeance."

  The man that had held me retrieved the leather restraint jacket from under the bed. Cyrus held me as the three men forced it on Joe and dragged him back to the wall, chaining him there. Cyrus watched them, waiting until the men had secured the chains.

  Turning his back on Joe, Cyrus smiled at me. "You must be curious, child. Do you have any idea what I will do to you?"

  Licking my lips, I looked at the other men. Inhaling slowly, I swallowed and nodded.

  Cyrus followed my gaze and laughed. "Oh, that will certainly be on the menu.

  Soon, I think. But not tonight. Tonight is for a different kind of pleasure." Taking hold of the collar of my dress, he pulled it tight and sliced through the material with his dagger.

  The cloth fell to my feet. Hand around my neck, he forced me to my knees. Looking down at me, he shook his head and sighed. "So pretty. Beautiful even. Such flawless white flesh." The edge of the blade nicked my cheek. "I do hope the scarring isn't too bad."

  My blood seeped out of the shallow cut and dripped onto his wrist. I fought to stand as he slashed the dagger down the other side of my face. I hissed in pain, and then choked on a sob.

  Cyrus shoved me back and eyed me as I slid over to the wall, flicking out his tongue to clean the blade. I pressed my hands to my face, trying to stem the flow of blood. Hearing a grunt from Joe, I looked at him and saw he'd been gagged. Everything became very clear. I wasn't the one they wanted to make suffer. This was all about Joe.

  Rising to my feet, I dropped my fists, slick with my own blood, to my sides. The serrated skin on my cheeks stung, but it was nothing I couldn't deal with. In a way, it made me feel stronger, made me feel as though nothing they did could touch me. Now I had to find a way to convince Joe.

  Facing Cyrus, I said the first thing that came to my mind. "Pain is inevitable.

  Suffering is optional. Author unknown."

  He laughed, then cracked me in the jaw with his fist. My head snapped to the side, and I fell to my knees. "Is it really? That sounds like a challenge, Lydia."

  I squared my shoulders. "Given the choice between the experience of pain and nothing, I choose pain. William Faulkner."

  His eyes snapped, and he slammed his hand into the center of my chest. I hit the wall, but forced myself to stay my feet. He was on me again before I could brace for the blow. "Interesting game. I wonder how long you can keep it up."

  Catching hold of my hair, he dragged me to the wall of chains. With his arm braced against my neck to hold me against the wall, he lifted my hand high over my head. One of the men clamped a metal shackle around my wrist. When both of my wrists were bound, Cyrus released me and stepped back, watching as the man chained my ankles.

  "Funny how you remember nothing, Lydia, yet you recall quotations with that particular theme." He arched a brow, eyes trailing down my naked body. "I think you must like pain."

  "Pain is a sign that you're still alive." I said.

  One of the men came to Cyrus's side and offered him tray of hooks and scalpels.

  Terror froze my mind. I couldn't remember where I'd heard the quote.

  Cyrus selected a long, serrated blade and held it up, lips curving as he looked it over. "Or something that makes you wish you weren't."

  Cupping one hand over my breast as though to keep it out of the way, he held the knife like an artist holds a paintbrush.

  "Shall I show you?"

  The cut was clean, despite the blade's jagged teeth. He drew the knife along my collarbone, and then he set down the blade to take up another, this one straighter and smaller but just as sharp. He drew a curled line at each end of the cut. The blood coated my chest in seconds. Smearing a hand through the blood, he lifted it to his mouth, licking it slowly clean as he watched me.

  I stared at something just over his head, a phantom image of the sun. A fantasy, or maybe a memory. I envisioned tall grass, tickling my feet as I danced with my arms full of wild flowers. A gentle voice called out: Don't go too far!

  Children's laughter echoed around me as I spun around and around . . . .

  "Oh, no, you don't." Cyrus said. His fingers dug into my jaw. "Stay with me."

  He was so close I could have spit in his face. I resisted the urge, forcing myself to smile instead. "Didn't you tell me to follow Joe's lead, Cyrus? You enjoy finding new ways to break him. Are you giving up with me already?"

  Cyrus slapped me. My head whipped to the side. I kept it there for a minute, just trying to breathe. Cyrus threw back his head and roared a loud, off-pitch laugh. "Oh, I do like you. That's quite clever, Lydia." Shaking his head, he reached up with one hand, his other hand on my hip, and twisted me around in the chains so I faced the wall. "I do think I will enjoy seeing how long you can hold to this brave front."

  I heard movement behind me, a snap, then scalding pain. Something imbedded in my flesh. I gagged as the flesh of my back stretched and tore. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw the whip snake through the air. The hooked tip flashed in the light.

  Three strokes—each shredding skin into searing ribbons—battered my will to nothing. I ground my forehead into the wall and watched my tears mix with the blood splattered on the concrete. My vision exploded in a flash of white.

  Then I felt nothing. A cocoon of nothingness enveloped me. For all I knew, Cyrus had killed me. At least I'd spared Joe my screams.

  Chapter Seven

  Warmth caressed me like a summer breeze—no like the desert wind in Joe's oasis—then kicked up to a storm blasting hot sand. I rolled and let out a muffled cry, torn with agony. I had to find shelter before the sand skinned me alive.

  Something wet pressed against my forehead. I opened my eyes. Joe smoothed a wet compress down my cheek.

  I attempted a smile. "Hey."

  Joe's lips curved, but his eyes were troubled. "Hey."

  I lifted my hands over my head, immediately regretting the movement, and then left them there. "How long have I been out?"

  The question brought an unguarded grin of amusement to Joe's face. "Oh, at least a year."

  The choked sound that ended this proclamation informed me I had been unconscious a while. For his sake, I kept my tone light. "So, I guess, by your estimation, I'm either twenty or twenty-four now."

  Lying down beside me, Joe stroked his fingers down the side of my face, careful to avoid the scabbed flesh over the cut. "Hmm, well, from all these wrinkles, I'm thinking maybe I was off by a few years."

  I blinked and frowned. Any movement was painful, stretching the delicate new skin forming over my wounds, but I touched my cheek anyway. "I have wrinkles?"

  Shaking his head quickly, Joe took my hand and eased my arm down to my side.

  "No. I was kidding. Sorry about that. I thought you'd realize." Brow creased, he rolled over and sat up. Taking hold of a sheet, he tugged it up to my chin. "Try not to move too much. You're still not fully healed."

  The dark regret in his eyes made me feel guilty. I almost told him I could feel how far from healed I was, but kept it to myself. He'd take all the blame for my condition if I didn't change the subject.

  "I must look nasty . . . ." I cursed myself when he winced and decided not to mention the blood caked on my flesh or the scars. "I mean, I haven't washed in awhile."

  I sniffed and pursed my lips. "And I stink."

  He chuckled. "You don't smell any worse than when we work out."

  His laughter was the sweetest thing I'd ever heard. I wanted to hear the wonderful sound again, but I hurt too much to tell jokes. Instead, I tried to figure out a way to make him feel useful. I knew if I were in his place, watching him suffer would be hell. The pressure of my heartbeat throbbed against aching flesh that felt sewn together with the thinnest thread. All I really wanted to do was sleep—which gave me an idea.
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  "Joe." I carefully slanted my head, so I could see him without moving the rest of my body.

  Shifting closer, Joe took my hand. "Yeah?"

  I licked my lips. "I'm really tired."

  Joe nodded, set down my hand, and stood. "I know, but you should eat. Here, let me get you something." He went to the table and returned with a bowl and a small glass. "Have a couple of bites and something to drink, you'll heal faster." He had a spoon dipped in the mush before I could speak, covering only the tip so I wouldn't have trouble getting it in my mouth. Being fed made me feel like a child, but I knew I was in no condition to feed myself. Even opening my mouth tugged at the sore, tight skin around the wounds on my face.

  Swallowing the tasteless food with a grimace that made my eyes water, I accepted the glass he handed me, then took a sip of the milky sweet liquor that reminded me of some kind of nut. "Thank you, but what I wanted to say—" I inhaled roughly, trying to hide how much talking hurt.

  Joe gave me another mouthful, tenderly stroking back my hair. "Shh. Don't talk, Lydia. Just eat, and then get some rest. It'll take a while, but you'll get better." His words seemed as much for himself as for me, as though he thought, if he said it out loud, he could make it come true.

  "Yes, but I need your help. Just . . . ." I paused, inhaling slowly to minimize the pain. "Talk to me. Tell me about your past or . . . ." I closed my eyes, fighting back tears.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw an expression of doubt and sympathy pass over Joe's face. Brow furrowed, he remained silent for a moment, then smiled and nodded.

  "How 'bout I tell you a story?"

  I lifted the corners of my mouth. My body jerked. God, it hurt. "Just not Hansel and Gretel. Never liked that one."

  Joe seemed pleased by the admission. I realized now, any memory, no matter how vague and obscure, even the memory of a fairy tale, encouraged us both. It meant maybe, just maybe, one day I'd remember everything.