This is bad.
“Time to play,” he sings out. He’s carrying a long chain with a tiny clasp at the end. He hooks it to the hoop in my clitoris and gives it a little tug, making me cry out in pain.
Sick bastard. Sick, evil motherfucker.
Then he unchains me and leads me, with cruel jerks of the chain, across the room to his little makeshift torture chamber.
When we get there, he chains me up facing the wall, with my arms over my head. There’s some play to the chains, which means he wants me to be able to thrash around. I don’t resist; the less I fight now, the less he’ll expect it when I finally do lash out.
He unclamps the little chain that was attached to my clit.
He grabs something from the tray table and shoves it in front of my face. It looks like a large vegetable that’s been peeled and carved into the shape of a curved dildo, with a thick clump of roots as a handle. The end of it is tapered and then it gets thicker and thicker, almost conical.
What the hell?
He leans in and kisses my cheek. “My brother did a lot of kinky shit to you, but he never took you up the ass. It will be my honor to pop that cherry. Today we’ll use the ginger root. Tomorrow it’ll be my big fat cock.”
Horror jolts through me. I struggle to keep my face blank as I press my lips together and turn to face the wall.
A minute or two passes. I hear him rustling around. I assume he’s putting on his hood and turning on the camera, but I refuse to look. I hear him talking to the camera. “This is called figging,” he announces happily to the camera. “The ginger root, on its own, causes an intense burning sensation when inserted into the anus or vagina. I fermented the ginger root for weeks to increase the potency of the burn. When the figging is followed by a whipping, we’ll have even more fun. Each stroke of the whip will cause her to involuntarily clench her inner muscles, clamping down tightly on the ginger and increasing the painful burning sensation exponentially.”
Sick horror churns my stomach. Hearing him describe the intimate way he’s going to violate me, in those gleeful tones, is torture.
Then he strides jauntily over and leans up against me. He’s wearing the mask, and he’s rock hard. “With lube or without?”
“With,” I mutter.
“I didn’t quite hear you. And a please would be nice. Or I’ll set Heather’s hair on fire.” He says it so calmly, as if he’s saying he’ll go fetch Heather a cup of coffee.
“Please give me lube.” I raise my voice and clench my fists.
He turns and calls out to the camera. “Hear that, Joshua? She wants me to lube her up and then take her ass. Well, it will be my pleasure.”
He walks away, and I hear things rattling on the tray. Then he returns and spreads open my cheeks with one hand, and drips something cold onto them. I feel a gloved finger pressing against my clenched rectum. He pushes hard, and I squeeze, trying to resist, but he breaches the ring. One finger slides in, which is revolting but not painful, but then he thrusts another finger in and spreads them apart, and a dull burn throbs inside me.
“You like it, baby?” he croons in my ear.
“No,” I grit. In response, he slides his lubed fingers in farther and pumps them in and out. He pauses and spreads his fingers even wider, and I jerk and grunt in pain. “Gotta open you up a little. You’re so fucking tight.”
He withdraws his fingers, but there’s only a moment of relief before something hard presses against my rectum and slides in. He works it in, twisting it, forcing it past my tense inner muscles until I’m gasping in pain. He doesn’t stop until the whole thing’s inside me, and then the burning begins as the fermented ginger sets my sensitive tissues on fire.
I gasp and press my face against the wall, waiting for the whip. Nothing could have prepared me for what’s coming next. The very first slash wrenches a scream of agony from me.
After being held captive by Joshua for all those months, my pain tolerance is much higher than it used to be. But this is red, screaming torture. As he whips me again and again, I scream myself raw. My howls bounce off the walls and smack my eardrums. Trickles of blood run down my back, and I can smell it. With every slash, I clench my ass muscles, just as he predicted, and bolt after bolt of pain shoots up my core. My legs jerk madly, and I’m gasping and sobbing and praying to pass out.
Pain, pain, pain…
Micah works his way slowly from the top of my back down, and it feels as if a lake of fire is being poured over me, from my shoulders to my hips. He stops at my ass, sparing that for now.
When he finishes, I am sagging on my bonds and crying helplessly. Blood runs down my back and splashes onto the floor.
“You pathetic…inadequate little prick,” I sob. “Your daddy would be so proud of you right now.”
He grabs my hair and yanks it until I scream.
“Leave the ginger in? Sure, princess. I’m going to go see if Heather will suck my dick for me. This whole session really made me hot. If you hadn’t mouthed off to me, I’d have taken the ginger out first. You want to be very, very careful when you’re talking about my family. That’s something of a hot button for me.” He smacks my left breast, and the piercing flares in pain.
“Got that?” He smacks it again, harder.
“Yes! Yes!” I scream, and he lets go and walks away. A minute later I’m forced to listen to the sound of him groaning in pleasure as Heather services him.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts… My back is raw hamburger.
Joshua. Please. Save me.
After what feels like a million years, he comes over and slides the ginger out, tossing it into the trash. My rear tunnel still aches like I’ve been speared with a red-hot poker.
As I slump against the wall, he walks over to the door and uses the retina scanner.
“Tamara,” Heather calls out weakly. “Hang in there, Tamara.”
She’s being so brave. Still thinking about me, right after she was raped and forced to watch my torture session. But I don’t have the strength to answer.
This will be my life every day until I die.
No. No. Joshua told me I was strong and brave. I’m not giving up. I lived through everything that Joshua did to me. I can live through Micah.
Chapter Five
Tamara
The minutes tick by, the drips of blood running slowly down my back. Meanwhile, I try to think about anything but how much pain I’m in.
My arms, stretched over my head, are burning, my muscles screaming.
I jump when the door clangs open, and my stomach clenches in fear. More torture?
But this time, Micah is accompanied by a woman who looks to be in her mid-forties, carrying a black bag. She’s pretty, with high cheekbones and pale blue eyes, and she’s got frosted blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. The roots have grown in, and as she gets closer, I see she has circles under her eyes. Those eyes go wide when she sees me.
“What the hell have you done to her?” she cries out in horror.
“I’d think it’s rather obvious, isn’t it? And it’s not your concern. You’ll clean her up and check on her daily to make sure her wounds don’t go septic.” He fumbles with my cuffs, and then I’m free. I stagger, almost falling, and brace myself with my hand pressing against the wall.
She looks at him with utter hatred. “You sick bastard.”
“Yes, I think we’ve established that. Why repeat yourself?” His tone is mildly puzzled.
She walks over to the sink, and I see there’s a hose on the cart next to it. There’s also a drain in the floor. She attaches the hose to the faucet and gestures at me to come over. Agonizingly, I obey her, but I can’t suppress my whimpers as she hoses down my back with lukewarm water, rinsing away the blood and washing out the wounds.
When she’s done, she sets down the hose and washes her hands and dries them carefully. Then she pulls on a pair of rubber gloves from a box sitting on the cart.
“You’re a doctor?” I say.
“A nurse. My name is Astrid Barnard. I’m so sorry,” she says in a soft voice as she sprays something cold on my back. “This is antiseptic. I’m also going to be giving you antibiotics. I don’t want to help him, but he’s holding me and three of my children here. And I don’t know where the other two children are right now.” She chokes on a sob as she speaks.
A fresh groundswell of horror sweeps over me and nearly drowns me. Children? He’s holding children hostage?
I’m going to find a way to hurt you, Micah. I’m going fuck you up so badly.
“I have to do whatever he tells me. I’m sorry.” Her voice is a hoarse, heartbroken whisper.
Tears fill my eyes. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault you were kidnapped by a nutjob. You do whatever you have to do.”
I twist around to look at Micah, who is standing close, looking bored. The movement costs me dearly; fire licks up my back, and I gasp in agony.
He can’t keep children prisoner. He can’t. He can’t.
Joshua, what the fuck is taking you so long?
Micah flicks her a look of annoyance. “Your children are living in the lap of luxury here. They’ve got video games and television and excellent food. They have nothing to complain about. Do they, Astrid?”
She looks at him with a flat, blank expression. “Would it do any good to complain? And you may call me Mrs. Barnard.”
I like this woman. I like her a lot.
She reaches into her bag and pulls out a can of antiseptic. She starts spraying my back, and I grit my teeth to keep from screaming from the sting.
“Do you want to know why I took her and her children?” Micah asks.
No, all I want is to cut your balls off and feed them to you. But I humor him. “Why?” the word comes out in an agonized grunt.
“Because her husband, Dr. Barnard, kept me prisoner in his mental institution for the last five and a half years.”
“They have nothing to do with this!” I protest.
“No, but I have my reasons for needing them to be here. And it also hurts her husband. So that’s a fun bonus.”
“For the love of God,” I beg him. “Please at least let her children go. After the way you were raised, how can you hurt children?”
Rage contorts his face, and he grabs my tender pierced nipple and twists, making me scream. “Don’t talk to me about my upbringing.” His voice is savage, his eyes mad. “You don’t know a fucking thing about it. And I have not hurt her children. I never hurt children. Ever. Ever. Ever.” His voice goes higher and higher with each syllable. Astrid stiffens and watches him with wary eyes.
He lets go and stumbles back a step. Panting with fury, he turns and runs from the room, slamming the door behind him.
He’s not like Joshua, I think dully. He has no control over his emotions. Maybe I can use that.
Astrid quickly bandages up my back. “I’m sorry,” she whispers again. I lean in, resting my head on her shoulder, pretending I need comfort.
“Are there guards?” I whisper.
“No, just him,” she whispers back so low I can barely hear her. And I feel a surge of hope. Astrid is a strong, brave woman, Micah apparently lets her walk around freely, and I have no doubt she’d kill him in a heartbeat if she got the chance.
“His brother Joshua—he’ll come for me. He’ll find us.”
“I hope so.” There’s not a lot of hope in her voice, but she manages a tight, pinched smile.
A minute later, Micah returns.
“She needs painkillers,” Astrid says in a quiet, deferential voice. “I have codeine in my bag.”
“Fuck that shit. I want her to hurt.”
“You want her alive, don’t you?” There’s a slight tremor in her voice, but she keeps going. Fighting for me, a woman she just met. I blink away tears of gratitude. Her kindness warms me in this cold place. “Pain impedes the healing process. Too much pain can send a person into shock and even kill them. Also, if she’s in too much pain, she won’t be able to sleep, and the combination of lack of sleep, her injuries, and the pain are going to weaken her body and increase the risk of infection.”
“Fine,” he snarls. She quickly fetches me two pills and gives me water to wash them down.
Micah leads me by the arm back to the bed. I’m panting out sobs with every step.
He chains me up, but at this point he wouldn’t even have to. I’m so weak from his whipping that I couldn’t fight a sick kitten. I very slowly lie face down on the bed and pray for the painkillers to kick in. The whole time, Heather’s curled up on her bed, watching me with blank, exhausted eyes.
Micah leaves the room with Astrid, shutting the door firmly. Astrid casts one sad, regretful glance through the bars, then Micah hustles her away.
After a while, I actually manage to fall asleep. It’s probably the codeine. I’m asleep for a few hours when Micah comes in to take us both to the toilet and give us lunch. His face has gone flat and blank again. Apparently he only comes alive when he’s about to hurt somebody.
I’m trembling all over when I walk to and from the toilet. He holds on to my arm so my legs don’t collapse underneath me. I hate the feeling of his hand on my skin, but without his support, I’d fall. Micah doesn’t say a word the entire time, for which I’m grateful. He holds out a handful of pills, and I take them. I’m relieved to see that two of them are codeine, because the pain has come roaring back.
When he leaves the room, I breathe a sigh of relief. His presence is foul and suffocating. He pollutes the air by breathing it. I have to force down the sandwich and apple that he brought me. I’ve no appetite at all, and my stomach threatens to rebel, but I manage to keep it down.
“You really believe Joshua’s going to find us?” Heather’s voice drifts over to me, dull and sad.
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“How will he find us?”
“I don’t know. He just will.”
“That’s it? You must have some idea.”
“No, I really don’t. He’s smart, he’s determined, he’s got resources, he cares about me. He’ll find us.” How can she not understand that he’s listening to us? Just because there’s no camera visible doesn’t mean that it isn’t here. A man like him would be watching us constantly.
“So you don’t know shit!” Heather’s voice rises, shrill and angry. “Damn it, Tamara! I’m here because of you! This is your fault! Tell me how he’s going to save us, tell me! I need to know what he’ll do to get us out of here!”
I make myself sit up, very slowly and painfully, so I can turn to face her. My back screams as I brace myself on the bed. I put my finger to my lips and tap my ear, to tell her to be quiet because we’re being spied on.
“Why are you telling me to be quiet?” she screams. “He’s not in here! Tell me how the hell Joshua will get us out, tell me, tell me, tell me!”
Months of living with Joshua have toughened me up considerably. Once I would have agreed with her, and I would have wept and tortured myself with guilt over what’s happening to her. Now I’m much less patient and I’m nobody’s emotional punching bag.
“Heather. It’s not my fault that Micah is a fucking lunatic. It’s not my fault he kidnapped you. And I’m not going to talk to you unless you calm down and lower your voice.”
In response, she glares at me and starts screaming wordlessly at the top of her lungs. She’s gone completely over the edge.
Very carefully and slowly, I turn my back to her and lie down on the bed again. Eventually, she runs out of breath. Then after a while, she starts crying, big gulping, heaving sobs.
“I’m sorry,” she wails. “I’m sorry. I know I’m acting crazy. I don’t have access to my meds here, and I’m going fucking crazy. You don’t know what he’s done to me. I’m so scared, Tamara. I’m scared all the time. Please don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” I tell her gently. “I’m going to try to sleep.” I close my eyes. The pills are starting to take effect again. Weariness swe
eps over me, and I struggle to fall back to sleep again. I know that Joshua will tear the world apart to find Micah, but after this morning’s session, I wonder if I’ll still be alive when he gets here.
Chapter Six
Joshua
It’s been six days. I’m woozy from lack of sleep, and from the effort of maintaining my focus, a task that was once as effortless as breathing.
I’ve relocated to California, to a very expensive and isolated rental home in Mendocino County. I’m expecting some guests, and while I wait, I’m searching through property records. Ruiz is here too. He’s taken a leave of absence from work and is staying half an hour away at a hotel I’m paying for.
It’s just as well that he’s not staying with me. Ruiz wouldn’t approve of my guests.
I desperately hope I’m in the right place. Ruiz managed to identify Charlemagne’s rental car, the one he drove out of the parking garage in Boston after he ditched his van. He gave me the information, and I hacked into traffic cameras and traced the car to a private airport in upstate New York.
Garrett kidnapped the owner of the airport and brought him to me, and I cut pieces off him until he told me where the airplane went. Northern California, where the Blackthorne Institute is located. Where Dr. Barnard and his family live. Apparently Charlemagne has been flying back and forth between Northern California and New York every week for the last six months.
Finding this out took time. Two days. Time I don’t have.
Every morning I get videos from Charlemagne. He’s killing her bit by bit. Killing her spirit, her hope, her soul.
This morning I got one that showed him cutting his initials into the bruised flesh of her chest with a box cutter. He’s using the initials MS—apparently he’s taken on the new name Micah Smith. That’s what he announced when he started cutting. “Property of Micah Smith,” he said from behind that mask. Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her cheeks, and she sobbed, making horrible, hopeless noises. She’s as white as a ghost, with dark circles under her eyes.
The Trials of Tamara Page 5
