by Rebel Hart
In the distance I can spot gazebos, a tennis court and putting greens for golf. Sprinklers are sputtering away as they mist the perfect green grass. I can only imagine what expensive cars must rest behind the garage doors. They really have it all.
The yard is huge and well-kept with big, perfectly trimmed trees. They lead me past brick walls covered in sprawling ivy and manicured hedges up to the thick white columns and large brick steps leading to the front door.
The manor towers above us as we approach the entrance, my neck craning to make out the multiple balconies and rooftop patios. I hope to god we aren’t headed for one of those spots once we’re inside. One drop down from any of them and I’d be a dead woman.
We enter into a foyer with high vaulted ceilings that are covered in ornate gold leaf patterns that match the crown molding. A large chandelier sparkles up above the wide spiral staircase. It’s more classic than I expected, but I guess it makes sense since they are such old money. I imagine the Hendersons’ mansion is more modern.
I am too taken in at the sight of it to say a single word as they lead me up the stairs and into a bedroom. Each door we pass on the way reveals another spacious room perfectly decorated with giant velvet curtains draped across tall windows. The hallway is lined with expensive-looking paintings and sculptures. I have never been in such a nice house before. Every room I’ve seen so far even has its own fireplace.
They say nothing as they file me into one of the bedrooms, before promptly leaving and locking me inside.
“Just wait here,” Emmett calls out from behind the door. “I’ll be back soon enough.”
“Great,” I grumble sarcastically. I’m still for a moment, in shock from the sheer size and decadence of the house. I quickly begin to look around the room, hoping to get some clue as to exactly where I am.
I recognize the backpack thrown on the floor in the corner, but I quietly look inside to confirm. The name scribbled across the notebooks and homework assignments tells me I was right. This is Emmett’s backpack, meaning this is probably his room.
I scan the framed photos scattered across his dresser and nightstand, confirming once again that he’s featured in each one alongside smiling friends and family. I even spot one of him and Malcolm together. They’re younger. Probably close to the same age they were in the photos Malcolm kept in his glovebox. It tugs at my heart.
Why would Emmett keep this around after deciding he was too good to be close friends with him? What if what Malcolm said was true? Emmett’s just as trapped as any of us are. That would at least make me feel better about the way I surrendered to his touch in the car, which I am still reeling from.
There’s something intoxicating about being in his room, especially when he’s not in here with me. I feel like I could learn so much about him and uncover so many of his truths, if only I knew where to look first. And if I wasn’t terrified of them returning at any second and catching me.
His room is nothing like other teenage boys’ rooms I’ve been in. It’s missing the musty dirty sock and sweat smell, but that’s probably just because they have maids. Even still, it’s meticulously neat. In a way that seems impossible even with hired help cleaning once or twice a day. I speculate on what this could mean. Is he a sociopath? OCD?
Even his trashcan is spotless, only littered with one fresh apple core.
I realize I can’t remember the last time I’ve eaten. I’m kicking myself for not grabbing something from that McDonald’s before heading home. That was the last chance I’ve had to eat since the Elites dragged me out of the lunchroom this afternoon. I’ve been running on nothing but adrenaline ever since.
The smells of popcorn and simmering dinner from home rush through my memory. I wonder how long they’ll keep me here. Mom and Brendan will wonder where I am. I hate the thought of them worrying, but I can only hope that somehow saves me.
The door flings open again, sending me stumbling back innocently to the center of the room as the three of them re-enter with a pair of handcuffs in hand.
They’re silent as Emmett walks over and handcuffs me to his bed, staring straight into my eyes the entire time. I wish more than anything that Trey and Vincent weren’t standing right behind him.
The smell of his cologne fills my nose as I feel his hot breath bearing down on my neck. That smell is one that has haunted me. One that strikes both fear and arousal deep inside.
It’s completely fucked up, but there’s something incredibly erotic about him chaining me down in his room. It shouldn’t be so fucked up. All sorts of regular couples do kinky shit like this, but Emmett’s history of being rough with me makes it twisted. I can’t help but admit that it somehow only makes it sexier to me. Maybe he has just completely worn me down.
“What are you doing?” I ask finally, reluctantly breaking the spell within our locked eyes. I imagine we’re both thinking the same thing. I can see the desire glinting across his eyes.
“My father has put me in charge of watching you twenty-four-seven,” he explains casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “Your dad still hasn’t responded to any of our messages, and his time is running out.”
“How much time is left?” I try asking again, recalling that they refused to tell me when they first put me up to this and started tracking my every move.
They still don’t answer. Probably just another power move, just like the blindfold. The only reason they could possibly have for not just coming right out with their deadline is to fuck with me.
“We’re gonna go check in with the old man,” Trey grumbles as he and Vincent turn to leave the room. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he winks disgustingly.
Emmett watches them leave with an excited but subtle grin, making a point to shut and lock the door behind them.
“This isn’t necessary,” I tell him as he turns back toward me. “You don’t have to handcuff me. I’m not stupid enough to try and escape. I know you’d catch me.”
“I have to do what my father tells me,” he explains, not seeming too upset about it. Stirring up Malcom’s words once again. I decide to try and play to this supposed good side he promised me is there.
“You always have a choice, Emmett,” I beg. “You’ve done terrible things to me, but I know I’ve seen a glimpse of something good. Or at least I’ve wanted to, anyways. You don’t have to do this. You could help me and they’d never know.”
“It’s getting late,” he sighs, ignoring my pleas. “You want to sleep on the bed? You’re already on it after all,” he winks, eyeing my cuffed hands.
“You’re sick,” I bark back, my heart turning back over with hatred for him. I knew Malcolm was wrong about him. “I’d rather die than sleep anywhere you’ve slept.” I let the sting of the words hang between us, wishing they sounded truer.
He pounces on me, pinning my cuffed hands beneath his hand as he towers over my body sprawled across the bed. His grip causes the cuffs to cut into my wrists against the hard bed frame.
“You’re hurting me,” I gasp with a squirm beneath his hold.
He’s unconcerned. If anything, he’s turned on. His nostrils flare as his eyes light up in anger and lust. His hand moves up to my neck, lifting my chin up to him. I blink and stare straight back, ready for whatever comes next.
All at once he takes my mouth to his, still fuming and breathing heavy as our lips crash together. I bite his lip defiantly, too hard, causing him to jerk back for an instant. But his hands quickly secure their grip again, jerking my head back to the center of his attention.
“You bitch,” he growls, licking his bright red lip.
I soften under his stare, closing my eyes and leaning up again to invite him in for another kiss. He obliges, more gently this time, moaning into my mouth.
We melt into each other, losing ourselves as our tongues explore each other’s mouths. This is all I’ve been able to think about since I ran from him in the classroom the other day. The drum of my heart picks up again, taking me
back to all the fantasies I had of him in my bed. Everything that was stirred up again in the car ride here. Only this time, we’re completely alone.
His hands trail down my arms that are chained behind my head, not breaking his mouth from mine as they travel down my chest. I groan as he gropes my breasts, unconsciously spreading my legs wider.
Suddenly, he stops himself. He pulls back in a frustrated gasp, looking at me helplessly. He looks just as powerless to this as I am. And for the first time, I realize if he is only obeying his father’s orders, how much easier all of this would be for him if he wasn’t so inexplicably drawn to me. I guess we could both say that.
He is pulled back down to me, perched next to me on the edge of the bed. His hand runs through my hair in shocking tenderness.
“Why are we so attracted to each other?” He asks breathlessly, his eyes lingering on my lips as I wonder if he’ll give in and dive back down for more.
I can’t answer him. I’m suspended in lust, wishing I could hate him as I know I should. If I can’t have that, I just want him to take me. Just get it over with. But he’s fighting it just as hard as I am.
In my silence, he moves back to the edge of the bed, collapsing his forehead to his hands in exasperation as he tries to collect himself. We sit like that for a long time. Unable to move, I am completely at the mercy of whatever he decides to do.
I swear I can feel his breath on my skin even though he’s all the way at the other edge of the bed. I want more than anything for him to come to me. Take advantage of our situation. Have his way with me. I don’t know what’s stopping him. Maybe he only wants me when I’m resisting. I consider telling him I don’t want him the way I have in the past. Maybe that would pique his interest again.
My thoughts halt as my stomach growls.
“Emmett, I’m really hungry,” I finally speak up reluctantly, wondering if he’ll exploit it to further my torture or if he’ll actually try to help.
“It’s late,” he says again, running his hands back through his hair. His eyes are bloodshot, and I can see how tired he is.
“My lunch got interrupted, remember?” I remind him bitterly, crossing my legs, closing myself back off to him.
“I can’t help,” he insists bluntly, staring at the floor.
“Don’t you have chefs or something?” I scoff. “You could just tell them you want a late-night snack. And bring it to me instead.”
“And when I leave you alone,” his brows raise, cutting his eyes back over to me, “what then? I’m not the only one in the house. You know that. Those other guys are like vultures. They’ll be at my door the moment I leave your side, trying to get at you.”
I’m quiet for a moment, taken aback with his concern. “I’m surprised you care,” I hiss, jingling the cuffs behind my head. “You’ve watched those two try to feel me up before and did nothing to stop it.”
“Shut up!” He snaps, jumping to his feet and hinting that I’ve struck a nerve.
I decide to continue trying to appeal to his nicer side. “I’m sorry,” I lie. “I’m just hungry, like I said. Starving actually. It’s making me cranky.”
He looks over me again, looking hungry himself. But in a different way. “Maybe I can take your mind off of it,” he suggests coyly.
I want to be intrigued, but it’s no joke. “Emmett, if I don’t eat something soon, I think I might pass out.”
“Well, you won’t go far,” he jokes coldly, nodding to my position on the bed.
“You fucking asshole,” I gripe, turning my head. No matter how hard I try, he never fails to remind me that there can’t be another side to him. He is nothing beyond the guy who has tortured me. Who continues to torture me.
He sighs in exasperation. “Alright, hold on,” he says with an irritated tone. He goes to his dresser and fumbles around in the second drawer, pulling out some sort of small electronic device. He opens the door and attaches it inside the lock and then moves a switch on a small remote around.
“What are you doing?” I ask, craning my neck to try and see.
“Making sure no one bothers you,” he assures me, trying something on the lock a few more times. “I’ll be right back.”
I can’t tell if I have physical symptoms of emotional whiplash or if my neck is just aching from the suspension of my arms dangling from my hands. One minute he’s as cold as ice. The next he’s worried for my wellbeing. Or maybe it’s just that he sees me as his property. He doesn’t care what happens to me, as long as he’s the one to do it.
Some boyfriend you’ve found yourself, Ophelia. And he’s not even that. He’s Vivian’s boyfriend. He’s just my kidnapper.
My eyes grow heavy as I wait for what seems like forever. I jump at the sound of the door, worried Emmett’s contraption failed and someone else is coming in like he warned. But he appears with a tray of fruit in his hands.
“The cooks are gone for the night,” he explains, taking a seat next to me. “This is all I could rustle up.”
“I’m so hungry, I don’t care. I’ll eat anything,” I state anxiously, moving my hands forward in anticipation. But he shows no signs of setting me free.
Instead, he takes a grape between his fingers and holds it to my lips.
“What are you doing?” my face twists in disbelief. “You’re seriously not going to uncuff me long enough for me to eat?”
“It’s more fun this way,” he says mischievously, brushing the grape to my bottom lip, begging for me to open and let him feed me.
“This is ridiculous!” I protest, clenching my jaw shut tight.
But his eyes spark with that same strange tenderness. The one that keeps popping up suddenly out of nowhere and surprising me. A bead of moisture drips from the fruit across my lip and down my chin.
My stomach growls again, forcing me to give in. I part my lips slightly, letting my tongue brush the cold purple surface as he moves it closer into my mouth. The taste of it is too much to refuse. I unclench my teeth, letting him inch it in so I can take a bite. He watches intently, continuing to feed me slowly and sensually for what feels like hours. First grapes. Then strawberries.
I don’t want to be turned on by it, but I am. Like everything with him. He stops every so often and runs his tongue along the edge of my mouth, collecting the juice of the fruit as it pools.
Once the tray is empty, things get awkward and silent. We’re both breathing heavy, weighed down by all of the sexual tension and staring at each other with expectant “what now?” expressions. But we say nothing. Afraid to ruin it.
Finally, he stands and leaves the tray on the top of his dresser. He pulls some pajamas from the drawers and looks to me, as if he’s about to say something. By the way he eyes my clothes, I think he might offer me something to sleep in. But he stops himself. I don’t know why it’s so hard for him to be kind and decent to me. Even offering me food has to be done on his fucked up terms.
“Well, we really should try and get some sleep,” he grumbles half-heartedly. He knows that’s going to be impossible. We’re both too riled up and anxious about everything that’s happening.
“How’s this going to work?” I concede. “Where will you sleep?”
“The floor,” he replies, pulling some spare blankets and pillows down from his closet.
I have to admit I’m disappointed that he plans to sleep on the floor. I’ve already come this far in surrendering to him. He might as well put me out of my misery and finish the job. But more than that, I’m afraid. I wish I was home. I don’t know what kinds of fucked up things tomorrow has in store for us. I just want to be close to somebody…anybody for comfort.
“Emmett?” I call out softly after he’s turned out the light and settled into his sleeping bag on the floor. He doesn’t answer, so I try again. “Could you come to the bed?”
“That’s not a good idea,” he answers in an almost whine. For once, maybe I’m the one torturing him.
“Why not?” I persist. “I would just…I’d feel bette
r.”
“Ophelia,” he says sternly into the darkness. My heart tightens with the way he says my name, so earnest and desperate. “If I come up there and lay next to you, I won’t be able to control myself.”
His words hang in the air, teasing me. Daring me. I want more than anything to tell him I don’t care. That I’m counting on him giving in. But I take his restraint as an opportunity to remind myself what he’s capable of. I’d hate myself for letting him fuck me. I’m chained to his bed for christ’s sake. I’m his prisoner.
I don’t answer him. Instead I try to settle down onto the pillow as far as I can, forcing myself to close my eyes. I’m exhausted, but nothing happens. Hours go by. I look over at him every so often and see that he’s just as miserable as I am. His eyes wide and glaring at the ceiling. The room is pitch black, but the glossy whites catch the moonlight coming in through his window.
We both stay like that for the rest of the night, unable to fall asleep for more than a few seconds.
Chapter Nineteen
BOOK 1
I wake up with Emmett sleeping at the foot of the bed. I don’t even remember him crawling up there or falling asleep at all. Last night was torture. The only sleep I did manage to get was when my body completely shut down for a few minutes at a time before I jerked awake again. Squirming with a need for Emmett. He must have finally had too much and thought being at my feet would be safe enough.
There’s a strange beeping, which I quickly gather to be the alarm clock on his phone. I laugh as I watch him stir awake. It’s time for him to go to school. Such a normal thing to be happening under such bizarre circumstances.
He sits up and rubs his eyes, avoiding eye contact with me.
“I guess you’re off to WJ Prep?” I sing casually, still amused with the idea.
“Not today,” he grumbles, checking for messages on his phone after he silences the alarm. “We’ve got something to take care of. Someone wants to meet you.”
