by Rebel Hart
Fear falls over me again as I straighten up, my hands and arms filled with pins and needles from being handcuffed all night. “Are you coming with me?” I ask helplessly.
He smirks and nods, seeming pleased that I would want to keep him close. It surprises me too. But somehow, he has become a point of safety in all of this. At least when given the choice of all the Elites.
“But we have to get going now,” he barks, jumping up to grab some clothes and straighten his appearance in his bedroom mirror.
“Can I at least take a shower first?” I ask, desperate for anything to postpone my meeting with whatever terrible thing comes next.
He shakes his head at first but looks around in consideration with his hand clenched into his hair. He is torn, grappling with another crossroads between being my tormentor and being attracted to me. If that’s even what you call it. I’ve lost words for describing what’s happening between us at this point.
I willingly grip his arm for support as he leads me, my whole body feeling completely broken down. I don’t see any chances of escaping on the short walk to the bathroom anyway.
“Okay, fine,” he agrees reluctantly. “But it’ll have to be fast.” He comes over to unlock my handcuffs. My wrists burn and ache with the release, and I’m seriously concerned for what the extended loss of blood flow will mean for me later down the road. If I make it through this.
I bend my back and hunch my shoulders as he squeezes my elbow and leads me down the hall and into the bathroom. I walk stiffly, my limbs trembling. He’s completely blank and unreadable as we go. Once we’re inside, he follows me in and locks the door.
“I can’t have any privacy?” I whine, hesitating to remove my clothes.
“Prisoners don’t get privacy,” he scoffs arrogantly, refusing to move from his spot in the corner of the bathroom. I see the Emmett I’m used to has returned with the light of day, which doesn’t bode well for whatever we’re preparing for.
I keep my arms wrapped around my body tight under his gaze, not wanting to undress right in front of him.
“Come on,” he insists. “You were more than ready to take your clothes off for me last night.”
His cockiness pisses me off, prompting me to stomp into the shower fully clothed before undressing and throwing my clothes out onto the floor, not letting him see a thing. But I can see his silhouette watching me through the curtain.
I notice the way my body responds to him lingering on the other side of the curtain. My nipples harden and there’s a warm swell deep in my core, rising with the yearn to feel him inside of me. I wish I could make it go away, but it’s insatiable as I stand here completely naked and wet. His tense figure stalking me from outside.
I know he has to be feeling the same way, but I refuse to give into this. It’s too fucked up. Last night my resolve was broken down, but if his cold heartlessness is back then my resistance will be too.
I go through the motions of lathering up with soap, carefully keeping my eyes pinned to the side at his shadow.
“Hurry up,” he barks at me as I wash my hair.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” I whine back, trying to hurry.
He huffs over, slinging back the curtain and reaching in to turn the faucets off.
“What are you doing!?” I cry, looking at him in shock. “I’m almost done. Just give me a minute.”
“You’re out of time, princess,” he sneers, throwing a towel at me, but not until after he takes a good long slow look at my wet and naked body. I’m quick to cover up from his gaze, figuring if he can’t even have the decency to give me a full five minutes in the shower, he doesn’t get to see me naked.
Anger sparks in his eyes as I cover up, robbing him of his eye candy. His hand grips my elbow tightly as he yanks me out, banging my arm harshly against the sink countertop.
“Shit!” I shout, looking down to see fresh red blood pooling out into the beads of water still dripping across my skin. Just another reminder of who he really is, making me kick myself for every moment of weakness I had last night.
“We don’t have time for all of this,” he moans impatiently, snatching the towel and sloppily blotting down my skin himself. I cringe and recoil under his harsh touch. He seems completely unphased, wrapping the towel around my shoulders and leading me back into the hall with his hand gripping firmly to the base of my skull.
He takes me back to his bedroom and pulls out a dress in my size. “You have to look nice,” he orders, ripping the garment from the hanger and throwing it in my direction.
“What’s the occasion?” I quip back dryly as I reluctantly step into the dress. I’m frightened that he has something like this waiting for me. Whatever is about to happen, he’s been prepared for it.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he spins me and quickly yanks the zipper, making me worry my skin would catch in the ferocity of it.
He pushes me out into the hall and back down the main stairs. He’s tense and sweaty, his skin jerking every time it brushes up against my arm.
The more I take in of the decadent mansion, the more it disgusts me. What a waste for such beautiful things to house such ugly creatures. But really that sums the Elites up perfectly. Shiny and pretty on the outside, complete shit on the inside.
We walk into what looks like the parlor. Maybe some kind of office or study. His sneakers squeak across the glossy hardwood floors as we enter the sitting area arranged before a backdrop of thick velvet drapes across large French windows. The walls tower high above us, accented with crown molding that reflects the tiered crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room.
It looks like a scene from the Godfather, decorated in dark mahoganies and olive greens and deep burgundies. There’s a bar cart that mimics what you’d see in a Mad Men office, complete with a silver ice bucket and various bottles of scotch, brandy and bourbon. The room is dark and smells of cigars.
He leads me in, my hands pinned behind my back, to find a man sitting in a desk chair with his back turned to us. As the chair swivels around I see Mr. Thomas Jameson is the one waiting for us, instantly sparking fear in my heart.
I can already tell he is no different, not that I would have expected him to be. His lips snarl in a viciously sexual grin at the sight of me. I feel the slightest hesitation within Emmett’s arms as he notices how he’s looking at me, but he quickly pushes any reluctance back down dutifully and does nothing.
My guts churn as Thomas stands to walk over to me, forcing Emmett to hold his grip on me as he trails a finger across my cheek. Emmett forces my hand to his father’s for a strong, businesslike handshake.
“I hear you’ve been quite the naughty little girl, Ophelia,” he teases, his voice making me nauseous.
“Don’t touch me,” I whimper, jerking my arms away from Emmett.
He laughs at my protest, his nostrils snarling with gross heavy breaths. “I can see why you’ve been such a handful,” he jokes, reaching out toward my breasts. I try to step backward, but Emmett blocks my way. I cringe under his touch, my face wincing and screaming silently as his hands move lower toward my stomach.
“Get your hands off of me you fucking old perv!” I snap, unable to hold it in any longer. The words spill out over my fear.
My face is instantly socked with the bluntness of his knuckles. He laughs as I press my fingers to my cheek, my brow wrinkled in pain.
“You may be able to outwit my son and his little friends,” he sneers with a crack of his knuckles, “but you’re no match for me, you little cunt.”
He steps away and pulls a handkerchief from his desk, wiping his hands down. Funny how someone so sexually interested in me can quickly turn violent enough to punch me in the face. Both acts apparently being repulsive to him, sparking the need to wash my germs from his hands.
“It’s time to send a message to your beloved father,” he explains mockingly as he paces before me, motioning to his cronies as they deliver a video camera and tripod to the center of the room. I wa
tch him pace the room, his speech accelerating as he barks orders at everyone around. “We’re going to record a little video.”
I blink, processing his words, and focus on him intently. Clinging to any hint of what to expect.
Emmett pulls me from behind, pushing up a chair that I am quickly shoved into as he grabs my arms and ties them behind me. The rope burns into my wrists as he squeezes the knots securely, cutting off the circulation of my hands. My eyes narrow, peering into them as if I look hard enough all of this might start making sense.
“You’re going to beg for your life,” Mr. Jameson commands. “Let him know that if he doesn’t stop, we have other ways to help make him.” He speaks slowly and forcibly, trying to sound in control, but I can tell he’s coming apart.
“I had never even heard a word from my father up until a few days ago,” I protest. “I don’t think I’m your best bet at getting him to do anything. He doesn’t give a shit about me.”
“Oh, I like a girl with daddy issues,” he taunts, sweat gleaming on his face. “You let us worry about that and just do what we tell you.”
Once the camera is in place, one of the men holds his finger over the red record button, waiting for his cue to start the video.
“Now, keep in mind, dear…the success of this message really is up to you,” Thomas explains snidely. “Whether or not your father responds accordingly, allowing us to spare your life, will depend entirely on how convincing you are.” He stops in front of me, leaning over to perch his hands across the arms of my chair. He winces, his face twisting into disapproval. “I don’t know…you don’t look afraid to me.” He turns to Emmett. “What do you think, son? Does she look afraid to you?”
I see Emmett turn away in the corner of my eye, refusing to answer. Suddenly my head whips around with a painful sting across my cheek. Thomas is laughing as he stands back, proudly admiring the redness of my face as I whimper in pain.
I rock back and forth in the chair, trying to control my heavy panting as I tell myself over and over that this will all be okay. It has to be. My back arches as I squirm in discomfort with deep, shuddering breaths that make me feel lightheaded.
Emmett doesn’t make me feel the least bit safe anymore and with Thomas’s looming presence, already having hit me twice just in the few short minutes I’ve been in the room, I feel like I’m having a panic attack.
Stop panicking, Ophelia.
Calm down, Ophelia.
I see starbursts behind my closed eyelids. I focus on keeping my breaths steady and normal, but my muscles are rigid, my tendons standing out on edge. My head still swimming from Thomas’s blows.
A man walks over and places today’s newspaper in my lap to show the date. This really is a full-blown hostage situation. Out of all the things I thought I’d experience in my life; this was not on my radar.
“Now you’ll tell your father to stop. And that he must answer to our ultimatum immediately. Or he’ll never get the chance to meet his precious daughter,” Thomas commands cavalierly.
“What if he doesn’t care?” I propose, knowing all too well how possible that is. “Haven’t you already sent him similar threats and got nothing? He’s gone this long wanting nothing to do with me. Whatever he has against you seems to be more important to him than my life.”
“Oh, don’t be so cynical,” he mocks condescendingly. “Even the most detached father wouldn’t want to see certain things done to his baby girl. You see…I’ve put girls just like you in some pretty horrid conditions. There’s good money in it. I doubt he’d want you to vanish into that kind of life.”
I remember Liam’s warnings about what the Jameson Automobile Company was fronting through the use of his software. Underage girls on the black market in sex trafficking rings. All this time I’ve been afraid of dying. It never occurred to me that my potential fate could be much worse. Maybe Emmett’s sadistic sexual torture is just preparing me for what will happen if my father doesn’t come through and meet their demands.
I look to Emmett again, desperately. He watches blankly. I want him to stand up for me. To say or do anything to intervene, but he cowers in the corner. Not lifting a single finger in my defense. Now I worry for how involved he might be in his father’s business. Maybe he’s just as sick and guilty of the same crimes.
“What do I have to say?” I ask finally, my voice cracking as I realize I have no choice but to give in. His scare tactics are working. Mostly because I know he’s ruthless. Cold. Heartless. He doesn’t make idle threats.
“Speak from your heart, my dear,” he sneers. “I’m sure once we get started, you’ll feel inspired.” His menacing tone and grin frighten me even more as his men gather behind me.
I watch one of them press a button on the camera, causing a red light to flash. Thomas waves his hands through the air dramatically, like a maestro conducting an orchestra. His callous coldness is chilling. Enough to cause me to tear up in terror, but I hold back. Not giving them my tears is my last possible act of defiance. The only part of myself I can still hold onto.
“Dad,” I begin, my voice already wavering more than I’d like. Even saying the title, addressing him directly, feels foreign and wrong. “You have to do what they say,” I stammer, feeling at a loss for words. My mind is blank.
Still refusing to cry a single tear, one of Thomas’s men crouches down behind me with a pair of pliers in hand, squeezing my knuckles in their grip tighter and tighter. I hope the lack of blood flow to my hands dulls the pain, but I can feel the cold metal cutting into me intensely. I still don’t give in. My face winces in pain but I don’t shed a tear.
“Dad!” I cry out louder. “Please…I don’t know where you are or how far you’re willing to go with this. But these people aren’t fucking around,” my sentiment sparks a maniacal, taunting laugh from Thomas. “You have to stop coming after them. Respond to their messages and let them know you’ll stop. Please. They’ll…they’ll make sure I disappear forever if you don’t.” My throat tightens with even more building cries, threatening to forcibly erupt as I contemplate what could happen if this doesn’t work.
“Are you sure you have nothing else to add? Nothing else to inspire your father to help you?” Thomas beckons, like a parent to a toddler. His tone soft and inviting in a chilling way, completely mismatched to his intentions.
I know he is encouraging me to cry, but I stay strong. Shaking my head. Liam promised me my father had a plan. And that I shouldn’t feel so hopeless and powerless. It’s all I have to cling to for now. I just have to hope he was right.
Thomas motions for the recording to be stopped and then nods to Emmett. He comes over and unties me, forcing me to my feet. He restrains me by the arms once again as Thomas approaches, coming too close.
“It was lovely meeting you, dear Ophelia,” he groans with predatory eyes. “I’m sure we will meet again. Very soon. At least I hope it’s soon…for your sake.”
I want to spit in his face, but he hits harder than any of his younger Elite counterparts. I’m still weak, tired and panicked. I don’t think I can withstand another blow. So instead I bite my tongue and turn my head, wishing Emmett would just hurry up and take me away.
Once we are to the top of the stairs, my tears flow like rain. I’m completely unable to hold them back a second longer now that it’s just Emmett and I alone again.
“Thanks a lot,” I sob, my throat tight with anger. “You really had my back in there.”
“What do you want from me!?” he rumbles in a low, tired rage.
“Oh yeah…what could I possibly have wanted from you?” I fire back sarcastically. “What kind of guy lets his dad treat people that way?”
Suddenly I am thrown against the wall. Emmett’s hands are digging into my shoulders, shaking me violently.
“Do you get it now, Ophelia!?” he shrieks in a hushed tone. “If you think my father was terrible just then…imagine the kinds of things I’ve…” He chokes, unable to say another word.
I bit
e back everything building up inside, feeling a new wave of pity for him. But he quickly pushes me along, both of us desperate to be back inside the privacy and safety of his room.
“Finish your sentence,” I beg once we’re hidden away behind his locked door. “What kinds of things…” I’m afraid to ask, but I need to know. It’s his only chance at redemption. The possibility that he’s just an abused fucked up kid who is too damaged to know how to treat people.
But he refuses to answer. He won’t even look at me. He retreats back into his closed-off shell, staring despairingly out his window.
I’m certain Malcolm was right. There had to be something more to Emmett once. Something kind. But maybe as the years of his life went on in this fucked up house, in the world of the Elites, he was broken. My blood chills at the thought that he may never be restored. No matter what happens. Maybe he is fucked up beyond repair. And my biggest fear is that once he’s through with me, I will be too.
Chapter Twenty
BOOK 1
“I have to cuff you up again,” Emmett says finally, brushing a finger across his upper lip before reluctantly turning back to me from the window.
“Emmett, my arms are killing me from being cuffed up all night,” I lament in exhaustion. “Can we just skip that part this time?”
“You saw him in there,” he offers up dryly. “You know I have to do this.”
I’m too tired to argue. I take my seat on the bed and offer my hands over freely. My mind racing as he secures the handcuffs once again.
I’m getting desperate for some way out of this. I know time is running out. If my dad doesn’t give these people what they want, they’re going to kill me. Or worse. Sell me off into some sex trafficking ring. And since I have never been able to count on him for anything, I’m not going to hang all of my hopes on him.
I study Emmett as he sits in the corner, listlessly tossing a ball up to the ceiling and catching it again. Out of everyone I’ve seen in this mansion, Emmett is my best shot at manipulating my way to freedom long enough to hunt down some shred of evidence.
