Still, there will be parameters then, too. Fancy cars. Designer clothing. Sprawling palatial winter home estates in Florida, opulent historic brownstone penthouses for summers in New England. Maybe even some couture handbags and clutches. Those are the expected symbols of luxury and success my father will allow me to buy when, someday, I follow in his enormous footsteps and make my way in the business world. That is all I live for: mastering university so that I can use it as a stepping stone to the next realm I must conquer.
He will expect nothing short of perfection. I always intended to give that to him. But now I’m in stagnant waters.
I do not like to waste time. If I’m not in class, I’m studying for that class. If I’m not shadowing my father at work, I’m keeping notes and planning ahead for some distant future in his line of work. If I’m not volunteering at the shelter, I’m tutoring Cassandra in math. My only methods of winding down and relaxing, so to speak, are either cuddling with my little dog Henry, or shooting photos and videos with Cassandra for fun.
At night, I barely sleep. I try to get at least four hours a night, because years ago I read an article my father recommended to me that suggested four hours is the very least a successful human requires. If I sleep less, he instructed me, then I will have more time to be productive, but no less than four. Late to bed, early to rise. Be the last to clock out and the first to clock in.
Always productive. Always busy.
So having to sit here doing nothing but twiddling my thumbs and waiting for… an end that may never come is possibly the worst fate I can imagine. I’ve tried to keep myself entertained or at the very least, distracted. The dark-eyed man gave me a journal and a pencil, and I’ve been absentmindedly scribbling away in it despite the fact that I can hardly see through the darkness. Who knows what these pictures would look like in the light? Probably nonsensical. Lines unmatching with lines. Curves refusing to connect together. It’s frustrating. Even the words I write probably aren’t legible. I hate it— the feeling of failure and being out of control.
And then there’s the loneliness. That many-horned beast that creeps up behind me and rests its hoary head on my shoulder, breathing putrid breath on my neck, making me shiver with dread. I don’t want to be alone.
It makes me sick to think about, but there’s a gnawing sense growing in me that I am desperate for my captor to return. Even if it’s just to taunt me or even hurt me, I want him to come back. I need to hear his low, growling voice. I long to feel his calloused hands running over my smooth skin. I want his ultimatums and his demands and his everything.
“What is the matter with me?” I whisper aloud, horrified by my own desires.
I should hate him. I should want him to stay as far away from me as humanly possible. But I don’t hate him. I am confused by him, even intrigued, but I still want him to return. More than anything. Maybe even more than freedom.
I know how messed up that sounds. Perhaps it’s just Stockholm Syndrome. Maybe I’m just losing my mind. Whatever the reason, there’s only one solution: to be near him again.
Almost as though I’ve summoned him here with my thoughts, I jerk away in surprise when I hear the metal door start to slide open again. My heart begins to pound fiercely in my chest, making me gasp for air as I stumble back, eyes wide and expectant. I wait as the door slowly, agonizingly scrapes open. It’s still dark outside, but there’s a faint, eerie glow that suggests the uncanny hours during which the moonlight fades into the first early shimmers of sunrise. I imagine it must be sometime between midnight and four in the morning.
The witching hour, my thoughts remind me.
Has the handsomest version of the devil yet come to see me again?
I very nearly lick my lips in anticipation, hastily fumbling to stand up. My chest is heaving, my whole body aching and twinging and tingling for him. I need to hear his voice. I need him to tell me what to do.
I need a task, something to focus on. I can’t handle this boredom anymore.
At first, I see the same thing I saw before: the dark, tall silhouette of a powerful man standing in the glowy light of the doorway. He looms over me, just like before, his physical prowess dwarfing me and making me feel insignificant. Like a sparrow trembling before a wolf.
He takes a long stride forward and I lurch back, my arms reaching out to brace myself against the filthy wall behind me. I can hardly remember to breathe as he watches me. But then something, some bare animal instinct rolls down my spine. I freeze up, noticing that a detail that is somehow… off.
I remember so vividly that my captor’s eyes are dark. So dark as to be nearly black. But this man in front of me now has lighter-colored eyes. A shade of pale green. It’s a different man altogether. A terrible thought occurs to me: do I have more than just the one captor?
The green eyes blink and I sense a smile pulling at the corners of this strange new man’s lips as he surveys me hungrily. I feel like a cornered animal, shrinking myself down as small and non-confrontational as possible. I don’t want to invoke some kind of rage or defense in him. I just want him to leave me alone.
The other man made himself clear. If I behave, I won’t get hurt. If I’m a good girl, I’ll get rewarded.
This man is a complete enigma, and that’s terrifying. There’s no rule book for how to deal with him, and I’m knocked off balance by the realization that it’s not just a single man keeping me locked up. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I would be outnumbered, and the thought knocks the wind from my chest.
I have spent these long, empty hours building my captor up in my mind, creating a fantasy image of the black-eyed man to comfort me in the shadows and silence. A dark anti-hero, perhaps. A villain with a code, someone who doesn’t want to hurt me, but needs me as a bargaining chip to get what he wants.
But now he’s just a member of a group. I pray it’s only the two.
The green-eyed man takes another step closer through the threshold and I press myself to the back wall, desperate to keep as much space between us as I can. He continues to stare at me, and I can hear the faint, rasping drag of his breaths in and out, slowly.
Finally, I find my voice and push it into the air.
“What—what do you want? Who are you?” I ask, wincing at how my voice trembles and shakes, the fear so clearly evident in my tone.
The green-eyed man chuckles, but there is no mirth to the sound. It’s pure evil, pure cruelty. He’s laughing at me. He knows he’s in control. But he doesn’t say a word. He just stands there, looming over me like some behemoth, like a predator toying with his vulnerable prey. I have no way to fight back against him.
“Are you going to say anything? Or just stand there like a creep?” I accuse.
He says nothing but I see him shift his weight from one foot to the other, his enormous hands curling into tight fists at his sides. I swallow hard, realizing I might have pushed him too far. It only gets worse when he reaches back and pulls the door shut, leaving us both in the dark together. I can hardly even make out his gigantic shape in front of me. I start to hyperventilate, my legs quaking beneath me as he slowly takes a lumbering step closer to me. I push myself into the wall as hard as I can, turning my head to one side and grimacing. I don’t dare close my eyes, trying to watch him approach even though my vision is almost totally darkened.
He’s coming for me. And I have no defense against him.
Oh god. What have I done?
But then I hear the door creak open again. Confused, I glare around the green-eyed man just in time to see another dark figure come rushing through the door. I let out a scream of terror, watching as the second man tackles the first man to the filthy floor. I stumble away into a corner, my hands clasped over my mouth.
The second man wrenches the green-eyed man’s arms behind his back, both of them grunting and scuffling against each other. But the second man is clearly the stronger one, and he manages to slam green-eyes into the metal door with a loud CLANG! I gasp, sinking down to the floor
and throwing my arms up over my head instinctively. I watch through a gap in my fingers as the green-eyed man struggles to break free from the man holding him pinned against the door.
“Let me go,” he hisses, desperately wriggling in the other man’s grasp. He reminds me oddly of a fish on a hook, flopping around. But the man holding him there doesn’t even seem to be breaking a sweat. This is all too easy for him.
“You have to learn your place,” snarls my captor. I recognize him this time for certain: it’s the dark-eyed man from before. My heart races wildly.
“Oh, and I suppose you think you’re going to be the one to teach me?” rebukes the green-eyed man. His insolence is rewarded with a swift kick to the backs of his knees. He bellows out in pain, doubling over and barely holding himself up. By now, I’m using all of my self-control on trying not to scream. I don’t want that power and rage to turn on me.
“I’d watch that lip if I were you,” warns the dark-eyed man coolly. “You know you’re not allowed down here. This isn’t part of your job description. Lila is mine. You’ll do well to remember that.”
A little thrill of mingled horror and delight runs down my spine. Goosebumps prickle up on my skin as I listen to my captor defend me. Claim me. I feel a strange, foreign sensation taking hold of me. A deliciously wrong sort of tingling between my thighs.
Again, I wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
Dark-eyes tosses me a quick glance, a piercing gaze that lasts only a moment but which shakes me down to my very core. I hold my breath, eyes wide as his cherished attention is directed toward me just for a second. Then he yanks the green-eyed man through the doorway, roughing him up in the process. I can’t help but revel in the intense adrenaline pumping through my veins, the exhilaration of watching my captor defend my honor, call me his own. I’m so disappointed when the door closes that I actually let out a little whimper. I go rushing to the door, pressing my ear against the cold metal to try and eavesdrop.
A moment later, there’s a click as the little slot opens. To my surprise, my captor is at the slot, and for a split second I get to feel his hot breath tickle my cheek. I yelp and fall back, all the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. Those black eyes are watching me, unblinking. Unabashedly. He watches me like I’m something fascinating, something truly precious. I step up to the door, wanting— needing— to be closer to him.
The door locks with a resounding click, and I can faintly hear the clunky footsteps of the green-eyed man slinking away. The fear in my body starts to wane, only to be replaced by shimmering, undeniable desire.
“I apologize,” my captor says smoothly. “My associate is a pig.”
“But you saved me,” I whisper back. I lift one trembling hand and cautiously poke my fingertips through the slot. I bite my lip, waiting for his response. Finally, he raises a hand and presses his calloused fingertips against mine, sending shockwaves of joy through my frame.
“Things are taking longer than they should,” he tells me, with a hint of something like sadness. “I’m sorry. This should have ended by now.”
“What should’ve ended? What is going on? Please, just tell me. I-I’ll do anything to help. I promise I won’t run away. I won’t tell anyone,” I ramble, shaking my head so fervently that my long hair swishes over my shoulders.
“You know I can’t allow that, Lila,” he replies softly. Again, his lips forming my name gives me a thrill that feels downright immoral. Still, my heart sinks at his reply.
“Okay. I guess that makes sense,” I sigh. “But then… could you at least do me a favor, please? I just— I just want my school binder.”
There’s a pause, his fingertips frozen still against mine.
“Why?” he asks with some trepidation.
“Because it has photos of my dog slid under the lamination, okay? I just want to see my dog. It’ll help me… feel less alone. I guess,” I confess.
Again, a pause. Then, without a word, he pulls away and walks off, the slot sliding shut. Tears burn in my eyes and I blink them back angrily. Of course I’ve asked too much. Why the hell would my kidnapper let me have photos of my dog? He doesn’t give a damn about me. I rest my forehead against the door for what feels like hours, but could easily be minutes. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter anyway.
Then, the slot opens back up, and I’m so surprised that I nearly stumble back onto my ass. But I manage to right myself just in time for a few items to be handed through: my binder, complete with cute pictures of Henry, and a small metal tray containing a cup of steaming, fragrant tea and a small hunk of bread similar to what I was given before.
“Take it,” urges the dark-eyed man.
Remembering how to move, I reach out and obey, taking the tray and binder from him. I set the tray on the floor and clutch the binder to my chest, blowing gently on the hot tea as I stare through the slot in confusion.
“It’s herbal tea,” he says flatly. “Caffeine-free. I know it’s not easy to sleep in there.”
“It’s not very comfortable,” I agree. “But thank you.”
I poke my fingers through the slot again. I get the same thrill when he touches his fingertips to mine. The loneliness in my heart aches far worse than the cramps in my body.
“What day is it now?” I ask softly. “Tuesday?”
“Yes. Tuesday night,” he replies.
“This might be a strange question to ask you but… is anyone looking for me yet? Does anybody know I’m missing?” I press him, worried that this might be a step too far.
But he simply answers, “There’s been nothing on the news.”
“Nothing,” I repeat incredulously, sadness washing over me. “Nothing at all. But—but what about Cassandra? She’ll notice I’m missing.”
“That’s already been taken care of,” my captor explains. My stomach lurches.
“What? What does that mean? Did you hurt her? Oh my god,” I gasp.
“No. Nothing like that,” he assures me. “I’ve called you in sick to class for this week. Same goes for your volunteer gig. And your tutoring job.”
“Oh,” I murmur, unable to figure out if I’m more distressed or comforted by his intimate knowledge of my life.
“I don’t know if it’s good or bad that you know about all that,” I muse aloud. “Even my own father doesn’t know that much about my schedule.”
I feel him stiffen up a little, his fingertips pressing gently against mine.
“Your father must be insane. If you were my daughter,” he begins in a gruff voice, “I would be obsessed with you.”
Suddenly, I feel an electric jolt roll through me. He pulls back his fingers almost as though he’d been electrocuted, and the slot clattered shut, nearly slicing the tips of my fingers as I snatched them back to my chest.
“Wait! Don’t leave me alone,” I cry out, tapping on the door.
“I will be watching your door tonight,” my captor answers firmly.
“Come back,” I murmur, laying my cheek against the closed slot. “Please.”
“I’ll be nearby,” he promises, and then all goes quiet.
Chains
This one’s different. There’s something about her I can’t put my finger on, and it isn’t just her looks. I knew it from the moment I first held her in my arms. I could feel it in her. She’s different, and I don’t know if I like it or not.
But I’m a man of my word. That’s why I’m leaning against the wall of the open-air hallway with my arms crossed, watching the cell door where yet another spoiled little rich girl is biding her time, waiting for her daddy to pay her ransom.
The hair on my arms prickles as I feel a chilly breeze in the November evening air. It turns out that my usual t-shirt and jeans isn’t the most weather appropriate outfit for the Massachusetts autumn nights, but I’ve always been able to put up with the cold. Part of me likes it that way. It keeps me alert, always moving, never too relaxed. Besides, my thick beard keeps my face warm, and I’ve never needed much more.
/> The hallway is below ground but open to the outdoor sky, and it consists of a concrete walkway leading from one of the main buildings of this complex to the small root cellar where we have the girl stashed away safely.
Lila.
I’ve always thought of them as just “the girl,” but this one’s name keeps going through my head instead. She isn’t the first, and she won’t be the last. Not as long as there are more marks out there to make a payday out of.
That main building the sidewalk connects to isn’t just any old abandoned building me and the guys moved into. It wasn’t that long ago that this place was thriving with activity— and not the good kind. It used to be filled with the pained howling of patients, the grunting of inmates, and the sounds of runaway boys getting into fights.
I know, because when this place was operational, I spent a year here.
They put me here when my own dad died, and it took Mom a full year to get me out. Not even she could hold onto me, though. By that time, it felt like the world was just dead-set on keeping me from having a normal childhood, and it sure as hell didn’t hold back on the punishment.
This place used to be a pretty complex on the surface, I’d give it that. Some private company poured millions into this nightmare, probably wanting to make a quick buck off the prison labor they had us all doing. Inmates, mental patients, and runaways alike were all prisoners here, and it was part of what hardened me into the man I’ve become. I still remember my first night all too vividly, getting pulled out of my threadbare cot by the ankles and beaten by the other boys. They didn’t let up until I knocked the front teeth out of their leader. There was nobody for me to turn to back then, nobody to look up to.
Didn’t take long for me to realize there never would be.
It’s funny. These days, now that the place has been long since abandoned, locals like to spread the rumor that the place is haunted. They say the mad spirits of the people who died here never found their way out. They say if you sneak in and aren’t careful, there’s a good chance you’ll join them, getting dragged back to your own private slice of hell by ghostly nurses.
Stealing Her Page 4
