by Vi Carter
I’m questioning things while looking around the small space. Two heart-shaped cushions sit neatly on the brown couch. A red throw lies across the back of it. The couch is positioned across from a small unit that holds my TV. The coffee table is old and doesn’t match the rest of the furniture, but it was here when I moved in. My laptop sits on the coffee table, half-open. I should close it.
Another knock drags my attention back to the door. Rebecca doesn’t know my address repeats in my mind.
The knock comes again, and I swallow my wild thoughts and open the door.
I blink up at the tall man whose shoulders are suitable for a rugby pitch. His dark gaze burns over me, and I feel unbalanced as I reach for the doorframe. He doesn’t speak. A normal person would ask him his name or ask him what he wanted? Not me.
“I didn’t eat, so I’m a bit dizzy.” I try to explain my reason for clutching the door frame without looking like a nut.
His gaze slices through me. I don’t want to keep looking up at him. Craning my neck isn’t helping my dizziness. I try to ignore a buzz that races along my bare arms.
He still hasn’t spoken. My brain is telling me something isn’t right.
“I’m sorry. How can I help you?” I put on my receptionist's voice. I reach for it like a lifeline. My voice sounds more stable, giving me some false bravado.
“You can’t.” His deep, gravelly voice has me dragging my brows down.
I’ve heard that voice before.
My heart had been pitter patting only moments ago and is now in full throttle mode.
“Do I know you?” I already know I don’t. I wouldn’t ever forget a face like his. Someone had carved it; his features strong and bold. He has no right to look so good. He carries himself with the same boldness that his perfect face holds.
His large frame moves closer, forcing me slightly back and making me release the door frame.
“No, you don’t, Claire.”
His voice washes over me, leaving a path of confusion and fear that seeps into my bones, making me useless at this very moment.
He moves, and the smell of his cologne and something stronger assaults my nostrils. The smell grows heavier until it’s cutting the back of my throat, making me want to cough. I try to step away and ask him to leave.
His hand covers my mouth with a cloth, and I go into full panic mode way too late. My senses start to shut down as I claw at the air, missing the mark, which is his face. My stomach roils, and I turn my head on instinct, thinking I’m going to be sick. He doesn’t remove his hand from my mouth or allow me to move my head much. I feel like I’m falling as my body loses the ability to keep me upright, but his arm is like a vice around my waist, pulling me tightly against him. I blink up into his hard face, and my mind grows more frantic before it slowly shuts down and the world turns black.
***
My mouth is dry like someone stuffed it with wool soaking up every drop of liquid from my mouth. I swallow as I push up on the bed. The soft fabric under my hands has me pausing. Pain sparks behind my half-open eyes, and I close them. My other senses come to life. I don’t smell my lavender fabric softener. I crack one eye open. I take in the white sheets on my bed that appears larger than it should.
Since when did I put on a white bedspread? I sit up further, my eyes absorbing everything my brain refuses to acknowledge. My wall is gone. A sheet of glass rises before me. I slam my eyes shut as my heart stalls in my chest. My bare arms take the onslaught of my fear as each hair rises.
I duck my head into my chest. I can smell him.
I start to stand and nearly fall off the bed. A fist slams into my stomach as I spin in a full circle. This can’t be real. What is this?
This isn’t real.
My legs carry me to the glass wall. I want to touch it to prove to myself that the box isn’t real. I don’t want to touch the glass in case it is real. Bile claws its way up my throat, leaving a burning path of fire in its wake. I touch the cold glass, and a scream that I didn’t know was there spills from my lips as I dance back away from the glass. I spin to the other wall.
Shaking my head, I stumble to it and touch the glass wall. It’s real. Another scream pours from my mouth, and I run to the next wall.
“What is this?”
My heart thrashes against my chest, and the room shifts under my feet. But I can’t accept what I’m seeing. I touch the glass again, and my mind bounces so fast that I can’t keep up with one thought. My body overheats before it grows cold.
The world stills when I notice him watching me.
“No.”
He smiles as he walks toward me. But his smile isn’t normal. It’s hard and arrogant, almost gleeful, yet angry. That smile would make you want to run while your feet stayed rooted to the spot. That smile is reserved for people who are close to meeting their maker.
“No,” I whisper again. My neck feels tight, like all the small bones in it might snap at any second.
“Welcome, Claire.” His deep voice is like a match being run along a flint.
His voice sets a fire in my veins that has me slamming my hand against the glass that doesn’t even rattle. “Let me out.”
He stalks even closer. His black eyes dance with a darkness that I want no part in.
“Let me out now. My family will report me missing to the authorities.” My voice shakes and rattles.
He tilts his head slightly to the left. “No one will ever find you, Claire.”
I flounder, my chest ready to cave in. I hit the wall again like I can break through the glass and remove the cruel smirk from his striking face. “Let me out!” I scream until my throat is hoarse.
My fists are no match for the solid wall of glass. They fall to my side, and I clutch my white dress.
White dress? I stop touching the material and raise my hands in the air. I’m backing away from him. These aren’t my clothes. The walls spin, and I’m drowning in terror.
I can’t breathe. I clutch my throat like I might be able to fight whatever is cutting off my air, but there is nothing I can do as I struggle for oxygen. My legs buckle, and he stands, watching me crumble. My heart slows, and black spots sprout in front of my vision. I hit the floor. His feet move along the wall, and I don’t want to close my eyes. What will happen? My heart slows even further, and pain squeezes my chest. A tear runs from my eye as my body gives out on me.
***
I open my eyes. I’m on the floor. It’s not my apartment floor. The memory of his dark eyes has me sitting up. My head is spinning as I glance around the glass box. I’m alone. There is nowhere for him to hide. That tiny bit of knowledge calms me for a split second before I start to panic again.
I am in a glass box.
I get up and try not to notice the tub, toilet, or sink. Like this isn’t built for the long term. A wardrobe behind me has me tempted to walk to it, open the doors and see what’s inside.
No need. You won’t be staying.
The voice of reason has me gliding to the wall again, and I touch it. That single touch has me biting my cheek until I taste blood. This is real.
I run my hand along the glass, trying to feel for a crack, but I don’t feel anything. The pulse beats in my fingertips that are slippery from beads of sweat.
I step away and close my eyes. A sob I keep swallowing demands its release, but I tell it soon. First, I need to get out of here. I swallow the sob, but tears still escape. I blink them away and wipe my hands on the white dress that I want to take off. I try not to think about how it got on my body or who took off my clothes, or what happened to me when I wasn’t lucid. Trepidation triples and weighs down my feet, making my movements sluggish.
I need to get out of here.
I run my hand along the glass again and keep walking. Nothing obstructs my movements. Everything in the room stands away from the glass. I pass a small table with two chairs. My stomach curls in on itself. Two chairs. Why two? Why chairs? Why a glass box? Panic starts to claw its way up, and I for
ce the sense of dread down unsuccessfully. My fingers hit a small bump, and three seconds later, another. I stare at the area and follow the outline of a door.
There is no handle or anything that would allow me to open it. I push the door at first, but nothing happens. I slam both hands against it, but the glass doesn’t budge.
I turn around and pick up a chair. I picture the chair hitting the wall and glass shattering on top of me. My mind paints a vivid picture of a wave of jagged glass crashing down on me. There is no time to reconsider what I’m about to do. All I know is that I can’t stay here for one more second. I charge at the outline of a door like a warrior who’s gripped with fear but determination and slam the chair against the glass. The wood cracks and splinters with the impact, and coldness seeps into my shaking hands as I drop the broken chair.
A scream pours from my mouth as I fall to my knees amongst the broken chair and my fractured mind.
I don’t want this to be real. But I know it is.
CHAPTER FOUR
RICHARD
I carry her from her apartment. She’s cradled into my chest like she is something precious. A sense of protection has me pulling her closer until I have to force myself to loosen my grip, so I don’t hurt her. She feels right in my arms and that, I hadn’t expected. She weighs nothing, no more than a feather which suits her somehow. Her angelic features and long blonde hair make me think of an angel. An angel was the first thought I had the day she stepped into the asylum.
We were all dark devils, and here was a pure angel amongst us. If I believed in them, which I don’t, she would be one. Her eyes are closed as I carry her to my car, but the memory of how striking her blue eyes are have me wanting to wake her just so I can see them again. Being this close to her stirs a primal instinct inside me. I want her.
Placing her carefully in the back seat of the car, I take my time positioning her hands across her flat stomach. My hands glide down her sides, I allow myself to trace her curves; my fingers greedily race across fabric until they touch the flesh of her leg. Her head rolls to the side as I glance back up at her. I should leave before anyone sees me. My fingers trail all the way down to her bare feet before I stand up and reluctantly close the door. Having her body isn’t part of the plan.
Taking her to my home and keeping her locked up is. I get into the car and start the engine. Pulling away from the curb, I do a quick sweep of the area to see if anyone is watching. The building windows are empty, and no movement along the walkways gives me a sense of confidence that no one saw me take her.
Her scent lingers on me. The urge to see her has me moving the rear-view mirror until her hands and stomach come into view. I push my foot to the floor, needing my car to move faster. She is a temptation that I am fighting hard to resist. I don’t know why I’ve been with plenty of beautiful women. I have no problem attracting them. I just never keep them around. Maybe it’s being locked up so long and not having a woman under me. Either way, I know I need to get her into her cage and out of my car.
The gates are slow to open, and the moment there is enough space for my car to drive through, I push my foot on the gas. My house appears, and I drive around back. Mario is out on errands. I gave him enough to keep him busy for a while.
Claire is still asleep as I carry her from the car and into the house. I cradle her to my chest again, knowing this will be the last time I hold her. Taking her down into the basement, I linger at the door of her new home. A moan escapes her slightly parted lips. I slide open the glass door and carry her to her bed. Laying her down, her blonde hair falls across her face. My gaze drags down her long legs, and I reach out and touch her calf, running my hand all the way up to her knee. Another moan falls from her lips. I leave her and take a white dress out of the wardrobe.
I thought this part would be easy or even fun, but it’s torture to my rock-hard cock. She moans several times as I undress her. Coincidentally, she’s wearing white panties and a white bra that she fills nicely. She’s flawless, her body pure perfection. I wonder if she’s as fragile as she looks. I like my sex rough. I think I’d break her. I move her several times to get her into the white dress. It’s a simple, plain summer dress that falls to her knees. I stand back and admire my work.
She stirs this time, and I know time is running out as the sedative is wearing off. I want to stand here and watch her open her eyes. I want to drink in every moment of her waking up. But that isn’t part of the plan. Once I leave the box, I won’t enter it again.
It takes an army of whispers at my back to make me leave the box. The whispers are echoes of my father’s words.
“If you want to hurt someone, you befriend them, find out everything about them, and then you take the most precious thing away from them, all the while you make them watch as you destroy what they love before you destroy them. That way, you will be remembered, and no one will cross you.”
The door slides shut behind me, and I turn, facing the glass. My heart starts to race and thrash against my chest. This moment I have fantasized about over and over again. I touch the glass to allow the truth to sink in. I have really built the glass box, and she is really inside it.
I walk around the cube and stop at the bed that she still lies on. She starts to stir, and I know it's showtime, so I slowly step deeper into the basement and watch as she fully wakes up. I’m waiting for the guilt to churn heavily in my stomach as she spins around, shaking her head while muttering to herself. But the guilt doesn’t come. She’s touching the glass, and that’s when her gaze finally settles on me. Her face grows whiter, and her mouth opens. “No.”
Her lips tug down, and pure fear is etched into her angelic features. She’s like a biblical image. An angel captured by the devil.
I can’t stop the smile that spreads across my face as I walk toward her. I want a front-row seat. An excitement I’ve never felt before bubbles through my veins.
“No.”
“Welcome, Claire.”
My words halt her for a second before she races to the glass and slams her small fists against it. “Let me out.”
I move closer, soaking up her hysteria, her fear. This is a side I never saw of her. All I saw was her good manners, great punctuality, and frequent smiles.
“Let me out now. My family will report me missing to the authorities.” Her voice shakes along with her small balled-up fists.
“No one will ever find you, Claire.” That is a promise. Everyone who worked on this is dead. The only living people who know about the box are three people whom I trust with my life. She will never leave this box.
Her small fists hit the wall again. “Let me out!” Her scream is hysterical, and it widens her stunning blue eyes. They are electric with fear.
I growl as my cock grows hard.
She starts to lose control, and I watch her spiral into a frenzy before she fizzles out on the floor. I stay long after she’s passed out. My breathing is heavy, and I know if I stay here for one more second, I’ll enter the box and ravish her. I take the steps two at a time to put as much distance between us as quickly as possible.
I lock the basement door behind me and pocket the key. I pat my other pocket that holds the key card.
“Everything you requested is in the kitchen.” Mario’s voice snakes up behind me.
Composing myself, I turn to him. “Thank you. You can finish up now, Mario.” He glances at the basement door. But once he finally looks at me, he dips his head and scurries away like a frightened child. But he’s clever, sneaky. He is, after all, one of my father’s men.
I wait until he leaves before entering the kitchen to find two bags on the kitchen table. I open them and take out the random items: A rope, masking tape, along with coffee that I don’t drink, some razors, a bottle of brandy that I take out of the bag and hold up. I’m tempted to open the bottle, but I don’t.
I don’t need to give myself a reason to lose control. My resolve is already slipping, and she has only been here a few minutes.
; I leave the kitchen, and I’m tempted to go back down, but instead, I go up to my room, where I take a shower.
It's a habit to reach in and check the water. The showers were never warm in the asylum, and oftentimes the ice-cold water would freeze your balls off. My hand parts the warm water, and I step into the gushing stream. I know I’m not in the asylum anymore, but that doesn’t stop me from showering at record speed. My senses are on high alert for footsteps, any movement at all.
My first shower in the asylum, I hadn’t expected anyone to come for me, but they had. Letting my guard down was an error in judgment that I would never allow to happen again.
My skin is red from the rough quick drying I give it. I get dressed and wonder, will this feeling ever leave me. Will every shower result in me relieving what the fuckers did to me?
Anger pumps heavy and fast in my veins, and I’m seeking out my phone to find my calm. The thought that seeing her face will calm me has me fumbling with the device until the cameras I had installed in the basement blink to life, and I see she’s awake, staring at the door. Instantly my anger dissolves, and I’m ready to sit down so I can watch her for a while, but she moves, turns around, and picks up a chair. She races to the door and smashes the chair against the glass.
Fuck.
CHAPTER FIVE
RICHARD
She’s sobbing on the floor. A broken chair scattered around her. My gaze roams her bare legs, looking for cuts or marks that might have been inflicted by her attempt to escape. I clear the last step into the basement, but she’s too distraught to notice me. That’s okay. I like watching her. I like being on this side of the glass.
She appears unscratched. She swallows a sob, and her head jolts up. She’s scurrying away from the wall like she can hide from me.
“The glass is unbreakable.” I remind her.
Her blue eyes swirl and widen at my words. She’s still on her knees, and I kneel down, too, so we are at eye level. Her chest rises and falls, reminding me how perfectly her breasts filled the white bra.
