Captive Beauty Page 3

  Only I don’t like being questioned.

  I take a step inside and drain my glass, watching her as I do. “I guess you’ll have to trust me. What choice do you have?”

  “I don’t. You took that away.”

  “No, that’s not accurate. You decided. You chose. And you can walk out of here anytime you like.”

  “At what price?”

  “You can figure that out, can’t you?”

  “My brother.”

  “You’re smarter than him. I can already tell. Now get up.”

  She drags her legs underneath her so she’s kneeling up. “I have a job, you know.”

  “Good for you. I’m going to ask you nicely once more because you’re new here. Get. The. Fuck. Up.”

  She considers, and I’m not sure if I’m disappointed that she does as I say and slides off the bed still holding her coat tight to her.

  “Let’s go have a drink.” I stand aside, gesturing to the hallway again.

  She moves, keeping her eyes on me as she passes and walks out into the hall.

  I’m behind her, herding her to the living room. Once there, I pour her a whiskey and refresh mine. Handing it to her, I take a seat on the couch, leaning sideways, one arm splayed out over the back.

  She stands awkwardly, holding her drink, unsure what to do.

  “Drink it.”

  She takes a swallow, squeezes her eyes shut as it burns her throat. I smile.

  “All of it.”

  She obviously isn’t a whiskey drinker but she’ll be more pliant with it in her. I wait while she drinks it down, making faces all along.

  “Put the glass there.” I point to the side table.

  She obeys.

  “Now let’s see what’s under that coat.”

  She starts trembling, her eyes going wide. They’re a pretty shade of green, their brightness a stark contrast under the thick bangs of her almost black hair.

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “Right now, I’m just going to watch you strip. Don’t make me do it for you. You won’t like that. Understand?”

  She nods, or it’s a tremble I mistake for a nod, but her hands move and she begins to unbutton her coat. It takes her a long time, she’s shaking so hard, but eventually, she manages, and slides it off, then holds it in front of her like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

  “Put it down there.” I point to a chair. I could give a fuck where she puts it but she needs specific instructions right now.

  Once she’s set the coat down, she stands waiting.

  “Go on. Everything off.” I sip my whiskey. Give her time to process.

  She reaches back to unhook her bra and slowly slips the straps from her shoulders. She covers her tits as long as possible, but eventually, she has to let it drop. I wait, patient because watching her fight her inevitable submission is as arousing as seeing her naked. As imagining how her mouth is going to feel wrapped around my dick.

  It takes her a full five minutes before she’s standing with her arms at her sides, her eyes on a point somewhere beyond my shoulder.

  “You need a lot of prompting. Most women are more…enthusiastic.”

  “Why don’t you go find one of those women then?”

  “Good one.” I sip, studying her, then shrug a shoulder. “They’re a dime a dozen. But you, Cilla—Jones told me you go by Cilla, is that right?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “You will make the next month interesting.” I drink another swallow. “Now show me your pussy.”

  She flushes red and it takes all I have not to laugh out loud. She strips off each stocking then slips her hands into the waistband of her panties and pushes them off, the swift movement angry. She balls it up and throws it at me.

  “Happy?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest.

  I catch her panties, bring them to my nose and inhale deeply. I let out a satisfied moan.

  Her eyes go wide as she watches me. I guess she wasn’t expecting that. I’m a dirty fuck though. She’ll learn that soon enough.

  I fold up the panties, tuck them into my pocket. I slide my gaze slowly to her pretty little pussy and examine it while she shifts on her feet.

  “Hardly,” I say in response to her earlier question. I painstakingly drag my gaze back up to hers, rise, walk to stand an inch from her. Her hands splay out on my chest to stop me from coming closer. Our eyes locked, I close my fingers over her pussy making her gasp. I’m surprised at the moisture, at the scent of arousal coming off her.

  But I don’t care about that just now. Now, I want her to heel.

  I curl my fingers in the hair and tug. She winces, pushes at me.

  “Do I need to teach you how to be respectful?”

  She swallows. I squeeze.

  “Do I?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Words.”

  “No.”

  I hold on a moment longer, then release her and step back.

  “Good.”

  When I walk to the side table to refresh my drink, she remains standing awkwardly where she is. I resume my seat and sip. She wipes at her reddened eyes.

  “Now turn around.”

  She does, and maybe she’s glad to hide her face, so it’s a win-win. I get a view of her gorgeous ass and she can hide from me when I give the next instruction.

  “Spread your legs and bend over.”

  Her hands fly to her face and I can just imagine the expression on it. I sip my drink and give her a minute before reminding her of our deal.

  “Anything. Remember that? You said you’d do anything. Are you changing your mind?” I grin, imagining her mortification. “Bend over and show me everything.”

  She continues to stand there, drops her arms to her sides. I think she’s going to do it, she’s building herself up, maybe giving herself a pep talk. What the fuck do I know? What the fuck do I care?

  “Cilla.”

  Her hands fist at her sides, knuckles going white, and slowly, she turns to face me, her green eyes narrowed to cutting slits.

  “You’re a bully. You’re no better than some rapist in a dark alley.”

  Everything changes in that moment. As soon as she utters that word, my vision goes red. I hear the pop of glass shattering, feel the sharp pain of shards slicing my hand, the liquor mixing with blood. She screams as I rise but strangely, my heartbeat hasn’t changed. It hasn’t accelerated. I’m calm. Controlled.

  But at the same time, so completely out of control.

  I take a step toward her and she takes off down the hall. I follow, stalking slowly, deliberately. She throws one look over her shoulder and slips into her room. I’m close though, so that when she slams the door, it bounces off the toe of my shoe.

  She screams, backing away, stumbling, falling backwards on the floor.

  “I’m not your whore!”

  She scrambles up, frantically looking for something, anything she can defend herself with. But she’s no match for me. I’m about to drive that point home.

  “You’re exactly my whore,” I say, each word deliberate. I wrap a hand around her throat, and, pressing her backward onto the bed, climb up to straddle her, trapping her thighs between my knees. I lean my face close to hers. I know what she sees in my eyes terrifies her. I see it.

  “I’m not a rapist. You agreed. You knew exactly what you were getting into. What you put on offer.”

  She’s clawing at my forearm, opening and closing her mouth. I squeeze, and she brings one hand to my face, her nails scratch my cheek, drawing blood.

  Blood.

  I blink.

  I see it on her neck too from where my hand is bleeding from the broken glass. It’s on her face. Her chest. Wherever my hands have been.

  Her arm falls away and I look at her eyes. I release her throat, slide off the bed. She rolls onto her side coughing, gasping for breath. I take a step back, watching her, looking at the blood on her, on myself.

  Giving a confused grunt, I turn, walk to the door.
I stop there, my back to her. I run my hands over my face, through my hair. I force my legs to move, to get out of her room. Because I don’t know what I’ll do to her if I don’t get the fuck out of her room.

  Without turning back, I take hold of the doorknob. “Don’t come out, understand? Do not come out of this room.”

  I slam the door shut and go into the living room, then through it and out onto the balcony. I don’t care that it’s pouring rain. That wind whips me like a lash. I don’t care. I stand in it, letting it wash away the blood. Letting it pelt my face. I stand in it and remember and I can’t think about anything else. Not the terrified girl in the bedroom. Not the fact that I almost killed her. Nothing.

  Because all I see is blood. So much fucking goddamned blood.

  5

  Cilla

  I lock the bedroom door. I know it won’t keep him out, but I do it anyway. Trembling, shivering, fucking freezing, I back away, covering myself. I look down at my chest, see his prints in red. I raise my hand and find skin and blood under my fingernails.

  What happened? What the fuck just happened?

  What the hell have I gotten myself into? He’s going to kill me.

  I look around the bedroom. A bed, two nightstands, one on either side of the bed, a vanity, a dresser. I go to it, begin to shove it toward the door, but the thing must weigh a thousand pounds because I can’t budge it. I give up, take the chair before the vanity and slide it beneath the doorknob. I don’t think it’ll hold if he wants to come in here, but it’s something. I open every single drawer to find a weapon, something, anything I can use to defend myself, but come up short. In the bathroom, same thing. Bottles of shampoo and conditioner, bath wash and lotions, a toothbrush in its package, toothpaste. But nothing I can use to hurt him. Maim him.

  Back in the bedroom, I listen for him. I force myself to put my ear to the door and hear nothing. There are two windows but we must be at least twenty floors off the ground. I’m not exiting that way.

  He said I could leave anytime I wanted. I can’t though. I know what that means for Jones.

  Jones. Fuck. I’m so fucking stupid. He said he’d been clean for months and I believed him. Jones, my big brother. The one who gave up so much because of me. Who lost so much.

  I sit on the edge of the bed. I remember what he went through at the house. I know why he’s the way he is. He was brave once. Courageous. But that was beaten out of him good and hard.

  Tears fill my eyes, wet my face. My stomach is empty but it feels like it’s filled with bricks. This is an impossible situation. I have to do what he says. I have to give him anything he wants. Everything he wants.

  What happened just now though makes me pause. He could have taken it tonight. He’s bigger than me. Stronger than me. He could have made me, but he didn’t. What was it that triggered his violent reaction? Not the word bully. He knows he’s that. He doesn’t care that he is that. Things changed when I accused him of being a rapist.

  I stand, shaking my head to clear the image of that glass shattering in his hand.

  He won’t take what I don’t give. But the question is, how long will he allow me to not give it?

  I walk to the bathroom, lock the door behind me and switch on the shower. The water is steaming when I step under the flow. I wince at the heat but force myself to stay and when my body adjusts to the temperature, I wash away the blood, the skin under my nails. I scrub my hair and body and only switch off the water when I can’t stand it anymore. I wipe the steam from the mirror before wrapping the towel around myself. My reflection looks back at me, my tired, reddened eyes, the bruises darkening in the shape of his fingers at my throat. I squeeze the moisture from my hair, wind it into a bun, use a rubber band I find in one of the drawers to hold it in place. I then tear open the toothbrush packaging and brush my teeth like a normal person. Like it’s a normal night. Like I’m not trapped like some animal waiting her turn for slaughter.

  When I return to the bedroom, the chair is still where I put it. He’s not here. He didn’t break down the door. He won’t, I think. I think he was as shocked at his reaction as I was.

  I pull back the thick, heavy comforter. It feels nice, luxurious. I climb into the bed naked because I have nothing to wear, but I don’t switch off the lights and somehow, I drift off to sleep.

  * * *

  I wake because I’m hungry. Famished, in fact. The clock tells me it’s been almost twenty-four hours since I’ve eaten.

  I rub my face and sit up, the events of the evening returning in vivid multicolor. How did I manage to sleep? I climb out of the bed, picking up the towel I’d discarded the night before and wrapping it around myself. It’s still raining. Still gray. It’s been raining for days. New York in the fall can be beautiful but when it rains like this, it kills me. I followed Jones here and not a day goes by where I don’t wish he’d never moved away from Colorado.

  But I can’t leave him on his own. My being here, in this penthouse, under these circumstances, is evidence of that. He’s too vulnerable. Too breakable. I need to be there to put him back together if he breaks and I feel like he’s always one step from shattering.

  I go to the bathroom and brush my teeth, then walk to the bedroom door. After listening, making sure I hear nothing, I pull the chair out.

  He told me not to leave my room but I have to. I don’t want to. God, the last thing I need is to run into him. Break one of his rules. Will he still be angry? As angry? Will he have calmed?

  I turn the doorknob, wincing at the pop of the lock releasing. It doesn’t creak as I open it wide enough to peer into the hallway. It’s empty. And it sounds like the entire penthouse is empty. There isn’t even a guard stationed at the elevator.

  The kitchen is at the other end of the living room. I’m just going to tip-toe in there, grab something to eat. I don’t want to admit that I’m going to scurry back to my room like a frightened little mouse because that’s exactly what I am right now. A scared shitless little mouse.

  The apartment is dark. No lights are on and too many clouds hide the sun. I get to the kitchen and have to wonder if he ever eats in here. It’s spotless. Not a crumb on any surface. I open the fridge, worried for a minute there won’t be any food, but it’s stocked. Shockingly full, actually. I’m about to take out a carton of juice when I hear the ding of the elevator and my heart lurches into my throat. I’m standing there, the carton in my hand in front of the refrigerator as the elevator doors slide open. A woman steps out and if she’s surprised to find a stranger wrapped in a towel standing in the kitchen, she doesn’t let on. It takes her all of one second to smile.

  “Mr. Killian said he had company,” she says.

  She’s older, maybe late fifties. And behind her a man in a suit steps off the elevator. Him I recognize. He gives me a nod. It’s the man who smashed my head into the wall last night.

  “It’s raining cats and dogs out there,” she says, setting her bag down on the kitchen counter while she takes off her coat. “Are you hungry?”

  I’m so confused.

  She comes around, takes the juice out of my hand, guides me to sit at the counter. She closes the refrigerator door.

  “I’m Helen, honey. I cook and clean here. What’s your name?”

  “Um. I’m Priscilla.” I shake my head. “Cilla.” I haven’t used Priscilla since...well, since mom died.

  “Nice to meet you, Cilla. Now, Mr. Killian said I was to take care of you.”

  He did?

  “What would you like to eat?”

  “Uh…I can grab a…granola bar or something.”

  “Nonsense. How about an omelet?” She looks me over and I’m very conscious I’m wearing only a towel. “You’re not one of those vegetarians, are you?”

  Her expression puts me at ease, at least a little. “No. I’m not.”

  “Good. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll make you a nice breakfast.”

  “Oh.” I look around the living room for my coat, panties and bra. F
ind none of them. “I don’t have any…”

  “Just a minute.”

  Well, whatever she thinks of that information, she doesn’t let on. Instead, she disappears down the hallway and returns a few minutes later with a bathrobe.

  “You’ll at least be more comfortable in this.”

  “Thank you.”

  She turns her attention to gathering the ingredients for my breakfast and I quickly slip the bathrobe on. I fold the towel and set it on the stool beside the one I sit on. The scent of bacon frying has my mouth watering.

  “Is there a phone somewhere?” I ask, emboldened.

  “Afraid not,” she says, her back to me.

  She doesn’t embellish. I get the feeling she’s been told not to let me use a phone if there is one.

  “I just wanted to check on my brother,” I try again. Maybe she has a cell phone she’ll lend me.

  “Well,” she plates up an omelet so perfect, my stomach growls in anticipation. “Mr. Killian will be here soon. I’m sure you can ask him about that. Coffee?”

  I nod and pick up my fork. Mr. Killian will be here soon. As hungry as I am, I have to force the food past the sudden lump in my throat.

  Helen makes a cup of coffee and sets it in front of me. “Cream or sugar?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well, I’d best get started. If you need anything else, holler.”

  “Thank you.”

  Helen disappears and I eat the plate of food, wondering about what’s happening. If he told her to take care of me, then maybe he’s calmed down? I’m thinking about that when the elevator dings again. I turn, sliding off my stool as Hugo enters followed by a man in a suit. He looks me over. Nods his greeting.

  I stand there like an idiot.

  “This is Doctor Horn. He’ll be handling your exam,” Hugo says to me.

  “My exam?”

  He turns to the doctor. He doesn’t bother to introduce me.

  “If I can set up?” the doctor asks Hugo.

  “Third door on the right.”

  The room I’d slept in.

  “What’s going on?” I hug the lapels of the bathrobe to me as Hugo approaches. I take a step away when he veers left with a chuckle and goes to the coffee machine. He makes himself a cup and turns to me, leans against the counter, looks me over.