Catching Pretty (Lovely Broken Doll #2)

2. Ava

AVA

I woke to darkness. My head pounded, my thoughts slow and sluggish, like they were wading through mud.

For a second, I didn’t know where I was, didn’t know why I couldn’t see. Panic flooded my chest, tightening around my lungs, as I tried to blink away the blackness—until I realized something was tied around my head, my eyelids pressing against cool silk.

A blindfold.

Oh God.

I jerked my arms, only to feel the sharp bite of rope cutting into my wrists. I was tied down—my hands, my ankles—everything was bound.

The chair beneath me creaked with my frantic movements as I struggled against the restraints, the rough fibers digging into my skin still raw.

My heart thundered in my chest, the echoes of my pulse deafening in my ears. Every breath felt too loud, too sharp in the oppressive silence surrounding me as my last memories slammed back into me.

Cormac had kidnapped me and tied me up in a basement. He was handing me over to… them . To the High Lord of a dangerous secret society.

Oh God.

The High Lord had killed Cormac, slit his throat right in front of me.

I thought it was Scáth wearing the skeleton mask. I had been so sure it was Scáth who came for me in that cellar.

But it hadn’t been.

Scáth would have me in his arms by now, his heat radiating against my ice-cold skin.

He wouldn’t have been able to hold himself back from me. He didn’t have the kind of self-restraint to leave me like this to wake up alone, struggling against the thick fog in my mind.

He would have forced me awake, claimed me roughly and passionately, marked me as his. With teeth. With tongue. With his cock.

Whoever had been standing over me, hidden in the shadows of that black hood, hadn’t been Scáth. I didn’t know much, but I knew I wasn’t saved.

My torment wasn’t over.

If anything, it was just beginning.

Oh God. The High Lord had been stalking me as well.

And now, he had me. God knows where.

I strained my ears, trying to make out any sounds around me. A voice, a footstep, distant traffic—anything that would tell me where I was.

And if I was alone. Or if he was in here with me .

But all I could hear was my own ragged breathing, loud and erratic, drowning out everything else. I was shaking, my chest rising and falling too fast, and the blindfold pressed tighter against my face with every panicked breath.

Calm down, Ava.

My throat tightened with fear, but I forced myself to focus, to take slow, measured breaths. In and out. In and out.

My breathing steadied, just enough for me to try again. I listened, this time with more control, forcing myself to stay quiet.

But I didn’t hear anything. No voices, no footsteps. Nothing but the oppressive silence and the darkness pressing in on me.

Not the distant sound of cars passing. No birds. Where the hell was I that I could hear nothing ?

I had to get loose.

The rope cut into my wrists as I flexed my fingers, testing the knots again, but they didn’t budge.

I tried to pull at my legs but I was bound tightly to two wooden chair legs, forcing my thighs apart. I couldn’t even press my knees together.

Cool air on my inner thighs made my skin goose pimple. And I realized based on the weight and feeling on my skin that I wasn’t wearing the same clothes as before.

The High Lord had redressed me.

I was wearing something lightweight. Silk? And it felt loose around my breasts but tight around my waist. Gods, it was short, barely covering my thighs.

He had stripped me and redressed me in some sort of silk robe .

Panic surged against the lingering effects of the drugs when I tried to place my hands over myself—an instinctive response—but they too were tied tightly.

A muffled sound came from my right and I snapped my head to face it—whatever it was.

The strong scent of jasmine wafted from my hair. My freshly washed hair.

I realized that I no longer felt dried cracking mud or a gritty film on my skin.

Fuck, did that asshole bathe me as well? And using my jasmine shampoo?

Did he steal it from my bathroom or… had he bought it specially for me because he knew it was my favorite?

I shivered, a cold sweat breaking out over my whole body, because I wasn’t sure what was worse.

I imagined my masked stalker touching my naked body, his breath heavy under his skeleton mask, taking fucking liberties with my body.

I repressed a shudder and tried to ignore the strange awareness that had flooded to my core. I was way too exposed. Too vulnerable like this.

More unsettling than the fact that my kidnapper was playing with me like a fucking doll was the uncertainty of why he had kept me alive.

What did he want with me?

I couldn’t stick around to find out. I had to get out of here now , before he came back.

Panic gnawed at the edges of my mind, but I shoved it down, focusing on the rope digging into my wrists.

I fumbled with my right hand, twisting my wrist painfully against the rough fibers, trying to find any slack, any way to loosen it. My fingers strained, shaking with effort, but I had to keep going. I couldn’t just sit here.

The air felt too still, too heavy, pressing down on me like a weight, thick and suffocating. My heart pounded in my chest, each thud echoing in the quiet.

And then, out of nowhere, there was a soft creak.

The door opening.

My breath hitched, my blood running cold as the sound sliced through the silence.

Then I heard the footsteps.

They weren’t rushed. Slow, deliberate—each step landing heavily on what sounded like old wooden floorboards before being muffled, probably by a rug.

The measured pace felt torturous against the racing of my heart. Each step seemed to stretch time, the steady rhythm mocking the frantic chaos inside me.

My breath caught in my throat as every step felt like a countdown, each one heavier than the last.

Closer. And closer.

He was coming.

Each footfall sent another wave of panic crashing through me, but I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. The blindfold pressed harder against my eyes as I sat frozen, helpless, waiting for the inevitable.

Until I could practically feel the vibrations in the floor beneath my chair.

I became hyper-aware of how exposed I was. From behind my blindfold it felt like I was splayed open for him, the delicate edge of the robe ending way up my thigh, and there was nothing I could do to draw my knees closer together .

My heartbeat slammed even louder in my ears when I realized I wasn’t wearing any panties.

Bastard.

He could see me. All of me.

I imagined the hungry way he was looking at me over his skeleton mask, thinking through all the ways he could violate me while I remained entirely unable to stop him.

The footsteps ceased right in front of me and silence flooded back in.

I smelled his masculine scent—his dark and earthy scent of musk and sandalwood—through flared nostrils, my breath coming shallow and fast.

The same scent from the cellar, from Cormac’s killer, from my kidnapper.

I knew it was the High Lord, the same man who had approached me beneath his mask with disinterest, who had injected me with a needle without sympathy.

I trembled as I waited for something to happen, for him to grab me, slap me, hit me till I recorded a ransom message for Ebony, lip busted and nipples bruised.

But all he did was stand in front of me. Gawking at me, I bet.

I could just make out his controlled breathing if I held my breath for long enough.

He must have been the one to bathe and redress me. Had he touched me while I’d been under? Raped me? Would I know if I had been?

I shifted in my chair. My pussy didn’t feel sore.

But surely there was a reason he’d dressed me and tied me to that chair.

Maybe he wanted me awake for whatever he had planned .

I wanted him to just come out with it already. Just fucking do it already, whatever sick, twisted thing he was going to do to me.

I bit back a scream as the silence threatened to drive me mad, his eyes devouring whatever he pleased. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

“W-who are you?” I said, my voice shaking with false bravado. I had no power. No leverage. Nothing.

I was completely at his mercy. Under his control.

“What do you want?” I tried again.

He pressed something cold against my lips.

I whimpered in fear and turned my face away out of instinct.

He grabbed my chin with strong, calloused fingers, forcing it back, harder this time.

Plastic cracked against my teeth and ice water dripped down my chin, soaking through the gauzy material of my robe. The chill made my nipples hard and I was certain I was giving him a wet t-shirt show.

But I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of drinking the water. God knows what kind of drug it was laced with. I spit it out, hoping some of it hit his face.

Take that, bastard.

More water dribbled over my lips.

An iron hand clamped onto my jaw and this thumb applied pressure to a muscle at the side of my cheek which opened my mouth against my will.

I choked on the water he poured down my throat, the terror of drowning seizing my chest like a fist.

When I started to cough violently, bucking in the chair, he threw my face away roughly with a tsk .

My chin sagged to my chest, water still dripping from it. My breasts and lap were soaked.

“W-what do you want with me?” I said, biting back tears.

He grabbed my chin again and raised my face back up, jamming his fingers into the sides of my cheeks so I couldn’t close my mouth.

I heard a sick squelch and he forced a finger into my mouth.

It was sweet. A banana mashed into a wet paste.

It disgusted me, him feeding me like that.

It was vulgar, the way his finger smeared the food across my tongue, the way he kept my mouth open with his other hand and pushed so easily past my lips.

It was a violation.

At last, his finger left my mouth. And he loosened the fingers of his other hand so I could chew.

I thought about spitting the banana out at him, too.

But my stomach growled. I was starving. Depending on how long I’d been unconscious, it could have been days since I’d last eaten.

And I didn’t want to make a mess across my clothes. Water would dry. But if I spilled food, I didn’t want to find out if he would change me again.

I swallowed the banana.

To my horror, he stroked my hair as if to say, good girl.

His hand returned to my jaw and his finger returned to my mouth, coated in more banana.

This time, I didn’t exactly let him. But I didn’t fight him either.

Like the first time, after I swallowed, he stroked my hair.

A strange sensation settled into my lower belly .

The next time, I may have licked him a little as he withdrew his finger. An involuntary flick of my tongue.

I was just trying to get it all. At least, that’s what I told myself.

He fed me several more times and each time I licked him a little more hungrily, sucking just a little harder.

Each time his finger stayed in my mouth just a little longer, his good girl head stroke lingering more and more.

My mouth opened wider for him and I enveloped his finger with my tongue, drawing along its full length to get every last taste.

Then I heard him: a small deep masculine groan escaping his lips. A crack in his control.

He grabbed my neck and I gasped with surprise. He plunged two fingers into my mouth; there was no food this time and neither was there controlled patience.

I gagged as he began to finger my mouth.

My wrists strained against my bindings, but there was absolutely no give. I just had to take it as he thrust his fingers in and out.

If I tried to bite down, he tightened his grip on my jaw, forcing my mouth open once more.

My stomach muscles contracted and I thought I was going to throw up. He did not relent.

If anything, he brutalized my mouth harder, fucking it with his fingers like it was my pussy.

Over my muffled groans, I strained to hear him again, whether it was a grunt of twisted arousal or just a quickened breath.

But he was as silent as the grave.

My mind tried to tell me that it was wrong, nasty .

But heat began to grow between my legs, my nipples straining against the delicate silk fabric.

A moan bubbled up around his thrusting fingers as I imagined my masked stalker fucking me with those fingers, holding me in place with his strong hands.

It was too easy to imagine behind my blindfold that this was just a twisted little game we were playing.

I found myself sucking at his fingers, flicking my tongue along the grooves of his fingerprints.

What the fuck was wrong with me? I hardly understood it myself, getting turned on by my kidnapper’s abuse of my mouth.

Heat pooled deeper in my stomach as my eyelashes fluttered against my silk blindfold.

The room that I was being held in had become stiflingly hot, the air thick and unmoving. It condensed on my skin like I’d been fucking for hours.

He kicked back the chair and I whimpered, my body flailing against my binds as I fell back. But he caught the chair, held it on two legs, holding me by my throat as he loomed over me and slid his fingers in and out of my mouth.

I was totally in his hands. Under his control. Under his spell.

He held me partly suspended over the floor like he was some sort of god. Or, at least in this moment, he was my god.

I began to leak from my pussy onto the wooden chair, thighs sliding with nothing between me and it. The smell of my musk filled my nostrils as I breathed through my nose .

He pulled me back suddenly, his fingers sliding from my lips, his hand leaving my throat.

I landed back down hard and rocked before stilling, sending shocks up my legs and into my core.

I swallowed big gulps of air, but the relief of being able to breathe was minor compared to the frustration of my empty mouth, my naked tongue, my aching clit.

I flinched when a damp rag pressed against the corner of my lips.

He wiped my mouth clean gently, almost tenderly.

For some reason, this was a million times more horrible after he’d choked and fingered me. I’d revealed my pleasure too easily.

He now had my moans of arousal and my humiliation and I still had nothing from him.

Not his name.

Nor his face.

Or why he kidnapped me.

Heat flooded my cheeks and I ached to be able to close my legs.

Could he smell my arousal? Could he see the shimmering moisture between my legs?

I could feel the heaviness of his gaze searing my skin as he drew the rag across my chin, down the length of my throat, and over the dampness between my breasts.

I felt the sudden urge to cry, I was so embarrassed. Had that been some kind of test? A sick twisted Stockholm Syndrome game?

He tended to me like a child. His touch feeling innocent and harmless .

And here I was, his prisoner, exposed for him. Wet for him. Like some kind of whore.

Before any tears could fall from my covered eyes, an invading fog began to fill my mind.

I shook my head from side to side, trying to clear it, but it only grew.

Soon, I could no longer keep my head up.

The food. He’d drugged it. He’d drugged me. Again .

“You fucking coward. Fuck you, asshole.” I thrashed and yanked against the ropes holding my wrists and ankles. “When I get free, I’m going to scratch out your eyes and feed them to the crows.”

But my limbs were too heavy. I sank deeper into the chair and knew it was no use. I was going to be unconscious once more. At his mercy. Pliable to his whims. I groaned with the last of my strength.

A hand sweetly cupped my cheek.

A vile hatred for him surged inside of me and for a moment, I thought I’d garnered enough energy to bite him before passing out. Teeth sinking in. Drawing blood.

Even then, I didn’t elicit a single fucking sound from him—of pain, of pleasure, I didn’t care. It was his silence I could no longer stand.

Before I was lost to the darkness, I had a single terrifying thought.

I’d been taken by a cold, emotionless psychopath.