Chapter 14
He’s waving a gun around like it’s second nature, and the feelings I get from him aren’t that of a man who has lived his life in the bush. He’s fluent in two languages and has a lethal air about him, to boot. One that gives more organized crime vibes than anything else. But what would a man like him be doing out here?
It makes no sense. As he continues to grow impatient, I remove my pants. I know I smell. Even though I’ve gone nose blind to it after the third day of being here. Likely that’s why he wants me stripped down. But taking a moment to scan my eyes over the room as I drop my pants tells me he tortures people down here. Or at least that’s what it looks like.
How did I sign up for a reality show and end up in the murder basement of a man who looks like a Greek god?
His eyes widen, and I realize why. I’d given up wearing underwear until I could wash them in some boiled water tomorrow. My bare pussy sits on display, and he steps toward me.
Fear licks at me as his heavy breaths rain down from above when he steps into my space. My ass hits the cool leather of the medical-style table behind me, and I white-knuckle the edge.
“J”ai besoin de voir tout le repas,” he says, and my brain works through the words. The more he speaks the language, the more it’s coming back to me. — “I need to see the entire meal.”
I shiver as he sets his gun down off to the right, too far away for me to grab. His knee comes up and brushes my core as he pulls a blade from a sheath at his side.
He cuts through the middle of my bra, between my breasts, and they both spring free heavily.
I know I’m supposed to remain even-keel, but his presence is so overwhelming. He’s commanding, even while he’s not speaking. If he told me to kneel at his fucking feet right now, I don’t think I’d question it, and it bothers me.
“Je me demande à quel point cette chatte va saigner pour moi.” The depth of his tone has my mind at a standstill momentarily as he skims the blade down my belly and lets the tip of it nip the flesh of my folds. — “I wonder how pretty this cunt will bleed for me.”
His words halt my breathing, but it’s not fear rippling through me, and shame follows soon after once I realize it. Arousal permeates, and my lower belly grows warm and heavy.
I don’t know if he drew blood, and part of me wonders if I care.
“Viens!” — “Come.”
He grabs his gun and turns, heading back up the steps. The stairs creak under his weight. Power flickers from a lightbulb overhead, and after days of being in a hut in the middle of the cold, it’s a welcome sight.
I follow him, not wanting to make him come back down for me. I grab my things off the floor. He seemed to want to lock me down here, but now he’s leading me back upstairs. I’ve no time to understand the brute, though.
I’m trying to survive still.
I wonder if the show will come to check on me. Toward the one-month mark, there are medical checks. That’s three weeks away from now, though. So, if he murders me by then, no one will know I’m here.
No one will ever find me.
I stop and stand still in the living area as he goes into what looks to be a bedroom.
My mom.
Oh, god. She’s going to mourn another ghost. She will not have a body to bury. I’m going to be missing, just like he still is.
“Viens!” — “Come!”
I nod, breath shaking as I move again, following him inside the room. It’s nothing fancy, but the bed looks so soft. There’s a down comforter on it and fluffy pillows. The entire room is wood from floor to ceiling, other than the paned window that overlooks the dark exterior.
Water turns on from the small room he’s walked into, and my heart soars in my chest.
“Holy hell, is that running water? How do you have water? How do you have power? Why are you out here?” I pepper him with questions, and he grunts at all of them.
He swings his gun again. “Laver!” — “Wash!”
He sits on the bed’s edge, motioning with his head for me to go on. Frustration is growing on his face, and something else is floating in his once-dead eyes. But I can’t quite put my finger on it.
There’s an assortment of soaps, all new, in the shower, as well as a wash rag that likewise looks new.
From the first touch of the hot water on my flesh, I groan. I swear I hear a hiss from outside the shower, but I ignore him. My muscles uncoil, and my bones beg to sag as heat I haven’t felt in days oozes through me.
The happiness I feel has me wondering what the fuck I was trying to prove by being out in the middle of nowhere.
“Ne laisse pas un endroit non lavé, lapin,” my captor says, closer to the shower curtain now, and I jump and nearly scream. He’s standing just beyond it, gun peeling the curtain back as my eyes meet his. —“Don’t leave a spot unwashed, bunny.”
A shiver tries to make its way through my body at how he’s devouring me with his hungry eyes, but I don’t allow it to pass.
Still, the same deep longing I felt downstairs throbs in my pussy, and I can’t ignore it. I lather soap between my hands, shifting the bubbles into my right hand before slipping the suds between my folds, lifting one leg, to ensure he can not only see what I’m doing but that I don’t miss any angle where filth could’ve gotten.
I’ll admit, it’s a dangerous game I’m playing, toying with a killer, but survival instincts kick in when we need them most, right?
I ignore the idea that it might not be what this is. Or that I have some dark fetish that begs me to demand he come in the shower and wash me himself.
Because that’s surely not what this is.
“Le savon ne peut pas nettoyer la saleté comme la v?tre,” he says, letting the curtain go and stalking off, and my chest stings at the dig. — “Soap can’t clean filth like yours away.”
I rinse and grab the towel hanging on the towel rack just outside the tub, then dry my body off. I feel ten pounds lighter and a tiredness I’ve never known has sunken into my bones.
My captor is just beyond the bathroom, leaning against the bedroom door that’s open outwardly.
He nods toward the bed. “Montez vous allez,” he says. — “Up you go.”
Something about the order—one that sounds more like he’s speaking to a child—makes my stomach spin. But I listen. Dropping the towel to the floor, I think better of it, turning my backside towards him and bending over to retrieve it.
“Sorry,” I say in apology, setting it on the end of the bed neatly as I crawl under the soft blanket. I moan softly at the feel of the blanket and the way my body sinks into the plush mattress.
He holsters his gun, muscles rippling through the arm of his long sleeve.
“Main au-dessus de votre tête.” — “Hand above your head.”
”Wha—” My question is cut off as his hand tightens around my wrist, and I feel the cold metal of a handcuff securing me to the sturdy, solid wood bed frame. I rustle against it, metal clinking against metal, but it’s secure.
He leans too close over my face, looking deep into my eyes, and it feels as if he can see through them to the very soul beneath. “I conigli non dovrebbero schernire i lupi. Ma sono contento che tu abbia deciso di farlo. Dormi, bel coniglietto. Perché come farai a scappare, altrimenti?” — “Bunnies shouldn”t taunt wolves. But I am glad you”ve decided to. Sleep, beautiful bunny. For how will you escape otherwise?”
I blink up at him, licking my lips instinctively. I don’t know what he’s said, but I’ll be damned if I hadn’t had to fight every urge in every molecule to remain still.
I’m his captive, and yet the lines are blurring already.
I kind of want to be.
He gets to the door and turns. “E adoro quando le vittime corrono.” — “And I love when victims run.”
* * *
It’smy first day as a prisoner, and I’ve been allowed to get out of the bed and my cuffs, but he’s always got a weapon. I know how fast he is already since I tried to make for the door as he was fixing my breakfast.
Now, I’m learning my lesson the hard way. I’m sitting in his lap, trying my damnedest not to shift, as he hasn’t given me a scrap of clothing. He’s hand-feeding me every piece of food. Even though it should be degrading to the millionth degree, I feel cared for.
This has to be Stockholm syndrome rearing its ugly head, but I lasted in the wild longer than I’ve lasted in captivity. He gave me Italian soaps, a plush place to sleep, and is hand-feeding me, and I’m ready to worship at his feet and sing his praises already?
It’s got to be fucking hunger.
That’s all it is. I agree with my brain.
“Quella è una brava ragazza. Mangia per papà,” he says, and I still. A few of the words are ones I know, and if he’s just said what I thought he said… — “That’s a good girl. Eat up for Daddy.”
Alyssa has a Daddy kink, and she’s told me some things she’s done with some of her passing fancies. I’ve always thought it was all so absurd, but the way my fucking pussy just clenched with thrill is something I’m ashamed to admit. Even to myself.
I clear my throat as he picks up another strawberry, lifting it to my mouth. I open, eyes meeting his as he turns me onto one leg, his arm coming around me, hand resting on the top of my thigh.
I nearly whimper.
When the berry slides into my mouth, I close my lips around it. His lids grow heady as I lick the juices from my lips.
This is pure insanity. I should plot my fucking escape. But he took my clothes, all but ensuring I couldn’t go anywhere. His bedroom door locks with a key, so there’s no stealing any of his.
What if this is my way of escaping?
The thought settles as I maintain eye contact with him. I notice the black rims around his brown eyes, and can”t help but wonder if it”s a genetic trait or a reflection of his darkening soul. It’s clear he’s killed before.
Clear he’s more than a man in the wilderness.
No one lives out here of their own choosing. He’s hiding from something. To survive, I need to fall in with him. Make him want to keep me. Make him fucking crave me.
That’s when a plan forms.
I’m going to be his good little girl. Until he’s complacent enough that I can run.
No matter how long it takes, I’ll survive.