Chapter Eleven
Descent into Darkness
Kyle
Kyle stirred, waking with a start. Scanning the bedroom, he realized the space had filled with shadows since they’d fallen asleep.
It must be nighttime again.
How long had they been lost in his bedroom?
It seemed as though they’d been holed up in there for days, their time enmeshed with cuffs, ropes, and drama, yet still, she was there in his arms, her warm skin melding to his. She was safe, and he was happy.
Amy.
Kissing the back of her head lightly, he inched away from her. He didn’t want to wake her and hoped the additional rest would see her wake in a brighter, more hopeful mood, so slipping out of the sheets quietly and leaving her be seemed like the best idea.
He tugged the blankets up to cover her shoulders, scanning the disheveled bed. More than one fray had taken place there recently, from her fine form being spread-eagled in his cuffs to the way he’d dropped her back there after their impromptu but incredibly gratifying fuck. It had been one hell of a ride.
“I love you, little girl.” Whispering the words, he backed away, his thoughts returning to the tangle of their relationship.
After all the angst, they’d managed to find a sense of serenity in the onslaught. He was still angry that she’d found his files and didn’t doubt that she was still upset by what she’d found, but he hoped the pleasure they’d created in the wake of her spanking had reminded them both what their relationship was all about. They’d found something together that was special—something worth fighting for.
Finding his robe on the back of the bathroom door, he slipped it over his shoulders and flicked on a standing lamp at the far end of the suite. The light spread pale illumination over his half of the room but did nothing to disturb his lover. Hunger clawed at his stomach, reminding him it had been hours since either of them had eaten. Whatever the time was, he could head downstairs and rustle up something for them.
Tying the belt at his middle, the thought pleased him. He wasn’t much of a chef, but he was sure he could come up with an omelet. He’d leave her in bed until then and wake her with a hot meal. It didn’t matter that their body clocks were out of sync. They could talk and fuck some more, then rest again. So long as they were together, everything was okay. He was sure their routines would eventually fall back into line with the rest of the world.
Smiling at the certainty of the feelings swelling within him, he glanced back at the sleeping woman in his bed, but rather than the hope and joy he’d expected to resonate at the sight of her, it was that old sense of paranoia that tugged. He’d tried to talk to her about the way she’d behaved, about the ranting and swearing that had led to his needing to bind her, but despite his best efforts, he hadn’t really found much reassurance.
Predictably, she’d seemed more exasperated with his behavior and had refused to accept much responsibility for her plight. Her undiluted defiance made it difficult for him to truly trust her.
Doubt knotted in his gut as he edged closer to the end of the bed. He despised the urge to fetter her again, not because he loathed the binds—he loved them—but because of what they represented. The cuffs still hanging from his bed weren’t gestures of erotic surrender or his desire to pleasure her but signs of his distrust.
Leave her, then. The thought echoed in his mind, taunting him. Leave her and let her prove that she’s trustworthy.
All well and good… the opposing view snarled. But what happens when she wakes, discovers I’m gone, and goes sniffing around for a way out?
Anxiety furled in his throat, temporarily cutting off his oxygen supply. She’d still be angry, and she’d want to leave him.
I can’t let that happen!
Resolve settled over him.
“I have to bind her.” His voice was low as he crept around the side of the bed. “To keep her safe.”
Grabbing the nearest cuff, he tugged it close to his sleeping beauty. Sprawled out in his absence, one of her arms was strewn fortuitously in his direction, and with a little effort, he was convinced he could persuade both her flesh and the metal to meet.
His plan did little to assuage the twisting energy inside him. It wasn’t like Kyle to be anxious about things or second guess himself. He was a man of confidence, but falling in love meant he was vulnerable for the first time in a long time, and while he adored Amy, he didn’t appreciate the way his feelings for her made him susceptible.
His heart galloped as, moving her arm gently toward the metal, he slid the bracelet over her wrist. The sound of the lock fitting into place reverberated louder than any click he’d ever heard, her soft moan at the subtle shift in position almost robbing him of breath.
“Oh!” She mewled, stirring as her wrist adapted to its new position.
Don’t wake up!
Holding his breath, he froze. If she woke up at that moment, she’d be angry about the cuff. Better that she settled and slept while he whipped up something nutritious from them both. If she was calm, he’d release her when he returned.
Relief washed over him as she slipped back into a rhythmic breathing pattern, the sounds of her relaxed air intake convincing him it was time to move. Retreating slowly across the carpet, he prayed to whatever entity he was supposed to believe in that the addition to her wrist didn’t disturb her again. His hopes rose when he reached the door, his fingers searching for the handle while his gaze remained riveted to the bed.
She was asleep and apparently unaffected by the unforgiving bind attached to her wrist. He’d got away with the deed—for the time being.
Pulling the door open, he maneuvered around it and slipped into the black hall. He pushed the door closed behind him and released the air he’d been holding on to.
Thank God.
He’d race to the kitchen and prepare something she’d enjoy—it was the least he could do after keeping her as his captive.
It was time for a new start.
Time for their love to solidify and for trust to be rebuilt.
Kyle couldn’t wait to see how happy Amy would be when she saw the effort he’d gone to.
***
Amy
It was the strangest thing. Amy was falling through the air, feeling the wind rushing past her face, her hair whipped back behind her and her body supported by the enveloping gusts, yet there wasn’t the faintest flicker of fear inside her. Contrary to terror, in fact, she recognized the emotion growing inside as excitement—a tingling ball of nerves that bristled with hope and joy. She was free—free to tumble through the clouds and dance with the airflow, free to be herself—and there wasn’t anyone who could control her.
“Yes!”
She wasn’t actually sure if she spoke, but the word definitely flitted through her mind as she somersaulted.
She was thankful.
After so long confined by rules, debt, and guilt, she was liberated, and even though her sudden emancipation made no sense, she didn’t seem to care. She’d been cartwheeling through the atmosphere for an unquantifiable amount of time, and no ill harm had come to her. The ground wasn’t getting any closer, and there was no sign of dread curling in her tummy—life had rarely been so good—so she intended to revel in the protracted pleasure and just be Amy.
The Amy whose children had all grown up and no longer needed her, the Amy whose debts were finally paid off, and the Amy who had inserted some well-needed boundaries into her life. She was an Amy who’d finally got her shit together.
The very best Amy possible.
Exhilarated, she threw her arms back behind her and closed her eyes. On some logical level, Amy accepted the blue skies around her weren’t real—they couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible that she could be flying, but it was easy to subdue her logical mind in the undulating sanctuary of her utopian dreamscape.
Life there was perfect, and she was cool, content, and empowered.
In the depths of the wondrous place she found herself in, there was no pain or injustice—only the deep, grounding sense that everything was possible and that any thing she wanted was within her grasp.
Throwing her head back, she called out with glee, amazed that her heavy and often troubled mind had contrived something so incredible, and for those few sublime moments, that was all she needed—euphoria as she cartwheeled.
It wasn’t until she tried to lower her arms that the initial, niggling doubt seeped back into her consciousness. Her left one slipped back to her side with the same ease and grace the quality of all her movement seemed to have, but the right one was stuck—forced outright and unable to move to her will.
Why?
She turned her head to find the answer, her brow furrowing when there was no obvious ill. Her arm was zooming through the blue just like the rest of her—so what was wrong?
Deep down, the answer resonated. Something was different—some tiny dynamic in the idyllic landscape had changed, and she hadn’t consented to the shift.
But this is my dream!
She lifted her chin in defiance, certain suddenly that’s where she was—in a dream—the most marvelous dream she could ever remember enjoying, even though her right arm still wouldn’t budge.
Yanking at the limb harder, she realized abruptly that the world around had altered. The blue skies she’d relished had vanished, replaced by a suffocating grayscale interior she didn’t recognize and one that seemed to be closing in all around her.
Silently, insidiously, the walls about her shifted, forcing the space she’d been thrust into to grow smaller, and still, however hard she struggled, she couldn’t get her blasted right arm to shift from its awkward position.
She searched the sky, hoping for a reprieve, but there, too, her freedom had been replaced by a cell, ever-decreasing in size and apparently determined to pulverize her.
Panic spiraled, threatening to explode from her in a giant cry if she didn’t get a grip on her emotions, but there was no ‘getting a grip’ on terror as pervasive as the sort ballooning in her belly. When the sinister wall on the right grazed her outstretched fingertips, she took a deep breath and screamed.
It was a cry that came from her soul—pure fear laced with panicked frustration—and it pierced the bubble of sleep that had cradled her.
Bursting awake with a gasp, she jolted upright in bed, aware that she might actually have hollered in real life. Her lips were still parted, her breaths labored with alarm as her senses finally accepted the nightmare hadn’t been real.
She was in Kyle’s expensive bedroom suite, the vast space illuminated by a single lamp at the far end of the room, and as she twisted to look, she realized what had stirred her—her right wrist was trapped in one of his pairs of handcuffs.
The dull inevitability of her bondage was crushing. He’d cuffed her again—even after all the bullshit he’d told her about loving her.
“Shit!” She tugged at the metal, already knowing the effort was pointless. “I can’t believe it.”
The sex, the orgasms, and the cuddles—all the time and attention he’d invested in her—had all meant nothing to him. In the end, she was nothing but his captive—a thing he could torment and bind at will.
Her head pounded at her conclusion, but her growing misery made it no less accurate. Kyle couldn’t love her. If he had, he wouldn’t have cuffed her and insisted she use the dehumanizing bucket. She was only his property—another thing he could own and control—like the cars, staff, and house.
The sound of a message alert on her phone reverberated from the other side of the bed, and heart racing, her focus landed on the device, illuminated by the incoming message. She’d left it there when she’d dressed as his maid and gone to ‘clean’ in his office, but however hard she tried to grasp it at that moment, her fingers couldn’t quite reach, the metal at her wrist depriving her of the inches required.
“Damn it!” Frustration furled at the loss.
She couldn’t even reach her own phone.
It might be Seth trying to reach her—or Jonah—and she hated the thought that they were trying to get in touch and might be worried by her radio silence. What if Seth needed money or somewhere to stay? She had to be there for him, had to find a way to reach the bloody phone, but however hard she strained, she couldn’t convince the cuff to permit her. Her exertion was all in vain.
“Fuck it!” Angry tears pricked in her eyes.
Kyle might have paid her debt and, in doing so, changed her life forever, but that didn’t mean he owned her.
She wasn’t his.
That’s how he sees me. She hugged the blankets closer. I’m a whore he can fuck, who he thinks will come running back for more.
The idea was soul-destroying. She had to be stronger, had to erect boundaries to protect herself, but how could she do any of those things when he wouldn’t even leave the room without cuffing her?
A smothering sense of infuriation bloomed, making it all but impossible to follow a logical train of thought. As her tears fell thick and fast, she let out another bloodcurdling screech.