10. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Julianna
A t some point I fell asleep. Angry. He turns me on and then leaves me wanting.
Needy. The last thing I remember is Creed’s mouth on me, his fingers digging into my thighs, the sound of my need and the brutal refusal at the end.
He left me unsatisfied, skin crawling and every muscle in a slow-burn spasm.
A textbook act of psychological warfare, but I am not in the business of surrender.
Fucking asshole. Now I’m horny, angry and kidnapped.
I lie back on the mattress, just breathing.
The air is cold, thinner than before, and it burns a little as it moves in and out.
I can still smell him on me; smoke and sweat and blood, maybe my own.
My wrists are raw but not bleeding. My thighs are tacky with slick that’s already gone stale.
I hate that he left me like this, but I hate even more how much I want him to come back.
Don’t let him win.
The cuffs rattle against the chain. I flex my hands, then my feet, the ache fading but never leaving. I count the seconds. At seventy-three, I sit up and scan the room to see what he did while I was passed out. There’s a folded towel at the edge of the bed now, and next to it food.
Another sandwich. Two of them, crusts trimmed, plated nicely. Well, as nice as it could be for what it is. Not even a psycho can resist that level of control.
I want to sneer, to toss the plate and send a message, but my stomach is a black hole and I’m starving, so I eat.
Not like an animal though, just slow, deliberate, biting each perfect wedge and chewing until it dissolves on my tongue.
The bread is whole wheat, the meat some kind of turkey.
Boring, but it’s food. You eat it and shit it out.
He didn’t poison it… probably. Or maybe he did, but what would be the point?
There are so many easier ways to kill me than by deli slice.
When I finish, I lick my fingers clean. I leave the plate on the floor, just out of reach of the bed, and I make a show of it. If he’s watching, and I know he is, I want him to see how little I care.
Eventually, boredom wins. I try to pace, but the chain is too short, so I sit on the mattress and stretch my legs until the cuffs dig in. I flex my toes, point and flex. The lack of movement is driving me nuts. I miss the gym.
I talk to myself. Out loud, at first, then just inside my head.
“What’s the plan, Dr. Whitmore? You gonna wait for Daddy Creed to come home and save you?”
No.
There’s only me.
And the only way out is if he lets me out.
Or if I get him inside the room and make him regret it.
My mind spins.
Then, in a lull between the hunger and the hate, I see it.
In the far corner, above the door, barely visible against the gray concrete, is a tiny black eye.
It’s small. Smaller than my thumb. The lens is dark, opaque, but I can sense the presence behind it. The audience.
A slow smile spreads across my face as the idea forms. He left me wanting and needy and the only power I have down here is giving myself what he didn’t. If he wants a show, I’ll give him a show.
I stand, the cuffs clanking, and move as far as the chain will allow. I plant myself dead center in the camera’s view, every inch of me on display. I don’t bother with subtlety, he’s already seen me at my worst, so there’s no point in playing shy.
“Is this what you want, Creed?” I say, voice just above a whisper. “You like watching me suffer? You like seeing me lose?”
I peel the t-shirt up until it rests on top of my tits. My skin prickles in the cold, nipples hardening instantly. I know what I look like, pale, lacking in nutrition, covered in bruises and bite marks. But the knowledge just makes me bolder.
I run my hands down my body, slow and theatrical, fingers tracing every mark he left.
My thighs are a mess, smeared with dried slick, the bruises on my hips in the shape of his hands.
I scratch at them, digging my nails in, then let my hands wander lower.
Turning, I saunter back to the bed and lay down, spreading my legs, angled just so he can’t see between them before locking my eyes on the lens.
“This is what you want, isn’t it?” I say. “You want to see me break?”
I slide two fingers inside myself, slow at first, just for the sensation.
My pussy is swollen, oversensitive, still aching for release.
I work myself, pressing my thumb to my clit and circling, building the pressure with every stroke.
The pleasure is sharp, edged with anger, but it’s pleasure all the same.
I keep my eyes on the camera the whole time.
“You want to see me come?” I say, louder now. “You want to see how fucking desperate you’ve made me?”
I move my hand faster, the sound beautifully loud in the silence. I add a third finger, stretching myself open, and fuck I can’t believe how empty I feel, how badly I want him inside me, how much I want to win at this stupid game. I rub my clit harder, breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
“Is this enough for you?” I whisper. “Is this what you need?”
I imagine him on the other side, watching with his cock in his hand, stroking himself to the sight of me. I imagine him furious, wanting to break in and punish me, but unable to do a damn thing except watch.
Other than barge in here and take me like the wanton slut I want to be for him.
The idea makes me wetter, makes my hips roll against my hand. I arch my back, squeeze my eyes shut, and force myself over the edge.
I come, loud and ugly, screaming his name just to spite him.
“Creed,” I say, the word a curse, a prayer, a fucking surrender.
My back collapses onto the mattress, thighs shaking, every nerve on fire. My skin is slick with come, my hand soaked. I laugh, a dry, broken sound.
I roll to my side, facing the camera.
“Fuck you,” I say, soft, almost gentle.
Closing my eyes, sleep claims me like a monster in the dark.
I dream of nothing. No operating room, no screaming patients, no bleeding out on cold tile. Just empty, blessed quiet.
When I wake, the bulb is flickering, the air just as cold, but something’s different. I blink, sit up, and see a fresh plate of food on the floor. This time, it’s eggs. Scrambled, perfectly fluffy, with a side of toast and a single orange wedge. Next to it is a bottle of water, unopened.
A giggle escapes me, unbidden. “You’re such a fucking creep,” I say, but I eat anyway.
The eggs are good. Better than sandwiches at least. I know he can cook, but maybe his amenities are limited upstairs.
Not that I’d know. Yet.
Maybe if I play along he will let me out.
When I’m finished, I crawl back onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. I don’t look at the camera, but I know it’s there. I know he’s there.
I wait.
The wait is short, and I perk up at the sound of the lock disengaging. Not a simple click, but a long, mechanical groan that vibrates through the frame and into my bones. My first instinct is to close my eyes, feign sleep, but that’s coward shit and I have a reputation to uphold.
So I wait, eyes wide, and watch as the door swings open.
Creed stands in the entrance, backlit by whatever counts for daylight in this place.
For a second, the contrast is so harsh I can’t read his face, just the silhouette, broad shoulders, the suggestion of hands at his sides, the subtle tension that means he’s fighting the urge to run.
Or to kill. Or to fuck. I’m not sure which.
He’s wearing the same thing as yesterday, black t-shirt, black jeans, boots that don’t make a sound on the concrete.
But his hair is different, slightly damp, as if he only just now remembered to wash the blood and sweat off his body.
His eyes find me at once, and there’s a flash of satisfaction when his gaze roams my half nakedness.
I don’t flinch, but instead pull the shirt up further and arch my back.
If he wants to be an asshole, I will be too.
Let him look. If he’s going to break me, I want him to see exactly what that looks like.
He says, “Ready to be a good girl today?”
The voice is low, stripped of the taunting music it carried yesterday. There’s a new edge to it, a note of fatigue. He’s tired, maybe. Maybe the sight of me, still unbroken, has cost him more than he wants to admit.
I sit up on the bed, arms at my sides, tits on display. I make a point of meeting his gaze, lifting my chin, exposing the marks he left on my throat.
“Never,” I say, and mean it.
He moves to the corner, leaning. He stands there for a long time, just looking. His eyes roam my body with forced detachment, but every now and then the mask slips and I see the wolf underneath. Hungry. Impatient.
He says nothing as he crosses the room, stopping at the edge of the mattress.
I expect him to grab me, to throw me down and fuck me until I’m sobbing. Instead, he kneels.
Just like that. Six foot four of apex predator, on his knees at the foot of my bed.
He reaches for my ankle, gentle, and gently starts massaging my feet. I don’t move. Not a muscle. Frozen to the spot. What the fuck is going on?
He gestures at my tits.
“Put those away,” he says, voice flat. “Or you won’t enjoy what happens next.”
I narrow my eyes. “Nah, I think I’m good.”
He watches. He always fucking watches. He leans in, breath warm against my ear.
“You gunna fuck me now, Daddy Creed?”
“No,” his eyes darken. “I want to see how long you’ll hold out before you beg.”
My body flinches, the words like an electric charge. He smells like soap and darkness and the promise of something that’s going to hurt. I try to steel myself, but his hands are already on my waist, pulling me forward. My skin flushes at the contact, but I refuse to look away.
He lifts my wrists, examines the rawness where the cuffs bit in.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, almost gently.
“No,” I say, even though it does.
He kisses the wounds, soft and slow, his lips barely more than a whisper against my skin.
Then he pushes me back onto the bed, grabbing my thighs and pulling me to the edge.
His hands are everywhere at once, cupping my breasts, tracing the ridges of my ribs, squeezing the flesh of my hips until I gasp.
He’s not rough, but there’s a hardness to his movements that makes me want to scream.
He knows exactly where to touch, how hard, how long.
I try to twist away, but he pins my wrists above my head, using just one hand to hold them in place.
He slides his other hand between my legs, and even though I want to close them, my body has other ideas. I’m wet again, maybe wetter than before. The shame burns hotter than the flush spreading over my chest.
He touches me, slow and teasing, circling my clit with his thumb until my hips buck off the mattress. He doesn’t stop, not even when I beg.
“Please,” I say, voice choked. “Just, just do it.”
He smiles, all teeth. “Do what, kitten?”
I grit my teeth, refuse to answer.
He sinks two fingers inside, slow and deliberate. I clench around them, desperate, but he holds me at the edge, never letting me tip over. He pumps in and out, the rhythm measured, almost hypnotic. My thighs shake, my whole body trembles, but he won’t let me finish.
He keeps going, edging me over and over, until the frustration is so raw I want to bite through my own tongue.
Tears start to blur my vision. I hate him for that, but I hate myself more for needing this so fucking badly.
He leans down, kisses my eyelids, the salt of my tears. “Good girl,” he whispers. “That’s it. Let it out.”
I sob once, then twice, and he holds me through it, never once relenting with his fingers. I’m so close it hurts. I want to scratch his eyes out, but all I can do is beg.
“Please,” I say again, a broken, ugly sound. “Let me come.”
He licks the tears from my cheek, slow and tender. Then he pulls his hand away.
I scream, full-throated and furious.
He rolls off the bed, sticks his fingers in his mouth and groans, and goes to the door.
His pants are tented and the strain in his shoulders tells me he’s pretty fucking close to giving me what he wants.
But not Creed. No. He is restraint personified.
He needs me to want this. To want him. He looks back once, eyes dark and bottomless.
“Get some sleep,” he says. “I have no intention of letting you come on my cock until you break, Julianna.”
The door slams. The lock clicks into place.
I lie on the bed, shaking, ruined.
But I refuse to admit what he wants me to admit.
That I’m his.
Even though I’m starting to believe I am.
Irrevocably.