19. Lola
LOLA
Time does not exist here. The window’s just a square of dirty glass, moonlight now replaced by washed-out morning. Snow leeches all color.
My body aches from the mattress, if you can call a slab of foam a bed. My mouth is still dry, my wrists throb, faint bruises blooming where he pinned me down.
I’m alone. But I’m not alone.
I listen for footsteps. For breath. For the scrape of boots outside the door. Nothing. Just the hum of cold, and my own pulse thrumming too loud in my ears.
When the lock finally turns, I flinch. I can’t help it. He fills the doorway. Skull mask, broad shoulders. He watches me. Always watching.
He carries a mug and sets it on the shelf.
“Eat.” That’s all he says. I don’t move fast enough.
He stalks over, grabs my chin with rough fingers.
My jaw aches as he makes me look up at him.
The black hollows of his mask swallow all the light.
“You do what I say, or you get nothing,” he murmurs.
Low and patient like he has all the time in the world to break me.
I glare, lips pressed tight, but my stomach betrays me. I snatch the mug, gulp the weak coffee, hands shaking so hard I spill some. He watches every movement. I hate that I feel it, hate how my body sparks when he stares.
He sits on the edge of the bed, close enough for heat but leaving just an inch of space. His knee brushes mine, and I freeze. His gloved hand drags a line up my thigh. Not enough to be gentle, just enough to remind me he can. “Are you scared?” he asks. “Or do you like being caged?”
I choke on a laugh. “You’re sick.”
He leans in, mask almost grazing my ear. “Not as sick as you, Lola. I know the truth. You like it when someone’s in control.”
My face burns. I want to spit in his eye. I want to beg him to touch me. I do nothing. He stands. grabbing my jaw again, thumb pressing into the bruise he left. “Good girl. Stay obedient. Maybe I’ll reward you.”
I’m shaking, breathless, ruined. Every nerve is alive and screaming. I hate him. I hate whoever he is. I hate how much my body wants to obey.
“Fuck you. I don’t belong to you.”
He grabs me by the chin. Violently. “You do belong to me. There’s no one left but us. Get fucking used to it.”
“Yeah, in your dreams. How about you take off the mask and show me who you really are.” I challenge him, hoping he gives in.
He shakes his head. “You don’t want to know who I really am.
What I’m capable of.” His finger makes a path from my chin, down to my chest, then to my hips.
His grip is rough. “You’re trembling. That’s fear, isn’t it?
” His other gloved hand slides to my throat, stopping at my pulse.
“Or is it something else?” I don’t answer.
I can’t. I’m trapped between his breath and his heat.
I am drowning in it. “You want to know who’s behind the mask?
Too fucking bad. I’m in control, and you will obey.
” His tone becomes cold and dark. It reminds me of Marcus.
“You know, you sound just like him. Marcus. Don’t act so high and mighty when you and him are on the same level.” That seems to get a reaction.
He forces me into the wall, erupting with anger. “You’re wrong. I am nothing like that fucking bastard.” His chest heaves, and I can imagine him snarling underneath the mask. His gloved finger hooks in the waistband of my pants, tugging, possessive. “Take it off.”
My breath catches. “What?”
“Fucking take it off. I will show you a glimpse of who I can be when you say shit like that. How fucking ashamed I can make you.”
He waits. Silent, towering, unmovable. He wants a show. Humiliation burns my cheeks, but the fear is hotter. I peel my shirt over my head, arms shaking, and let it fall to the floor. I wait.
He cocks his head, watching every motion. “All of it.”
My fingers fumble with my pants. I’m still wearing the same pajama bottoms from when they took me.
I force them down, panties too. I step out, naked and shivering, skin prickling in the cold air and from his gaze.
He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t touch. Just watches me.
Hungry, silent, claiming every inch of me with his eyes behind the mask.
“Turn around,” he orders. I do. I feel his stare on my ass, my thighs, the bruises blooming on my hips from Marcus. Shame crackles in my blood. “Good girl,” he says. “You know how to listen, don’t you?”
I clench my fists, furious at myself for obeying, for needing his approval.
I hate how my nipples harden under his stare, how my legs tremble not just from fear.
He moves closer. His gloved hand skims down my spine, stopping at the small of my back.
He doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t grope, just claims with one slow, possessive touch.
“You obey me, and I’ll take care of you,” he whispers.
“Fight me, and I’ll break you.” He stands so close I feel his breath on my neck.
The skull mask grazes my skin. His other hand fists in my hair, tilts my head back until my throat is bared.
“You understand your place yet?” he murmurs, voice shivers down my spine.
I grit my teeth and nod, cheeks burning.
His gloved hand moved from my back to my front where his finger grazes my clit.
One touch and I melt. He rubs that spot again and groans in my ear.
This is so wrong. I should not be getting aroused while my kidnapper touches me.
But, here I am. Getting fucking wet for him.
But, to my disappointment, he lets me go. “Put your clothes back on. But remember, every inch of you belongs to me. Don’t forget it.”
He waits, watching as I dress. I can barely look at him. My limbs shake as I pull my panties up, then pants, then shirt.
When I finish, he moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. “I like you better this way. Helpless. Honest. Don’t make me remind you again.”
He leaves, the lock clattering shut, and I sink to the floor. Burning with rage, shame, and a twisted ache that won’t go away.