Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
O liver
An alert sounded the moment Londyn’s bedroom door opened. Propping himself against the pillows, Oliver pulled up the camera system on his cell and watched as Londyn stood indecisively in the corridor. When she headed for the stairs, he immediately threw the covers back and pulled on loose pajama pants.
The cameras next picked her up as she stealthily entered the dimly lit great room. Oliver ground his teeth when she suddenly stopped, her gaze drifting to the front door. Surely, she must realize all entry points were armed by the security system, complete with fingerprint-activated locks and deadbolts to prevent anyone from coming in or leaving. If she attempted slipping past those extensive measures before he made it downstairs, he would beat her sweet little ass black and blue once he caught her.
Relief mixed with disappointment when she continued creeping along the dark space. Punishing her for an escape would have been an enjoyable way to pass the hours. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t take his pound of flesh from her luscious hide for this particular transgression, but she had not compounded the error by making him chase her.
He was moving down the hallway, following her footsteps as she turned toward the kitchen. Clicking on that camera revealed her opening the fridge. She rummaged through the drawers, grabbing various items. Her movements were stilted, as if turning a certain way caused pain. No doubt she suffered some discomfort after being restrained and used for hours earlier. He’d tied her up in a variety of positions, and being forced to almost climax over and over would certainly cause a few strained muscles and soreness.
A twinge of guilt assailed Oliver when Londyn plucked an apple and a banana from the crystal bowl on the counter, adding it to the impromptu feast. It wasn’t that he had forgotten to feed her; it was that he’d been so caught up in his own desires and the need to punish her that it became an afterthought. After she passed out in the playroom, he decided it was best to let her, ignoring his body’s demands that he continue using her regardless of her unconscious state. Fuck. He should have at least made sure she was staying hydrated beyond the few sips of water he allowed her while learning every inch of her body. She was already too thin for his liking. Starving her wasn’t his intent.
Standing outside the open archway, Oliver waited in the shadows as Londyn ate. Her gaze roamed around the kitchen, and his hands tightened into fists when her attention landed on the expensive block of gourmet-styled knives.
If she made a move toward those… if she so much as twitched with the intent of filching a fucking butter knife, he would lock her in that cage in his playroom and keep her there for weeks.
But she did not move from her perch on the barstool. She drank the rest of the water and tugged at the hem of a ratty, white sweatshirt with the word “Vanderbilt” emblazoned across her chest in gold. Then, she started to cry, and for reasons he could not quite explain, Oliver couldn’t bear it. Leaning against the doorway’s thick molding, he crossed his arms.
“If you are weeping over the current state of your clothing, I can’t say I blame you. What the fuck are you wearing, dove?”
Londyn screamed, jumping off the barstool and holding the empty water bottle over her head as if it were a wooden club before blindly chunking it in his direction. Oliver easily dodged the lightweight missile as he stepped fully into the kitchen.
“Good thing that wasn’t sharp,” he chuckled while moving around the island until he stood before her.
Londyn glared at him, a mixture of distrust and fear illuminating her gaze. She was breathing heavily. “What are you doing sneaking up on me?”
“Why are you roaming around my house after midnight?” Oliver countered calmly. “It’s against the rules.”
She swiped at her cheeks again and sniffed. “You never really told me the rules. I know where not to go, but everything else is as clear as mud.” Her gaze skittered away from his, dropping to study the grape stems on the marble countertop. Picking one up, she twirled it between her fingertips, eyes remaining downcast as though it would prove her rebellion was a simple misunderstanding. He might have been fooled had it not been for the dislike roiling around her like a tsunami.
Oliver’s lips twitched. “Maybe you’re right about that. I’m still easing into the role of your owner. I should be clearer about my expectations.”
Londyn did not reply, but her gaze flitted to the bandage he still wore from where she’d cut him back at the cabin in Diamond Lake Ranch.
“Look at me, Londyn.” Once he had her attention, he brushed the hair out of her face to easily see her features. “You may go anywhere within the house apart from the playroom, my personal suite, and my study. This does not, however, mean you may venture outside. I forbid it unless I’m with you.”
Her breathing hitched as he trailed a forefinger along her jawline, but she remained silent.
Oliver’s smile was cold and hard. “Say ‘thank you,’ Londyn.”
Her eyes flashed, her lips pressing flat into a line of disapproval. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, what?” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her against his body. His bare chest grazed the tips of her breasts, and she flushed with shame when they immediately hardened into tight little buds beneath the thin material of her shirt. “Thank me in a proper manner.”
The look she gave him was quizzical. She had no idea what he was talking about, which almost made him laugh. This new rule was bound to piss her off. Did he care? No. Did he want to hear the word falling from her perfect, pouty lips? Absofuckinlutley.
“I don’t...” She squirmed in the circle of his arms, but he squeezed tighter, a blatant warning that he wasn’t ready to let her go.
“Sir,” he supplied helpfully. “Thank you, Sir. That’s what I want to hear from you. That’s my new rule, Londyn. I expect to see your gratitude when I grant you mercy or show you kindness.” He could almost hear her teeth grinding with frustration. “Come on, dove. Is it really that unreasonable?” Pulling her closer, he nuzzled the space below her ear, pressing a kiss there and smirking in triumph when he felt her body subtly melt in response.
“You don’t really mean I?—”
“Yes. I mean precisely that,” Oliver interrupted, enjoying this power play between them. The push and pull. The cat and mouse. It was the most entertainment he’d had in months. Playing with her was so much fun, and although he knew it wouldn’t last forever, he would relish every moment spent teasing and tormenting her. “You don’t want to disappoint me, do you?”
“No,” she breathed, slumping in defeat at the unspoken threat in his tone. “Thank you, Sir,” she added a few seconds later, her voice small and submissive.
Oliver suspected she simply played along for her own ulterior motives. Maybe it was even a weak attempt at manipulating him, but that was okay. She would not emerge a winner in these little mind games. He was a fucking master at such things and had been taught from an early age how to crush an opponent before they even realized what was happening.
“Good girl.” Keeping one arm snug around her waist, he lightly rested his free hand against her throat and stared into her wide eyes. She smelled like fresh apples. If he kissed her right then, he’d taste the tartness of the fruit on her lips. But while losing himself in a kiss with his little prisoner was tempting, he had a different agenda in mind. “Tell me why you were crying.”
Londyn blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion over his concern. Her chin trembled as he waited expectantly for an answer until, finally, she gave in with a tiny sob.
“I’m worried about my sister. I’m the only person she has, and when I’m gone, there will be no one left to care for her like I do.”
Oliver frowned. “I’ve arranged the most expert care available, dove.”
“It’s not the same thing!” Londyn cried bitterly. “Sure, she’ll have people taking care of her basic needs, keeping her comfortable, and all that. But they won’t love her like I do. Paris will be alone. And if she ever… gets better… she won’t be safe. The man responsible for her condition will finish the job. He’ll get rid of her to protect his reputation.”
Slowly rubbing his thumb up and down her throat in a rhythmic motion, Oliver huffed. “I can’t do anything about forcing the nursing staff to fall in love with her, but I can do something about the danger you think she’s in. Tell me the man’s name, and I will eliminate him.”
Londyn froze as his words sunk in. She looked horrified by his blunt suggestion, but fuck if Oliver could understand why. It was a logical solution, and he had no qualms about following through. Killing people was something he excelled in doing. In fact, deep inside whatever was left of his twisted soul, he wanted to do it. If it made Londyn happy—if it provided a smidgen of comfort when the time came to face the end of her own life—he would gladly slice a man open from groin to throat.
“I-I don’t want that,” Londyn stuttered, her voice hoarse.
“No?” Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Why wouldn’t you? It’s a simple thing, really. Easy. Quick. I’ll make it look like suicide if you’re worried about it reflecting on your sister. Or I can make him suffer in as many gruesome ways you can imagine.”
Londyn swallowed hard, her eyes filling with fresh tears. Oliver watched the motion of her throat, feeling it beneath the pad of his thumb. His dick hardened to painful extremes as he remembered how tight and warm her throat had been. How she struggled to keep swallowing him so fucking deep when he occasionally thrust past her gag reflex.
Focus, Oliver. Focus.
“You want to be there when it happens, little killer? Is that it? Maybe you’d rather be the one wielding the knife or holding the gun?” He would do that for her, too, if she wanted. He was genuinely curious about why something so simple should require second thoughts or even soul searching. Eliminating a threat was a basic rule of self-preservation. She needed to learn that lesson, and he’d help her if necessary. Because if she wanted to shoot the guy herself, he’d give her the bullets. If she planned on slitting his throat, he would hand her the knife while tilting the man’s head back. And if she would rather set the man’s house on fire, burning him and everything he treasured, Oliver would supply her with the matches and then fuck her in the glow of the flames. Whatever would make her happy in that situation, he would do.
She looked conflicted by the suggestion. “I thought I wanted to kill him… but now, I don’t know.” Her lower lip trembled, and Oliver kissed it, tugging it between his teeth until she let out a soft whimper. Of course, considering the state he’d driven her to earlier, the sexually suggestive nature of his actions would rev her body right back up until it was begging for release.
“Think about it, Londyn. If that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen. You can watch from the sidelines.” Oliver paused, then said, “I’ve already killed a man for you. What’s one more?”
“That was different. I-I didn’t ask you to do that. I didn’t know until you told me.”
“If you think killing a man bothers me, rest assured that it does not. It’s how I was raised. My brother and I both.” Oliver spun her so her stomach was pressed against the kitchen island, and he stood behind her. She was shaking as he continued speaking in a low, husky voice, his hands gathering her mass of dark curls tumbling down her back. He held most of it in one fist, exposing the nape of her neck and pushing until she was sprawled over the island’s surface. “Place your arms out flat. Do not move.” She did as he ordered, her body as tight as a newly strung violin as he continued speaking.
“I grew up on violence and death, Londyn. Indoctrinated in it like it was a fucking religion,” he murmured huskily, his lips brushing her skin. He could not explain why he was telling her these things, but something about her made him want to confess his sins. To come clean and sin again. “My father’s number one priority, his only concern, was making sure Kingston and I knew how to kill and destroy things. We weren’t allowed to get attached to people or things. It’s so easy to lose them. It is far too easy for the things you love to be used as weapons against you. So, I learned not to feel. Not to care. To look after myself and my own interests no matter what.”
He trailed his finger down her back, tracing her spine through the thin material until he reached the sweatshirt’s hem. Sliding a hand beneath the edge of the material, he skimmed her hip with his palm before dipping his fingers into her panties.
“Does your brother feel the same?” Londyn asked in a strangled voice, her body jolting forward at his touch. But there was nowhere to go, pinned as she was against the island’s marble edge.
Oliver laughed at the question. “At one time, yes. Now, not so much.”
“What changed?”
“Love. Stupid, fucking love changed him. But don’t worry, little dove. I won’t be so foolish. My father made sure of that. My mother made sure of it, too, when she shot him between the eyes at the dinner table and then blew her own brains out in front of Kingston and me. I thought he learned a lesson from that… watching my mother kill our father… but I was wrong. It only made him more determined to break the vicious cycle.” His fingers slid over her bare flesh, dipping into her swollen cunt. She moaned and rocked back against his hard dick. “I’m different from him, though. King’s got a streak of decency inside him that our dad never could slice out, no matter how hard he tried. I’m more like our father, and sometimes that even scares the shit out of me.”
“Why?” Londyn’s choked whisper hung in the cool air.
Oliver hesitated, then, without warning, shoved two fingers inside her pussy, the damp flesh giving way to the onslaught. She cried out, an agonized sound of helpless lust that made his cock throb where it pressed against her ass. He felt her warmth even through his gray silk pajama bottoms. His little prisoner might not realize it, but she wanted him to fuck her, and soon enough, he would oblige her.
“Because I’m the fucking villain, and I will destroy what I treasure most in this world without blinking an eye.” His breath stirred the air beside her ear as he took the delicate lobe between his teeth, gently biting it as he slowly and deliberately finger-fucked her. Londyn trembled, her legs nearly giving way as he expertly made her aware of her own needs and how futile it was to deny them. “I’ll destroy you, too, Londyn. But I’ll make sure you enjoy every second of it. I’ll fuck you senseless. Use your body. Your mouth. Your cunt. Your gorgeous ass. I’ll do anything I want. Everything I want. And you will beg me for all of it.”
Her body tightened with his words, her legs shaking as she whimpered with the truth of his words. Untangling his hand from her hair, he gripped her throat and tilted her head toward him. “Do you want to come, little dove?” His fingers plunged in and out, driving her to the edge again. Only this time, he would allow her to fall over. The first of many climaxes she would have over the next twenty-four hours. And while he had not intended to do this so soon after their last session, circumstances demanded otherwise. “Do you want to fucking come on my fingers, my tongue, or my cock? Or better yet… how about all three?” His words were a silky promise that caused her body to involuntarily rock back against him.
“Y-yes!” Londyn gasped before his hand tightened around her neck, cutting off her air. She fought him, clawing his hands, but he squeezed harder until her motions slowed. He would choke her until she passed out if she kept fighting him, but such brutality wasn’t necessary. Her body stiffened suddenly, tremors racking her form as she came so hard and so violently it drenched his fingers. The orgasm rippling through her made her compliant and weak. Oliver was surprised at how quickly it overtook her, but fuck, he loved it. He loved that his little dove liked it rough. Liked being forced. Liked being turned into his little whore.
“That’s it, Londyn. That’s my good fucking girl. I want that sweet little cunt soaking my fingers. This is just the first of many times you will come for me. You’ll be begging for it to stop before we’re done. Now, let’s ensure we don’t lose count, dove.” Letting go of her throat, he quickly opened a drawer and pulled out a small paring knife from the selection there. Roughly shoving the sweatshirt up until the material bunched up between her shoulder blades, he slid his hand down the small of her back, where it began to curve into the roundness of her ass. Londyn was so high from the endorphins coursing through her body that she did not react when he carefully sliced a tally mark in her soft skin with the sharp edge of the blade.
Blood welled up from the single line. It wouldn’t leave a permanent scar, but he’d have no trouble counting the marks he gave her for at least a few days. His dick hardened even more as Londyn remained slack against the island’s surface, her breathing harsh and unsteady.
“This fucking shirt is in my way,” he growled, pulling his fingers out of her pussy. “And the panties, too. From now on, I only want you to wear the things I give you. Do you understand?”
Grabbing the edge of the shirt, he was ready to slice through it when she sobbed, “No! Please…don’t. My-my sister gave me this. Please… it’s all I have of home.”
Oliver paused, knife in hand. He itched to follow through. He wanted nothing on her body that he had not provided, but a tiny sliver of his heart responded to her anguish. Sentimentality did not usually affect him. Such emotions were beyond his comprehension, to be honest. How could someone place value on possessions or gifts? It had never made any sense to him. Cocking his head, he recalled how Kingston acted about his mother’s china set. How he only used it for very special occasions and special people. The first Mrs. Allan Winter, Kingston’s mother, died from a miscarriage after being horribly abused by her husband when Kingston was only three. The china was all Kingston had of hers; he guarded it over the years as though it were a priceless treasure.
Oliver had no such trinkets left to him by his own mother. Rebecca’s marriage to Allan Winter was a nightmare of abuse and screaming matches, topped off with the secret seduction of her sixteen-year-old stepson. Kingston had been both a distraction and a way to obtain what she wanted. After all, it was Kingston who gave her the gun to kill their father before taking her own life. And Kingston was to blame for the twisted path Oliver careened onto in the aftermath. Only recently had he reached a level of understanding matters from his half-brother’s perspective. Such retrospection was slowly opening his eyes to irrefutable facts; Kingston had suffered, too.
“Please… don’t cut it,” Londyn hiccupped. “I’m begging you.”
“Calm down,” Oliver murmured, pushing the shirt higher between her shoulder blades so it was out of his way. “I won’t cut it, but these panties? Well, that’s another story. I don’t want you wearing any unless I give you permission.” He quickly sliced through the cotton underwear, ignoring her intake of breath when he wadded up the pieces and tossed them aside. “There… that’s better.” He admired the thin line just above the dimples of her ass before swiping the blood away with the edge of his thumb. “I just marked you, Londyn, and you will keep count. Let me hear you say it. What number is this?”
“O-one,” she whispered in a shaky voice. Tears fell from her thick, dark lashes. “One.”
“That’s right,” he crooned, smoothing her hair back from her wet face. The high from the climax was waning, leaving her skin sensitive and reactive to the slightest stimulation. She was quivering all over. “And what do you say when I give you something?”
“T-thank you, Sir.”
“Good girl. Now, let’s get you ready for the next one. And since I’m in a generous mood, I’ll let you choose if you come on my cock or my tongue.”