Chapter 2 Naomi #2
Our house looks like it was pulled straight from the pages of a magazine; it's all Georgian grace.
White bricks that gleam in the moonlight.
Tall columns standing proud on either side of the front door, arched windows that catch the morning sun just right.
The thick ivy creeping around the corners makes it feel alive.
Momma used to say it made it look like the house was alive, breathing right alongside us.
The security setup isn’t extensive because “all we have is all we need" —it's my father’s motto as he lives and breathes.
A black wrought-iron gate opens as the car rolls through, and two guards posted out front lean against a booth, as if on vacation rather than on a shift. They’re both ex-military—my father’s friend, and my brothers’ old teammate—Lawrence and Steve. Big men, bigger egos. But they’re trusted.
My brothers always say that nobody can get past them, that their fists and their reputations are a better alarm system than any technology on the market. I roll my eyes every time I hear it—
“Are you good from here, Ms. Blaine, or would you like me to walk you to the door?” Robert’s eyes flash to mine in the rearview again.
“I’m fine here, Robert. Thank you.” I say, sliding out of the back seat, dreading the lecture that I’m sure is coming as soon as I head inside.
Max has been nothing short of a dictator since Momma and Daddy went to Portugal to check out a new piece of land they were considering for a vacation home.
They’d left Max in charge, and he’s…gone a little overboard.
He’s always been a bit protective, but lately he’s gotten worse and scarier, constantly up my ass as if someone is going to steal me away.
My heels click against the concrete along the walkway as I take the stairs up to the porch slowly, trying not to tip over. Just as my heels steady on the last step, my phone buzzes again. Aisha, of course. The damn girl timed me. I answer while fishing out keys from my clutch.
“Heyyy,” I drawl, tipsy but not wasted. My number one rule: get home before the liquor starts to take effect, unless someone I trust is with me. No one wants to be intoxicated and alone.
“Are you home yet?” She sounds as if she wants to throttle me into the dirt, and for some reason, that’s hilarious to me.
“I just got here, girlie. Hang on…” I giggle, fumbling the keys in the lock. They slip from my hand, clattering down the brick stairs.
“It’s not funny.” She says, her words slurring. But even in her drunken state, Aisha is always this overprotective. “I was really starting to worry.”
“It’s kind of funny. You timed me, Mom.” I drawl, balancing the phone between my shoulder and cheek.
She’s going to throw me off the Golden Gate Bridge, but another giggle slips out when I bend over to grab my keys, swaying slightly. The alcohol has finally taken hold like a warm blanket, making me even more unsteady on my feet.
“Mhmm, and what would I tell Bethany Blaine if some creepo kidnapped you?”
“Calm downnn, I’m unlocking the do–”
Before I can turn the key enough for it to click, an arm snaps around my waist, and just as swiftly, a heavy hand clamps down over my mouth. The sharp scent of chemicals floods my nose, and panic hits. I thrash, my clutch and phone clatters to the brick in the struggle.
“Hello?” Aisha’s frantic voice echoes faintly.
I try to scream, but the hand over my face swallows it up.
“NAOMI?!” Her voice is shrill now. Everything starts to fade; my limbs are beginning to go slack. I try to fight with all I have left, but with one last inhale, everything goes black.
THE FIRST NIGHT
Am I dead?
I’m cold.
So cold.
Whenever I try to move my arms and legs, they don’t budge; my eyelids feel heavy, and my body feels numb.
The thud of footsteps reverberates through my body, each sending a jolt of terror coursing through my veins.
My consciousness drifts in and out of flashes and fragments, the pain in my body and soul almost too much to bear.
The clang of a belt buckle echoes like a death knell in my ears as rough hands roam over my frozen form.
My underwear rips from my body, and all I can muster is a groan.
“Look at this pussy.” What I’m sure is a male voice rumbles over me, as my legs are forced apart. Something warm and wet trails over my center. “Mmm.” His deep hum vibrates against me.
“I can’t wait to feel you wrapped around me.
” This is the first time anyone has touched me this way, and I am disgusted by how good it feels; a weak moan escapes my lips.
“Do you like that, my puppet?” He does it again, and I shudder.
“Of course you do. You’ll love everything I do to you, and one day, I won’t have to drug you; you’ll simply be mine. ”
Something sharp pricks my neck, and warmth blossoms through my body, coursing through my veins until darkness falls over me like a welcomed shroud.
MONTH 1
Am I alive?
Everything is a blur. I try to recall the last thing that happened, but it's not there.
Nothing is there.
Only the smell of chloroform, still burning the back of my throat, and the faintest smell of musk and sweat. The sheets rustle with sickening intensity, the pungent scent filling every corner of my senses.
The sharp, burning ache between my thighs turns into a searing inferno as he violates me, taking away any semblance of choice I ever thought I had.
My arms feel like lead weights, like they belong to someone else as I weakly try to push him away.
But he’s too strong, too powerful, and he has trapped me beneath him.
“Don’t worry, baby. You’ll get used to me.
” His voice is a cruel whisper that makes my stomach turn as he continues to pump into me.
Darkness grips me once again, hazy and unrelenting, and I grapple with consciousness, trying to remember anything before this—before I became his broken plaything, the thought plaguing me most before I go under again…
What's my name?
MONTH 2
The nightmare never seems to end. Every day I wake, and every night I’m drugged into a haze, but in this way, it’s like it never happened at all.
When I wake, there’s no trace of what transpired the nights before, except for a dull throb between my legs and an imprint of his teeth on my inner thigh, darkening into a brutal bruise that will take days to heal.
The mark shouldn’t be so intense on my cocoa brown skin, but it is.
Every time I see it, it serves as a painful reminder of just how much he has taken from me. But what’s worse is the more he does it, the more my body wants it.
My skin smells of roses from the luxurious bath products I’ve given to me, but I’m nothing more than his prisoner in this house of pain—his perfect little doll. He’s never here when I’m awake, only attendants who cater to my every need.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
The air smells like metal and something sweeter underneath—too sweet. Like syrup poured over rot. In the distance, hinges creak.
“Shh, sweetheart,” the red-masked man croons, a syringe in his gloved hand. “Gotta get you ready. He doesn’t like it when you fight.”
My head swims, but I’m not sure if it’s from fear or the chemical that has just been jabbed into my neck. A scream gets stuck somewhere behind my teeth, swallowed by the rising fog clouding my mind.
Vision blurred, I still see him.
Mask Red. Blood-red and slick like a freshly butchered organ, reflecting the overhead lights.
His eyes peer through slits—perfect ovals carved into the mask that reveal nothing but black pits where humanity should live, but doesn't. The mask's surface catches the light in patches, making it seem almost wet.
He wears a suit—no, a uniform. Pressed dark slacks with a knife-edge crease running down each leg, tactical boots laced so tightly the leather strains at the eyelets, like he's trying to look sharp while playing his part in this nightmare.
A single brass button gleams at his collar, reflecting my own terrified face at me in miniature.
I can’t move much—my wrists are bound with wide leather cuffs, not tight, but enough to tell me I’m not going anywhere. A collar is tight around my throat, and I can feel it every time I swallow.
“You won’t remember much,” he says. His southern accent is thick, gravel wrapped in a death wish. “That’s the whole point.”
I try to ask why, but my mouth can’t form the words fast enough.
Why are you helping him?
My jaw goes slack, my vision tilts. And everything goes black.
MONTH 4
The door opens with a whisper of hinges, and she glides in—the woman in the moss-green velvet mask that clings to the contours of her face.
Unlike his blood-red horror, hers softens her features, the plush fabric catching the sterile light in gentle ripples from forehead to jawline.
Her exposed eyes are the color of honey held to sunlight, flecked with copper that seems to smolder when she looks at me.
Watching. Not just seeing.
Studying. Not just observing.
Her silence has weight, has texture—like the velvet of her mask.
She wheels in a brushed stainless steel tray, its legs gliding across the polished tiles.
Three silver domes crown bone-white china plates, their curved surfaces distorting my reflection into a funhouse mirror version of myself.
Steam escapes in tendrils from beneath the edges, carrying the rich aroma of pepper-crusted steak, butter-drenched potatoes, and roasted asparagus spears.
My stomach clenches and then growls—a primal, animal sound that betrays me.
It's become a ritual now, this feeding, this false hospitality—a macabre dinner theater where I can no longer distinguish between the performance and the tragedy. He’s deemed me worthy of being awake when he’s not there, no longer shackled for hours. I’ve been a very good girl.