Nine
Amelia
He walks me into the bedroom, his hand gripping my arm.
“Can you at least take these off?” I ask, pulling at the cuffs on my wrist.
“No.”
“Why not?” I ask, hating the plaintive note in my tone.
“I like them on you.”
I take a subtle breath, then try for a calm voice. “They make me feel…”
“Yes?”
“…vulnerable, and… helpless.”
“Mmm. That’s why I like them on you.”
Bastard. Absolute bastard.
“Lie on the bed and spread your legs for me.”
My stomach sinks. Yet more torments; will this never end?
I don’t want to lie down. I don’t want to even be in this room with him here. This is my space, and it’s private. He’s intruded everywhere.
It’s not just the bed. It’s that I’m already having issues getting this man out of my head, and that was before this evening. Now I have to lie down, and spread for him? Like I’m willing?
It’s too much. I’m not sure I can.
My hesitation doesn’t please him. His hand closes on the back of my neck and he leans in, his lips near my ear.
“Amelia.” He says my name softly. “You’re going to lie down on the bed, and you’re going to spread your legs for me.
If you don’t do it now, I’m going to spank that pretty little pussy of yours. ”
My breath catches, my thighs pressing together. I try to persuade myself that’s in defense, but the justification comes after the reflex. I know he’ll do what he threatens. He’s followed through, every time.
There’s no choice but to climb onto the bed, crawling forward on my knees, awkward and ungainly with my wrists bound. I hate these goddamn cuffs.
What sort of man binds a woman to make her helpless?
Millions of them, my mind replies. Throughout history. All of them assholes.
Kneeling on my bed, I look back at him. “I can’t lie down wearing these things.”
Yet even as I speak, he’s already unfastening one of the cuffs, like he was always going to.
“Now you can.”
Am I supposed to thank him for that?
He doesn’t tell me again, but waits for me to move of my own accord. I lie down on my back, thinking on the way he makes me complicit with all he does to me. I’m losing this battle, I know I am.
He has all the advantages.
“Hands above your head, please.”
I reach up toward the headboard, guessing what’s going to happen before it does. “It’s fucking irritating the way you keep saying ‘please’ like I actually have a choice.”
“Civility costs nothing.” He threads the loose cuff around a bar, then reattaches my wrist. A shiver runs through me. I’m bound again, even more helpless than before.
“Not to you, maybe,” I mutter. “It sure seems to be costing me a lot.”
“Still claiming you don’t like this?” He gives my thigh a little slap. “Spread.”
Frustrated, I open my legs until my feet are shoulder-width apart. Glaring up at him. “No, I don’t like this.”
He returns my gaze, unruffled. “More.”
I widen my legs a few inches.
“Amelia.” He’s using that displeased tone again. “Lift your knees, spread them open. Offer yourself to me.”
Jesus. Fuck.
Is there a position any less humiliating than that one?
I obey, because I know what will happen if I don’t. But I scowl at him the whole goddamn time, anger as my defiance.
“Good girl,” he says, and gives my thigh another condescending little pat. “Stay like that, now.”
I really hate this man. If he calls me ‘good girl’ one more time, I swear I’m going to… claw his eyes out or something, just as soon as these goddamn cuffs come off.
Holding onto my anger isn’t just a luxury, it’s a necessity. If I don’t, he’ll get inside my head even more. I’m scared I’m going to start liking those damn ‘good girls’—or worse, craving them. Isn’t everyone susceptible to praise?
I’m going to lie here and let him fuck me. Then he’s going to leave, and tomorrow I’m going to go and buy a gun in case he ever decides to come back.
Van Wyk takes his time peeling off his shirt, watching me while he does.
I turn my head, unable to bear his gaze while I’m lying so exposed.
He strips off the rest of his clothes, and I can’t help sneak glimpses of him.
It’s not that his body is sculpted to perfection—not just that, anyway—it’s that this man is about to take me again, and I’m lying here, helpless, waiting for him.
It’s fucking with my head. I hate it. I’m not weak, I don’t want this.
“I can hear you thinking,” he says, the first words either of us have spoken in several moments. “The defiance in your jawline makes you stunningly beautiful, do you know that?”
I glance at him in surprise, then wish I hadn’t. He’s fully naked now, his cock erect, pointing toward me. Those muscles of his are lean, not bulky, the body of a predator, a killer.
Along with that knife of his.
A new shiver runs through me. How did I not see this?
I have a psychopath in my bedroom, and I’m chained and helpless.
Is he going to fuck me, then kill me?
Real fear steals my breath, and I’m trembling.
I suddenly know I’m right. I’ll never get to buy a gun; these are the last few minutes of my life.
I tug in futility at the cuffs, and they don’t give at all.
They’ll find my body… at some point… and I’ll be a brief news article that people read with morbid relish over their morning coffee.
“Amelia?” He takes a step closer, and I cringe away. “What’s wrong? What are you thinking?”
He asks me what’s wrong?
“This whole goddamn thing is wrong!” I scream at him. “You’re a fucking psychopath! You’re evil, you’re twisted, you’re going to kill me, you’re… going to…” I break off, struggling to take in any air.
Van Wyk sits down on the side of the bed, then lays his hand on my thigh. I shudder, pulling my legs closed, and he doesn’t object. But his hand follows my movement, keeping contact.
“Why would I harm what’s mine?” he asks quietly.
I stare at him. That doesn’t even track. People hurt things that are theirs all the goddamn time. Dogs get kicked. Children get abused. Wives get beaten. And… “I’m not yours.”
Yes, because that’s the important point to make right now, shortly before he murders me.
“You are,” he contradicts, no doubt whatsoever in his tone. “But that’s a conversation for another time. For now, you have my word I won’t harm you.”
His word. That’s such a relief.
Except he says it like it carries weight, like it’s his bond. It matters to him.
“You already have,” I mutter, but it’s reflex. Somehow, just like that, he’s reassured me. I don’t know why he even bothered to, but I no longer feel like I’ll be dead by morning.
With my fear receding, my anger returns. It’s like I can’t control my emotions. And why the hell should I? He’s still forced his way in here, stripped me naked, and made me come over his lap. Especially the last. God, especially the last.
“You spanked me!” I bite out, focusing on that instead.
“You wanted me to.”
How dare he? “The hell I did!”
“You pushed for it,” he points out. “All I asked you to do was behave.”
“And that’s another thing! I’m not yours to command!”
He gives me a look like I’m being unreasonable. His eyes flick up to my bound wrists, down over my naked body, then back to my face as if to say… really?
“I do expect you to obey me, and yes, you are mine.”
“The hell I am!”
“Yes, you are.” His tone has gone cold again. It’s the one he uses when the conversation is done. This conversation is so not done.
“You don’t get to—”
“Amelia.” Just the single word, warning carried in every syllable. A whole new level of cold telling me exactly what happens if I finish that sentence.
Part of me wants to keep arguing. Part of me thinks that would be very, very dangerous.
The silence holds. My scowl; his steady, unflinching stare.
“Fine,” I mutter at last, glancing away. “Do whatever you need to do, then get the fuck out.”
But he doesn’t move. “Do you believe me when I tell you I won’t harm you?”
“Spankings aside?” I retort.
“That was playful. It barely hurt.”
The hell it didn’t. “Shall I try it on you? See how you like it?”
“It’s not really my kink, but I appreciate the offer.”
Did he just imply…?
“It’s not my kink either, you bastard!”
He raises his eyebrows. “Are you certain?”
“Of course I’m goddamn—”
“You did get very wet when I spanked you.” He pauses, then adds, “…Both times.”
I glare at him.
“I know,” he says, “why don’t you spread your legs, and I’ll spank your pussy, and we’ll see how wet you get.”
I grit my teeth. “No. Thank. You.”
“See?” he asks reasonably. “Civility costs nothing.”
Fuck, I hate this man.
I take a calming breath, trying to hold my tongue. It doesn’t work; I take another.
Then I decide the hell with it.
“I really fucking hate you.”
“Whereas I really like you,” he replies. His hand leaves my thigh, running lightly up my body, cupping one breast as his thumb brushes over my nipple. I fight not to react. “You know what I like the most?”
I don’t bother asking. I don’t want to hear whatever twisted sexual fixation he has with my breasts, or the enjoyment he gets out of making me squirm.
He doesn’t seem to mind my silence. “Your eyes,” he says. “So very green, so very expressive. I could gaze at them for hours, and never get bored.”
I blink in surprise. That was almost… nice.
Why does he do this? Blindsiding me with comments like that, when he has no right making them?
“Especially when you’re trying to be defiant,” he continues. “I like the way they flash.”
Wait. Trying to be?
“Fuck you.” I pull at the cuffs, struggling on the bed. “Let me go, Van Wyk! I’m done! With you, with this—”
“Be still.” His voice cracks out. “I’ve had enough pushing for one evening. Spread your legs again, or I will punish you. And this time, it won’t be play.”
His tone isn’t one I’ve heard before, and I know I’ve gone too far. The edge in his voice has gone from hard to razor sharp.
Even so, I consider defying him for longer than is safe. Then I draw my knees up in resignation, spreading myself open, closing my eyes, turning my head to the side. Back to Plan A—he fucks me, he leaves, I buy a gun. I’ll be ready for him if he ever returns.