Chapter 18
Emory
"Healing begins when we allow ourselves to be seen, scars and all."
His lips… hot against my cold face, a split-second of passion. Pulling away, he clears his throat, “We should get you out of these cold clothes. You’ll catch your death if you stay in them.”
“Really,” I chuckle “That’s all you got?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Is it working?”
“Oliver,” I close my eyes, sighing before I proceed, “As much as I want and need this, there are things I need to talk about first.”
Wrapping his arms around my waist, he leans back. “And I will listen.” A half-smile peeks from the corner of my mouth.
“Wonderful. First question: Why is Peter here? Did he show up with my mom?” I know I said one question, but the words just got away from me—apparently, this affected me more than I thought it had. I begin spouting off more questions, “Are they looking for Evelyn also? If so, where is my mom?”
“Peter?” His face twists. “Your mom’s boy toy?”
“Yes, I thought I saw him in the garden. Something… or someone… was chasing after him. I barely recognized him. He didn’t look well.
He was covered in injuries, and the other…
thing… didn’t seem to have it in its thought process to lighten up.
” Oliver’s features harden. His hand rises before me—an indication that he needs me to pause. “I’m done with this conversation.”
Pulling away from his embrace, “What-” I bark back. “What do you mean by that?”
“Done, Emory. Finished. No longer entertaining the topic of discussion.” My anger simmers over like a pot left on the stove too long.
I slam my fist into his chest. “What are you not telling me? I came out here to find my sister. I’ve gotten nowhere in the search for Evelyn.
” I want to cry, but my anger has my face so hot the tears turn to steam before they get the chance to fall.
“There has been no word from my father. If you don’t start telling me what is going on, I am leaving. ”
Why is he looking at me like that?
I can’t take it.
Is he… really… sad?
Turning away from me, he disappears behind a display of old books.
My curiosity getting the best of me, I follow.
Dust is caked thick in a line behind the shelving unit, as a trap door leading somewhere secret is revealed to us.
Yanking the warped, wooden, squared-off barricade open, we step into the darkness of the unknown—a massive room unfolds.
A soft light adds a significant amount of coverage, bathing the chambers in a warm saffron glow. To my utter astonishment, apparatuses occupy every corner—each with its own respective space.
“What,” My curiosity and I are out of our comfort zone. “Is this place?”
“None of this belongs to me, aside from the bed.” Looking around, I don’t see a bed, but that changes when he draws back one of the obsidian curtains.
Displayed before me is a Gothic, unhinged, dark romance girl’s fantasy come true.
The four-poster bed is made of ebony. Black lace drapery encloses the king-size mattress, dressed in an onyx shade of silk.
Shackles reflect the candlelight as they hang from the headboard, while three holes were cut out of the footboard—one hole was slightly larger than the other two.
Four silver hooks stand erect on either end with no signs of the chains they harbor.
“Don’t worry, dove,” he snickers, “You’re going to be in control this time.”
“I said-” A sigh leaves me as I cross my arms and huff. “I needed to talk first.” He slides his suspenders from his shoulders, and flashbacks to our time in the cellar invade my mind.
“You want to talk—I want release.” His low, sultry voice breaks my thought, “Now, how good are you at tying knots?”
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. “I’m better at untying them,” I say under my breath, “Shit.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Is that so, little bird? That’s fine, the cuffs will suffice.” He starts to inspect them, lifting them with harsh movements—purposefully forcing them to make the spine-chilling clatter.
According to his reaction, I am making a face because he feels the need to reassure me. “Not for you, for me... remember. Don’t get too excited.”
I can’t help but think—I’m still going to be the one in the cuffs. That thought quickly disappears when he fastens one onto his wrist, and my mouth drops open.
“Didn’t you have something you wanted to talk about?” Asking as he positions himself on the bed. Bewilderment, like stucco on my face—an overlay for my excitement. It still isn’t enough to take my mind off my troubles.
“Are you going to help?” His voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look at him as he continues, “I’m beginning to think you are a watcher—if that is the case, this is going to be more difficult than I thought.” He breaks out into a fit of laughter.
As he lies there on the bed, his many shades of gray adding an appetizing allure, I find myself panting like a bitch in heat.
“I’m serious, Oliver.” My voice cracks as he lifts his left hand, placing it strategically over his cock.
Flexing it—just enough, so his veins do that…
vein thing that makes all the romance chicks go feral. “Fine, I'll play your game then.”
I fucking broke.
“No, you want answers… remember? How do you go from ‘I’m being serious’, to ‘Fine, I’ll play your game’?”
Fuck he is even stunning when he tries to mimic my voice.
Throwing my hands up, “How?” I say a little snippy. “When the one who has the answers won’t have it any other way.” My answer even comes out snide as I snap my eyes shut, pretending I didn’t see him shift his pelvis.
“Damn right, dove. You don’t play—you don’t get answers.” His snicker makes me want to punch him, and it doesn’t get better as more words leave his mouth, “Also, if you play the right way, I will give you more than answers in return. Do we have a deal?”
“Fine,” my eyes roll to the back of my head. “Whatever you say.” The word rolls off my tongue with annoyance.
“Good, now start by restricting me to this bed. In the process, you can ask your first question.” My anger is at its boiling point, and his carefree attitude isn’t helping.
So, I decided that I may have more fun with this than I had planned.
I put the other cuff around his left wrist, the sound triggering an unfamiliar sensation in my body.
It felt electric and exhilarating. I may have also slapped them on, harder than he wanted—my full intention.
“Oh, dove, are we going to play rough? Did I piss you off that much?” The devilish look in his eyes offers no aid in satiating the hunger stirring within me. He continues, “It only takes five steps, so you only get five questions—make them count. Step one: The cuffs”
“Okay.” What I chose to start with catches him off guard, “Are you a junior, or a third, however those things go.”
Clamping his knees together, he uses his upper body strength to hoist himself a little higher.
“Are you against sitting?” I look at all the space around him as I nibble at the inside of my cheek.
My gaze meets his again, and I shake my head in response.
With a stiff wave of his right hand, he motions for me to sit.
Being as short as I am, lifting myself to get on this bed is a challenge—an open opportunity for him to crack jokes.
You got this lil’bit.
Don’t fall, half-pint.
I won’t be able to catch you.
Once I’d managed to procure myself on the bed alongside him, I nearly crumbled with how sinfully comfortable it is.
Settling myself before his crossed legs, the bed shifts beneath his weight as he wraps his legs around me. “Reach in my pants.”
Rage breaks to the surface as I react. “What!” The sarcasm drips over every word that leaves my lips. “We’re just jumping right to it, then, where is the fun in that?”
“For my knife.” He cocks an eyebrow at me, “It’s in my right pocket.”
“Oh, right,” My eyes begin to widen with embarrassment. “What do you need that for?”
He groans, “Ugh. Five questions and you’ve already wasted two.” His head hits the backboard. “I can count them, or you can do what you’re told and save your questions for what you want to know.”
So, this is the game he wants to play? Well, I'll play, but my patience is wearing thin—if that happens, we will be playing my way.
A brilliant image gyrates across my mind, and slowly I grab his ankles, stretching his legs till they are flush with the mattress.
Leisurely frisking up his leg, I make it appear as though I am crawling to him, seductively swaying my hips—never breaking eye contact.
Once I had hold of the knife handle, I yanked it from the sheath clipped to his pants and slashed at his chest. He broke out in this thunderous laughter. “Why are you laughing?”
“So, you want to know about the photo?” He is deliberately asking the wrong question. “That’s a good question, little bird.”
“All right, you want to play it that way, we can play it that way.” I examine the spot where the blade struck. His gray button-up shirt was slowly starting to turn black, as beads of red formed at its pores. The pooling caught me off guard--it didn’t follow in line with the cut. It went against it.
I move past that thought, going back to when he edged me in the alley. I had the brightest idea to start cutting off his buttons one by one. Still, he laughs, “Oh no, this shirt was expensive.” The sarcasm oozes from his mouth, like sap from a tree in the summer.
“You are still laughing,” I speak through gritted teeth. “It won't last.”
His eyes widen, before rolling to the back of his head, as he responds, “Still with the questions, when will you-” I press the point of the blade to his heart, cutting him off before he can finish.