Chapter 34
I wake slowly, my eyelids heavy and head pounding with a rhythm that feels like someone is hammering nails into my skull.
My mouth is dry and cottony, my tongue thick and uncooperative.
For a moment, I think I’m hungover, and the consequences of too much wine have me on the verge of death.
The moment passes quickly when I realize this isn’t my bed.
The sheets smell wrong and are too scratchy.
When I try to sit up, the room spins. Nausea rolls through my stomach as bile rises in my throat, and I force myself to move.
Carefully, I swing my legs over the side of the bed.
They feel heavy and disconnected, like they’re dragging behind me.
My bare feet touch the floor—it’s icy concrete—and the shock of it pulls me further from the fog trying to drag me back to sleep.
Jake…
The memories crash over me like a wave, and I relive every moment of his betrayal. “Oh God… Damon.”
Panic surges through my chest, and I struggle to breathe.
I push to my feet, intending to run. But my body is still sluggish, and my leg drags heavily behind me.
I look down through my haze and realize there is a cuff fastened around my ankle.
The cold metal rests just above the bone and is heavy against my skin.
I grab at it and notice the thick, industrial chain welded to a bolt on the floor.
I’m chained like an animal. Like property.
My panic explodes into full-blown terror.
I claw at the cuff around my ankle, my fingernails scraping against metal, searching for a latch or a weakness.
Anything. It’s smooth and seamless, other than the engaged lock.
I pull at the chain, tugging with everything I’ve got, feeling it bite into my ankle.
Yanking harder, desperation gives me strength I didn’t know I possessed.
With my fingers wrapped tightly around the links, I pull until my palms burn and my shoulders ache, but there is no give.
“Help!” I scream, my voice hoarse and barely recognizable. I know it’s useless. I can only imagine that Jake brought me somewhere isolated, where no one can hear me. But I scream anyway, because the alternative is accepting that Jake has me and that no one is coming. “Help me! Someone!”
Heavy footsteps thud against the floor outside the room, and I freeze.
My heart stops, then starts again at a gallop, thumping against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat.
The harsh soles approach, deliberate and slow, and I turn toward the sound, my body tense, my mind racing through possibilities. Fight. Flight. Beg. Bargain.
The door opens, light spilling in from the hallway, and I see his silhouette first. Broad shoulders and a familiar stance of a man I once called a friend fill the frame. He steps into the room, flipping on the light, illuminating his face as I stare up at him in terror.
A tear falls from my eye, hot and humiliating, tracking down my cheek before I can stop it.
“Mmmmm, my love,” he whispers. His voice is the same as always—warm, professional, and comforting—but now I hear the evil intent within it.
He reaches down, his thumb brushing across my cheek to wipe away the tear with a gentleness that makes my skin crawl.
“Don’t cry. You don’t need to be scared. This is your destiny… to be with me.”
I stare at him, struggling to process his words and unable to speak. Destiny? He thinks this is my destiny. He thinks drugging me, chaining me to the floor, and stealing me from my home is romantic and fated. “J…” I manage, my voice cracking. “Jake…”
“Yes,” he says, smiling, and the expression transforms his face into a monster who looks nothing like the man I know. “It’s me. It’s always been me, Devyn. Watching you. Loving you. Waiting for you to see what was right in front of you.”
He kneels before me, bringing us eye to eye, and there’s madness in his gaze—obsession that has festered for years, hidden beneath the guise of friendship.
“I have beautiful plans for you,” he continues, his hand lifts to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, “for us. A life together, finally. No more pretending, no more hiding, no more sharing you with the world.”
Every word that comes from his mouth only makes me more terrified. Beautiful plans? A life together? He’s talking about me like this chain binding me to the floor is a mere formality, because I’m already his.
He pulls me closer, his fingers tangling in my hair, gripping tight enough to hurt. He breathes me in, his nose pressed against my neck, inhaling deeply, his chest rising and falling against me. I tense, bracing myself for what I can only imagine is coming next.
He shoves me away, and I fall back toward the bed, my tailbone hitting the frame hard enough to send pain radiating up my spine.
I stare at him, confused and terrified. His features twist with disgust as revulsion fills his eyes.
“You fucking smell like him,” he snarls.
“Like that animal. Like that… that man you let soil you.”
Gunnar… He smells Gunnar on me. The thought sends a strange, desperate hope through me.
Jake’s hand lashes out to grab my wrist, his fingers wrapping around painfully tight.
He pulls me from the floor, dragging me across the room.
I stumble after him, the chain rattling, and my ankle burning where the cuff bites into my skin.
“Jake, please—” I start, but he cuts me off with a look that silences me.
He drags me into a tiny adjoining bathroom with concrete walls. It’s utilitarian, functional. The space holds nothing but a toilet, a sink, and a small shower with a clear curtain. He turns on the water before turning to me and commanding, “Strip.”
I stare at him, wrapping my arms around myself instinctively. “Jake, please, don’t—”
“Strip!” he roars, and the sound is deafening in the tiny room, his face contorting with rage as the water begins to run hot, steam filling the small space. “Wash off his smell. Scrub off his touch. I won’t have you wearing him like a whore wears her perfume.”
I’ve been naked on set in front of dozens of crew members.
I’ve done sex scenes with actors, intimate moments captured by cameras and lighting technicians.
I’ve stripped down for costume fittings, medical exams, and a handful of sexual partners.
I can do this. It’s just skin. Flesh. It’s just survival.
My pep talk is unsuccessful. Baring yourself is different when the eyes on you are hungry, and you know the hands that might touch you are violent.
With shaking hands, I reach for the hem of my shirt.
I’m still wearing what I had on in the kitchen, leggings and Gunnar’s oversized shirt.
Ironically, I stole it from his drawer because it smelled like him, and it made me feel safe.
I pull the fabric over my head, my arms crossing over my chest instinctively.
The air is cold against my skin, raising goosebumps.
I feel exposed and vulnerable, more naked than I’ve ever been, despite the bra and leggings still covering me.
“Keep going,” Jake demands, his eyes roaming over me with a possessiveness that makes me want to vomit.
I push my pants down my legs, the fabric catching on the cuff and tangling around the chain.
Jake makes an impatient sound, pulling a box cutter from his pocket.
I freeze, terror paralyzing me as he uses it to slice through the fabric, cutting my leggings away with efficient, brutal strokes.
He pulls at the thin strings of my panties, dragging the knife through them until they’re nothing but tattered fabric lying beside my ruined leggings.
I remove my bra, and Jake forcefully pushes me toward the shower, propelling me under the spray.
“Scrub him from you,” he orders, his voice tight with barely controlled rage. “Every inch. I want him gone.”
The water is scalding, almost too hot, but I step under it anyway. I lift the bar of soap from the tray, but my fingers are shaking so badly I can barely hold it. I scour my skin, washing what little connection I hold to Gunnar.
“Again,” Jake instructs from where he stands just outside the curtain, watching. “I don’t want a hint of him left on you.”
He makes me repeat it—soap, scrub, rinse, repeat—until I’m crying silently, my tears mixing with the shower spray. I wash again, and again, my skin turning pink, then red. At his command, I lather and rinse my hair until my scalp aches. I wash until my fingers are wrinkled.
When he’s finally content, Jake reaches in and turns off the water before holding out a towel.
I take it with trembling hands, wrapping it around myself and clutching it to my chest. I’m thankful for the modesty, for the thin barrier between my body and his gaze, even when I know it’s temporary, and he can take it from me whenever he pleases.
He ushers me into the bedroom with his hand wrapped tightly around my arm.
I’m terrified of where this might be going.
The bed is there, waiting, and I know what happens to women chained to beds.
I try to mentally brace myself for the inevitable, for the violation I know is coming.
A sigh of relief blows over my lips when he leads me past the bed.
After bringing us to a stop at a set of bifold doors, he opens them.
Inside are dresses—hangers upon hangers of them—and I realize that he’s been planning for this.
He’s been collecting and scheming for who knows how long.
He flips through the clothes with the care of a man selecting something precious, something earned. His fingers pause on a simple, yet elegant, blue dress before pulling it free. “Arms up,” he instructs.
I hesitate, and he clears his throat as he steps closer.
When I lift my arms, he pulls the dress over my head, the towel falling away as the fabric slides down my body.
I grit my teeth, expecting to feel his hands on my skin, but he doesn’t touch me.
At least, not inappropriately. His hands find the fabric, adjusting the shoulders and smoothing down the skirt, without lingering.
It’s almost worse, somehow, this illusion of care, as if he’s dressing a doll rather than a prisoner.
He steps back, his eyes roaming over me with satisfaction. “Beautiful,” he murmurs as his fingers trace my jaw, tilting my face toward the light. “You look beautiful, my love. Let’s finish getting you ready.”
Ready? For what?
The question screams in my mind, but I don’t speak it into existence. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear what he has waiting. I don’t want to know what beautiful plans he’s been dreaming of in the destiny he thinks awaits us.
He leads me toward a vanity with mirrors and lights that remind me of my dressing rooms on set. “Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the chair.
I obey, my movements mechanical as my mind races. He stands behind me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. Dragging a brush through my hair to untangle the knots, he smiles at our reflection. A captive and her captor, dressed up like this is normal, like this is love.
“Makeup.” He places a bag on the vanity. “I want you to look perfect for me.”
I unzip the bag and stare at the brushes and palettes inside. With dawning horror, I realize this is part of his fantasy. He doesn’t just want to possess me. He wants to recreate me. He wants to play house with a version of me that exists only in his mind, and I’m trapped here, helpless.
Please find me, Gunnar. Before it’s too late. Before I become who and what Jake wants me to be.