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I’m on a soft pallet directly on the concrete floor. There’s no blanket, but it’s warmer now than the night before. Or maybe my naked flesh is still warm from the flogging and bath.
There are no windows or natural light. No sign of what day or time it is. No way of knowing how long I slept.
The memory of last night comes back to me, and I squeeze my eyes shut. His big, capable hands guided the knife over my slick, sensitive flesh, shaving me. Baring me. I was sensation-drunk, and he knew just how to touch me. He could’ve asked anything of me, and I probably would’ve done it.
I need to shore up my defenses against him, but I have no idea how.
It’s not the pain I’m afraid of. It’s the orgasms. And his prying mind, slicing open my psyche, seeing and cataloging every hope and desire.
I sit up, and Victor immediately appears in his psychopath-relaxing-at-home outfit of loose black clothing. His feet are bare as he squats to come to eye level with me.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Yes, thank you,” I reply automatically. The side of his mouth draws up at my politeness, but I figure it can’t hurt to be courteous. Until I figure out a way to kill him.
“Any pain?” His gaze lingers on the red blotches on my chest.
I shrug. “I’m sore. Like a mild case of sunburn.”
“Very good.” He makes the Okay symbol with his thumb and pointer finger. “You will tell me if the pain is too much.”
I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. “So you can hurt me more?”
He clucks, angling his head to the side so the light lovingly highlights the planes of his beautiful face. “I do not want you to hurt all the time. Only when I wish it.”
“Right.” I glance down at my naked self. My shaved pussy looks paler against the rest of my skin. Humiliation is a bitter taste in my mouth, but what’s worse is how my pussy pulses, aching to be filled. His cruel smile, the sexy rasp of his voice, his perfect face fills me with need. He’s a monster holding me captive, I shouldn’t feel this way.
He smirks down at me as if he knows what I’m thinking. How part of me likes being naked and helpless in contrast to his powerful, clothed form. As if he knows the depths of my desire for him.
Rage surges within me, and I stoke it, needing its heat. “Do I get clothes?”
“When you earn them.” He offers me a bottle of water, already unscrewed, with a straw sticking out of the top. I reach for it, and he shakes his head, holding it for me and praising me like I’m a wild animal he’s coaxed to drink from his hand. “Good girl.” His pointer finger taps his thumb a few times. He’s trying to train me with hand gestures, like a dog. I hate it but make a careful note of each one.
I drink the entire bottle, grateful he’s not adding water deprivation to the torture routine.
“More?” he offers, and I decline politely, hoping he’ll keep me hydrated as needed.
He makes a come hither motion with his four fingers pressed together. Another damn hand signal. “Turn around and put your hands through the bar.”
I hesitate.
“Good girls get rewards.” Again, he makes two taps with his forefinger on his thumb before reaching behind him for a white paper bag. When he opens it, the scent of fried food wafts over me, and my stomach convulses and growls so loudly that the sound echoes.
“That’s from Three Diner.”
“Yes. I learned you went there after you. . . left me. But they would not speak to me.”
My throat tightens. I fight the vision of a baby-pink uniform spattered with blood. “Did you hurt them?”
“I had no reason to.” He motions, and I scoot around and lean against the bars. He grabs my wrists and links them together. I crane my head but can’t quite see more than black leather cuffs. They’re soft and snug, joined by a short chain. I’m able to relax my arms without wrenching my shoulders. Could be worse.
He has me turn back to him and kneel so he can feed me by hand, one bite of burger at a time.
“Gonna kill me with cholesterol?” I joke between French fries.
“You will need the sustenance,” he informs me. My stomach flips at his intent expression, but the trepidation isn’t enough to dull my appetite.
After the meal and a little more water, he wipes my face. I look past him to a small sink beside a door. The small room beyond seems to hold a toilet.
