Текст книги "Meet Me in the Dark"

Автор книги: J. A. Huss

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Pain is in the mind. Just think of a good moment and go there—an alternate reality is not the worst way to go.”

– Sydney

This time when I wake, I’m tethered to the table thing again. My mouth is dry, my stomach is rumbling, and I need to go to the bathroom.

I close my eyes to go back into my memory of that day’s hunt. I didn’t even get to the good part. After we quartered the animal and carried it home, we stuffed our faces with meat for the first time in weeks.

But a sound wakes me back up. I can hear something. And I can smell something too.

Food. Meat.

Whoever this is must be a mind-reader.

No, Syd. They know how long it’s been since you ate, that’s all.

“Garrett?” The word comes out before I can stop it.

“Try again,” the deep voice says from behind my head.

I gasp in surprise.

“Not Garrett.” His boots thud on the floor as he steps out from behind me. It’s still dark, and I can’t see anything. But his hand brushes against my shoulder, and then he squeezes. I cry out in pain before I can stop myself. “You smell like piss.”

I don’t say anything as he lets go of my wounded shoulder and walks along the table. His fingertips stroke along my ribs and I realize my hoodie is gone. I’m still wearing the nightie Brett’s sisters gave me. And as soon as that realization hits me, my nipples perk up. His light touch pauses for a moment, like he knows. And then he rounds his palm and places it over my stomach. “Hungry?”

I close my eyes and hiss in a breath.

He moves on. His whole hand this time. He drags it down my hip and I can feel the heat of him even through my jeans. He pauses there, lingering on the bone that protrudes out, then slips his hand in my front pocket and pulls something out.

“Hmmm,” is all he says. He lifts the nightie up so my stomach is exposed and it’s only then that I realize how cold it is in here. When he places it gently over my belly button my whole body erupts in a shiver.

A whimper escapes.

“Why do you have an acorn in your pocket?”

His tone is hard. Like this is important. I can’t think of a single reason why this might be important, so I tell him. “It makes me feel better. I always carry it.”

“Everywhere?”

I nod.

“Hmmm,” he whispers.

I swallow hard and keep my eyes closed as his palm again rests on my hip bone.

“I asked you a question that you didn’t answer.”

My mind races. What did he ask me? I can’t remember.

“Are you hungry?”

I nod and he stays silent. But his hand is on the move again. He drags it down to the top of my thigh and stops one more time. His fingers spread and then his large palm stretches out. He will rape me. I know this as soon as I feel the tingle of his touch get too close to the v of my open legs.

“Get used to that feeling, Sydney. You’re gonna stay hungry for a while.”

I hold my breath to prevent the fuck you I really want to scream at him.

He leaves his hand on my leg for what seems like minutes. Like he’s waiting for me to cry out or beg him to stop. But I stay silent.

“Are you cold?”

I nod again, even though I know he’s gonna say I should get used to that too. I don’t know if he sees that movement, or feels it, or what. But he does not repeat himself. Instead he moves on. His fingertips trace down the inside of my thighs, a light touch that might be provocative and hot if I was not strapped to a wooden table being threatened with rape. He stops once more when he gets to my knee.

“Why are you wearing a nightie under your clothes?”

That is not a safe question, so I don’t answer.

This time his hand slides back up to cup my pussy.

I moan, but not out of desire. I moan because he’s threatening me without using words. Letting me know he is respecting my boundaries. But he doesn’t have to. “It was the night before my wedding. My sisters-in-law gave it to me to wear.”

“Was?” he asks in a curious tone. “Was the night before your wedding? How long do you think you’ve been here?” I shake my head but he doesn’t accept my passive response this time. He unbuttons my jeans.

“I don’t know,” I answer quickly. “A few days ago? I was drugged.”

“Hmmm,” he says again, pulling down my zipper.

“Please,” I whisper, my heart beating so fast.

He pulls the fly of my jeans apart and slips his hand inside. “Please what? Please continue?” I shake my head quickly. “Please make it feel good? Please don’t stop? You’re gonna have to give me more than please, cowgirl.”

“Why are you doing this!” I scream it. There, he did it. He broke me. I give in. I can’t take it anymore. I’m weak. I’m stupid. I’m—

“Who am I?”

“Case,” I say immediately.

“How do you know that?” I can hear a hint of satisfaction in his voice.

“I don’t.” My voice trembles. “I just guessed. You sound like him.”

He lets out a little grunt. “Do you remember how you begged me that night, Sydney? Because I do. Did you think I’d save you, cowgirl? Did you think I was your hero in the dark? Did you think I’d take you home to your daddy?”

I did think all those things. I was desperate for them. “I’m so glad you left me. Leaving me was the best thing that ever happened.”

His hand slips inside the waist of my jeans. “Was it?” He tugs them down until they are at the top of my thighs and won’t go any further due to the fact that my legs are tied in an open position. He feels my pussy through the thin lacy panties. I instinctively clench my legs together and try to limit the space he has available down there.

He backs away, withdrawing his hand. But then I hear something being unsnapped, probably from his belt. There are a few more noises that I can’t place, and then he’s slipping his hand around my right ankle. His touch is soft. Softer than I expected. I stifle a whimper by biting my lip.

“You’re gonna want to hold still now, Sydney. I’d be lying if I said I don’t want to cut you, but you have enough blood on you for now. So let’s try to get through this without adding much more.”

“What?”

A cold shiver erupts up my leg when the metal touches my skin. I hiss in a breath to stop from screaming, but I hold still. He cuts the denim starting at the inside of my ankle and slices it all the way up to my knee.

“Be very still now,” he says as he repositions the knife on my inner thigh. “You’ll bleed like a motherfucker if I cut you up here.”

I can feel it this time. Either he’s not careful or he’s doing it on purpose, but he cuts me over and over again. Poke after poke. I hiss out in surprise each time. He apologizes but doesn’t stop. By the time he’s to my crotch, I can’t hold it together.

I sob. My whole body shakes. The acorn he placed on my belly button rolls off me and thuds onto the wooden table.

He places a hand on my hip for a moment, and I force myself to imagine it’s a gesture of reassurance. This calms me and I take a deep breath. His hand moves away again, grasping at the open fly, holding it taut so he can cut.

The fabric breaks and the tension eases.

“Pretty good. Those pokes were on purpose. If you’d moved, there’d be slices.”

I say nothing.

“Let’s do the other one.”

He pokes me again. More than he did with the first leg. But this time I stay still. I let him do whatever he needs to. I can smell myself now. Blood, and piss, and sweat, and fear. I don’t know how long I’ve been here, but the stench coming off me says it’s more like days than hours.

“And now the pretty panties.” He cuts those easily, one snip over each hip. “And the nightie.” One cut on each shoulder strap and then he sets the knife down, grabs my breasts for a moment, giving them a hard squeeze, before ripping the front of the nightie straight down the middle.

I am naked. I am bare. And never in my life have I ever been so happy to be in the dark. I sob, as silently as I can, as he walks around.

The room goes silent and I admonish myself for not paying attention. Did he leave? Is he still here? Why didn’t I pay attention?

The silence drags on as I lie there. Then a roar fills the room and I recognize it as the sound of water running through pipes.

A moment later I hear his boots. He was gone. That makes me feel better. He’s creepy enough. I don’t want to start imagining him as some psycho who stands in the dark pretending to not be here.

“I’m gonna clean you up, Sydney. You reek pretty bad.”

I don’t know why, but an image of a warm sponge bath presents in my mind.

That’s when he blasts me with the hose. A punishing stream of ice water that hits my body like a thousand stones. I scream, I can’t help it. It hurts. I turn my body away, so that the left side of me takes the most punishment, but he doesn’t linger in one spot for too long. He blasts me everywhere. Even between my legs.

That’s it. I sob uncontrollably. It hurts so much. My whole body is on fire from the raging water hose.

But then, as quickly as it started, it turns off. I can hear the water in the pipes still, so I know it’s only temporary.

“I’m going to wash you now.” And even though it was my first image when he said that earlier, I’m more surprised at the hot rag dragging down my skin at this point than I was the fire hose.

He is gentle. He dips the washcloth into a tub of water, squeezes it out, and then caresses my whole body with it. He washes me everywhere. But there is no hint of sexual meaning behind this gesture. He never says a word and neither do I. He just swipes away the filth of me and replaces it with something new. Something fresh.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I say, hoping he will untie me and give me some clothes.

“I have to rinse you off now. Feel free to relieve yourself as I do it.”

“How?” I ask, before I can stop myself. “Please, not that hose!” I choke on a sob as the word comes out.

The ice water is my only response. It pelts me, erasing any soothing sensation from the washing. I close my eyes tight and let him do it this time. The piss leaks out of me from the fear and the need. I don’t even try to move my body away. What’s the point? I’m spreadeagled on top of a wooden table. I’m going nowhere. He’s made that very clear.

I lose time from the punishment, but eventually it does stop. I am not even crying now. I’m freezing. I’m in pain. I’m scared. I’m hungry. And I have no fight left. A chill runs up my body and I take deep breaths to keep the cold from taking over.

His footsteps appear again. Only this time they are not boots. Bare feet.

He comes up next to the table and stands quietly.

My whole body begins to shake uncontrollably again. My teeth chatter and all my muscles tense up as the fear takes over.

“Are you cold?” he asks.

I can’t even make myself relax enough to answer, but I grunt out a response to keep him happy.

And then his hand is on my stomach. It’s so warm, like he just pulled it back from a fire. Nothing—and I do mean nothing—has ever felt so good to me.

“Is that better?” he asks.

I nod and open my eyes. It’s still black in this room. But I don’t want him to pull his hand away. It’s the only place on my whole body that feels good right now. And then he lays his chest over mine. His whole body feels like it was warmed from a fire. I crave the heat. I need it so bad.

“Do you want me to stay here with you? Wrap you in my arms and warm you up?”

“Yes,” comes out immediately. There is no hesitation.

He climbs onto the table and presses his body next to me for a moment. Then he sits up and leans forward. The tension holding my left leg open wide disappears. The same thing happens on the right side.

I close my legs and bring them up to my chest, trying to get warm. But he gently repositions them. He slides his body up next to mine and we scissor our legs together. He’s bare-chested, but he still has his jeans on. His arms wrap around my waist and he pulls me in tight against his body.

Everything else disappears. The thirst. The humiliation. The smell. The hunger. The cutting. The bath. The cold. It all goes away in a single moment. The moment when Merric Case leans in my ear and whispers in a deep throaty growl, “I own you. I think you forgot that, Sydney. But I’m patient. I will remind you. Over and over. Until you come to terms with what that means and I can finish what I started eight years ago.”

“Do I believe in right and wrong? Sure. As long as we understand I’m always right.”

– Case

She lies completely still as the words sink in. Silent. I reach up and pinch her nipple, making her squeal. “I never talk for the sake of hearing myself, Sydney. When I talk, even if there is no question, you will respond to me. You can choose the way in which you respond. I’ll correct you if it’s wrong. But you will always respond.”

“OK,” she whimpers.

“Now that you’re comfortable”—she lets out a tiny huff of air to let me know she disagrees, but I ignore it this time—“let’s talk about Garrett. Where is he?”

“You killed him.”

“I did not kill him. But I’d very much like to.”

“He disappeared years ago. And if you’ve been watching me, and I know you have, then you already know this.”

She’s brave, I’ll give her that. Because that was a statement of defiance. Arrogant, almost. But she is also stupid.

I sit up and remove my body heat from her. She takes a few quick breaths, but then calms herself and whispers, “Wait.”

“Too late, cowgirl. Or should I just start calling you wildcat? Hmmm? Too fucking late. You’ll learn. Eventually.”

I get off the table and walk over to the water hose and turn it on again.

She does not move as I spray her a third time. But she bites her lip hard enough to draw blood and when I turn the water off, she is practically convulsing, she is so cold.

I drop the hose on the floor and walk back over to her.

“I thought you killed him, Case. I swear to God. I thought you killed him and my father. I don’t know where he is.”

“I did kill your father. Right here on this table.” That makes her whimper. “But Garrett got away. Where did he go and what is he doing?”

She squints her eyes and shakes her head a little. But she knows what will come if she doesn’t answer now. She knows I’m not fucking around. I’m not here to coddle her through this. I’m not here to pry it out of her. So she gulps down some air and responds.

“Maybe he went to our cabin?”

“I checked. And then I burned it down.” She sucks in a breath at that. And why does she care? It makes me wonder. It pisses me off, actually. “So try again.”

“Camping somewhere?” she offers.

“Where?”

“The campsites don’t have names that make sense to anyone but us. I could show you—”

“Wrong. Try your best, Sydney. Tell me where he camps and I won’t have to spray you again.”

She draws up her knees, since her legs are still untied, trying to cover herself from the thought of the ice-cold water. And then she squints her eyes again. I realize this means she’s thinking. But I haven’t had enough personal contact with her to discern if it means she’s thinking up a lie or just regular thinking.

“Always up in Yellowstone. Purple Mountain is where we start. And then we veer off at the second switchback, and continue to climb to the top of the mountain, and then double back on the opposite side. There’s a deer trail—”

“Do you think he’s there?”

“No,” she answers immediately, and I smile.

“No, he’s not. I followed the two of you there several times. So I’ve checked, and had others check, repeatedly over the years. Where else?”

She continues to list their camping spots and each time she says no to my question. I know he’s not camping, but this gives her time to think about how she wants this to go. And since I’m a reasonable guy, I give her this time.

“That all?” I ask, when she’s finally done. Her teeth have been chattering for so long I think she’s probably losing weight before my eyes, that’s how tense her muscles are.

“That’s it, Case. I swear.” It comes out Cccc-aaaase and swww-eeee-aar.

I believe her. I’ve checked all of them several times over the years. It’s like the man really does know how to vanish. Of course, the world is big and I am just one person. I have a partner, but even two people can miss a few places when you have to cover the whole earth looking for someone.

But none of this makes any sense. And it’s all pointless right now anyway. I’m only here to establish control, and I think I’ve succeeded in doing that. “Well, I’m tired. And hungry. So you get some rest.”

I reach into my pocket and withdraw the syringe, uncapping it with a flick of my thumb, and press it into the fleshy muscle of her upper arm. “You can sleep too. But food, Sydney, food is a reward. Not a right. You can go a few more days before I really need to feed you.”

She whimpers, but cuts it off almost immediately. “I’m cold.”

“You’re supposed to be.”

“Pppp-lease,” she stutters, her lips trembling and her legs shaking. “Warm me again. Please.”

I place my hand over her belly like I did earlier, and she relaxes with a long breath of air. “I like to see you suffer, Sydney. Make no mistake. I didn’t warm you earlier to make you happy. I did it to confuse you. I’ll give you a tip. To help you get through the next few days before I kill you—”

“No,” she says, begging. “No, please.”

“I hate your fucking guts. I have been dreaming about killing you for years. Just like I dreamt about how I’d kill your father. I tortured him on top of this very table. It’s stained with his blood. And yours will add to it. So if you want it to go easy, do what you’re told. Don’t lie. And don’t expect me to give a shit. Because I’m more than happy to fuck with your head for a few days as I pry this information out of you. Information I know you have. And I will get it.”

She cries then. Full-on sobs. I wait for the drugs to take over and then I cut the rope that binds her to the wall at the head of the table. She tries to sit up and fails, and then the sleepiness overtakes her pathetic attempt at a fight and she curls into herself like a baby, desperate to find some warmth.

I take a deep breath and walk over to the hose, roll it up and place it on the hook in the connecting utility room, then close and lock the door behind me. I remove my night vision goggles before I flip on the light, and then I place those in the little cubby of gear before walking through the next door and back out into my cabin.

It’s cold in this room. I’ve been with her for at least two hours so the fire has died down. I throw some wood on it and change out of my wet clothes and stir the stew that’s been cooking over the flame all day to stimulate her hunger response. I spoon some into a camping bowl and sit down on the couch a few feet away from the hearth and eat.

When I’m done I stretch out, pulling the bearskin that hangs over the back of the couch over me, and I think about what to do next.

I think up all the ways I might break her. I have no shortage of ways. But even though I knew how I’d kill her father, Senator Channing, from the moment he fucked with my life, I have no such plan for Sydney. I have run it all through my mind over and over again, but how to do it so it’s satisfying? I’m not sure.

Strangulation during sex is currently at the top of my list. But I’ve always enjoyed slitting throats. It’s quick, which I hate. But messy, which I love.

Then there is my specialty, of course. Assassination-style. Bullet to the back of the head.

I don’t know. I can’t decide. If I get her to take me to Garrett, I could do them both each way. I know exactly how I’m gonna kill that motherfucker.

I smile at the thought and then I turn over and close my eyes, enjoying the warm fire and the stew in my stomach.

It surprises me how satisfied I am with her first real day of questioning. I broke her quickly. A lot quicker than I expected. She’s grown weak, perhaps. He beat her down pretty good, but his absence makes her weak. He must know this. She’s been away from him. Living her seemingly normal life in Cheyenne. Running her little country western bar. Theme nights and live bands replaced her militia training.

But that shit never goes away, I remind myself. It might get rusty. You forget what it feels like to live minute by minute, struggling to go on. But it comes back quick enough if the training is done right.

And her training was exceptional. Garrett knew exactly what he was doing when he took her away that night they tried to kill me. He knew. He set me up then and he’s setting me up now. I can feel it. Something is off. Something is wrong.

Maybe he’s good enough to evade me all these years and get away with it. He was trained better than me, that’s for sure. He was a Company kid and I was just a stand-in after the rest of the assassins were picked off one at a time by a friend of mine. But I’m a natural, they tell me. I’m a natural killer. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.

A psychopath.

A cold, emotionless, empty shell of a man whose only goal in life is to kill this girl and the man who trained her, so I can set my world straight again.