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I have to.
The room spins, the world as I know it shifts and tilts, and without warning, I vomit. He drops me, and I roll onto my side. My face welcomes the feel of the cool tile, as I lay there dry heaving, the man stands above me, his hands on his hips, making it clear this is not what he expected. I look up at him, my expression pleading. “We have to get you feeling better,” he says, just before I close my eyes, lay my head next to my vomit, and pass out again.
Sometime later when I regain consciousness, I am in a dimly lit room, tied to a bed. Tears flood my eyes, and a whimper escapes my lips.
It comes to me in flashes, each time I fade in and out. This time is no different. The gun. Waking up on the plane, zip tied and thoroughly restrained. The dead men in the seats next to me, staring blankly ahead. Tires on a gravel road. Ripped vinyl. The sour smell of vomit. The cold shower. The softly spoken words. The smell of sandalwood.
Tethered at my wrists and ankles to the frame, my restraints have some give, thankfully, but when I shift, a burning sensation floods my senses. There is nowhere I do not feel it. My hair is wet, my neck is stiff, and worse, when I attempt to turn my head, I discover I can’t. I’m wearing some sort of neck brace.
Of what I can see, the room is spacious and well decorated, the kind of place that feels homey. It doesn’t look remote, or unkempt, but rather the kind of place that someone might visit or find, which gives me hope. Considering hope, I go through the list of things I know. I assume that I am somewhere in Alaska, as that is where we were headed, considering there was a flight plan. Still, I have no idea where in Alaska, if that is even correct, nor how long I have been asleep. We could be anywhere. What I do know is that the walls around me are made of logs. I am in a bedroom.
I sense that I am being watched. Somewhere close, but not too close, I hear the faint sound of music. Opera. I smell fire, burning wood and smoke, cinnamon and food cooking.
Aside from the neck contraption, I am wearing wool pajamas that I obviously did not put on myself. My lips are bone dry, my tongue heavy in my mouth. My eyes want desperately to close. My mind beckons sleep. It’s my only escape.
But knowing I can’t prolong the inevitable; I do what must be done. I struggle, loudly, so as to let him know that I am awake. Better to get this over with, I tell myself, even if my insides are screaming it is a terrible mistake.
He moves slowly into the room. “Oh, good. You’re awake. You had me worried there for a minute.”
I can see him only partially, from the corner of my eye. But I can feel him. His strong presence, his determined energy. “Here,” he says, shifting the brace on my neck, which allows me to have a little more movement. “This should help.”
He takes a roll of duct tape off an antique table and tears a piece off with his teeth. Walking over to the bed, he places it gently over my mouth, despite the fact that I refuse to keep my face still. “You could scream all you want but no one would hear you. That’s not the purpose of the tape, in case you’re wondering. I just don’t want to get bit. At least not until we’ve become better acquainted.” He smiles. “I’m sure you understand.”
I watch as he unfastens his belt and holds it in his closed fist. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this—how patient I’ve been.”
I fight against the restraints. At least initially. He picks up scissors and holds them close to my face. “I really hope you aren’t going to make this difficult.”
Opening the scissors, he cuts my pajama pants from one end to the other. My breath comes faster now. No matter how much one wants to hide fear, it takes more control than you realize you are able to summon.
“Shame,” he says. “I really should have thought this through.” He can’t remove my pants without undoing the restraints, hence the scissors.
“It’s okay,” he tells me, holding up the torn pants. “There’s more where that came from.” He smiles and then leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. “Please don’t make me dose you again.”
My fingers and toes clench and then flex and soften, clench and soften. “Trust me,” he whispers, smoothing my hair away from my face. “You’re going to want to be awake for this.”
He lifts my top. My bra has been removed. He kisses my breasts, hungrily, before slowing and taking one nipple in his mouth. After swirling his tongue around it several times, he bites hard. Then he looks up at me and smiles. Tears prick the corner of my eyes. He cups both breasts and squeezes. “God. If you only knew how long I’ve wanted to do that.?
?
He moves his hands slowly down my body, caressing, prodding, offering commentary along the way, saying he’s getting to know the lay of the land. “You’re so beautiful.”
He fumbles between my legs, which makes me think he’s inexperienced, until I realize he’s testing me, trying to find my breaking point. “I have so many things I want to ask you, Charlotte. So many. Thankfully, there is time.” He dips one finger inside me, and that does it—he has found the point he was searching for. My hips buck wildly. I realize it’s pointless. Tied to this bed, all of the bucking in the world is not going to set me free or stop what is about to happen. At some point, the course was set, and the momentum has carried me here. His will is obviously strong. “Tell me…how many people have you seduced and then killed?”
He slips another finger in. “This many?”
I bite my lip until I taste blood. I count the lines in the ceiling. He adds another finger. “This many?”
When he laughs, I understand, the worst is yet to come. He is a professional. He’s given this moment a lot more thought than I ever have. He has the home field advantage.
“You should know, Charlotte,” he whispers, as he hovers over me. “What goes around comes around.”
I quiz myself on the capital of each state. He parts my thighs and enters me. As he pumps away, I go through them alphabetically, getting all the way to Vermont. Montpelier. It goes against every fiber of my being and all of the training I have had. But I will not give him what he wants. I will not show fear.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
JC
It happened quite by accident. Said another way: I didn’t mean to see it. To put it nicely, she is a difficult captive, and I guess you could say, there’s a part of me that was curious. I had to know. Did I do the right thing? Did I choose well? I don’t know if it’s the same for women, but all men think this way.
