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She was up in a sort of second-level nook. It was small compared to the rest of the room but not cramped, and you could stand up in it without having to bend down. A large chain that ended in the shackle enclosed around her ankle was bolted into the floor. She was on a mattress.
It wasn't a bed on box springs, just a mattress on the floor. But it was a very nice mattress with light gray silk sheets and a downy white comforter. There were several soft pillows, also covered in silk. It was an incongruent level of comfort for obvious captivity, and she didn't understand the motives behind it.
She felt a sudden sense of shame that she'd had so much money of her own but had never had a bed this comfortable with bedding quite this nice. She'd had the ability to have it, but she'd just never bothered to care for herself in that way.
If she hadn't been able to give this small luxury to herself, why wouldhegive it to her?
Also,howhad he given it to her? The amount of time the sedative lasted wouldn't afford the opportunity for him to set all this up, which meant he'd already had all this. Claire swallowed hard around the lump in her throat as she took in the rest of the room.
A few feet beyond where her mattress ended, was what appeared to be a large indoor waterfall. The water came out underneath the hard floor and emptied into a giant tub with jets creating bubbles in the water. But the jets were quiet.
Down on the main level against the wall opposite from her was a large fireplace. The floor was a blond hardwood covered in white fur rugs so only a bit of the wood was visible wherever she looked. Small white pillows were positioned around the fireplace. The pillows were far enough away to not be a fire hazard. Though there was a screen set up around the fire for added safety.
A clock on the mantel showed ten o'clock. But morning or night? She didn't know. There were no windows in this room. It was practically a cave.
On the far end of the room on the main floor was a large white four poster bed. The posts were made of a sturdy-looking steel material. Her heart rate ratcheted up to an impossibly fast rate as she took in the metal chains which hung from the ceiling ending in white leather cuffs at various places over the bed.
Hanging on hooks on the wall beside the bed were riding crops and whips of various sizes and types. Suddenly she couldn't breathe.
Not only had she taken the wrong man, she'd tortured someone who had his own collection of whips. She couldn't stop the trembling when it began to flow through her limbs or the tears that slipped down her cheeks.
Hadn't she had doubts? But he'd had the scar. She was sure it was him. She'd been so drugged and starved during her captivity. The details were fuzzy now, or maybe they'd never been clear. She remembered his hair, and his build. And that scar. But that man had called her a rich bitch.
This man had called her a bitch a few times, but he'd never called her arich bitch. It was so obvious now in hindsight... now that she wasn't so amped up on the adrenaline of revenge, anger, and fear. It would have been obvious to him the amount of financial resources it would take to keep him in that cell... to set up that cell in the first place.
He would have been infuriated by those resources. He would have rambled about her money if it was the guy. Maybe she'd thought he was smart enough not to call her that or give anything away since he'd told her he wasn't the man who'd taken her.
But hewasn'tthe man who'd taken her.
The door opened and her new captor walked in. His hard, arctic gaze rose to hers. She watched him warily from the mattress as he approached. When he reached the top of the stairs and stood mere feet away, she scooted back, cringing from him. As if there were anywhere she could go with the wall at her back and the strong heavy chain around her ankle.
Her lip trembled as she became even more aware of her nudity, the absolute vulnerability to this man she'd hurt over and over. She was afraid to even beg him. She was afraid to exist. To breathe. But she couldn't stop the ragged sobs that came out of her even as she tried to quiet her crying. He would have no mercy for her. She knew it.
His hard gaze froze the blood in her veins as he regarded her with a kind of determined coldness she'd hoped never to be on the receiving end of again. He hadn't broken in the cell. She could see it in his eyes.
If anything, the things she'd done had strengthened him, hardened his resolve. Even though he'd lost some weight in her care, he looked absolutely lethal standing in front of her in only a pair of jeans that rode low on his hips. He'd showered and bandaged his most recent wounds. Medical tape was barely visible, wrapping over his shoulder to the front.
His long dark sun-streaked blond hair was still wet from a shower. He looked like a warrior from some long-forgotten battlefield.
A slow smile curved his lips. It wasn't sinister, but it wasn't exactly friendly either. His voice was a low, dark growl when he spoke.
“My turn. Kneel.”
Claire didn't need further explanation. She wasn't prepared to beg or bargain or try to resist or act defiant. She was smarter than that. She scrambled off the mattress and knelt in front of him, her body shaking uncontrollably for what would come next. Oh, god, what would he do to her?
She hadn't deserved what the last man had done. But this one she'd actually harmed.
She'd wanted to feel powerful after so long of feeling so powerless. She thought if she could get payback, she could burn away the shame she'd felt at being completely at the mercy of a monster.
And yet here she was again... feeling that same shame. The shame and degradation of utter powerlessness, mingled now with the new shame of hurting someone who hadn't done anything to deserve her fury. Nothing could ever absolve her of what she'd done to him.
It seemed like an eternity passed with her kneeling at the feet of the man she'd tortured. She didn't fight him because she knew better. One could say she was an experienced captive, and there was no need to be retrained. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to block out all the things her first captor had done to her, wondering how many of those things she'd be subjected to again.
It hadn't mattered to her captor if she'd obeyed quickly. He'd still punished her. Everything he'd done had been out-of-control and filled with rage.
She could feel the rage pulsing off this man—a raw energy that consumed all the air around her. Somewhere deep inside she knew appeasing him wouldn't work. It wouldn't matter what she did, he would still hurt her. He would still torture her, and then most likely he would still kill her. Just like her first captor had planned.
How was she back in the same place again?
