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“So, I don’t know if you can smell that stank ass, trash-like smell, but uh, that’s me. Any chance we can bounce outta this cavernous dungeon thing so I can take a shower and maybe put on some real clothes?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow in question.
No response. Not even a nod or head shake. He’s just staring at me now, his eyes glowing in the surrounding darkness. It’s even darker where he’s standing but there’s still an odd sense of familiarity in them. Even still, there’s something ominous lingering in the space around him. This man is dangerous. It seeps from his pores and fills the air around him. He gives off the vibes of a man torn between right and wrong. I don’t know if he’s working for someone or if he’s the one who’s been sending me all the creepy roses, but with every meal comes another long stemmed black rose so I know that I’m right where I’m wanted by my secret admirer.
“Seriously man, you may not have noticed but it’s kinda cold down here and there’s legit no way this thin as fuck silk is doing the trick to keep me from eventually getting hypothermia. All I’m asking for is a hot shower and some real clothes. C’mon, you have to know how fucked up it is to keep me here, right?” I damn near beg. I’m officially pathetic. I don’t even want to know me right now. I almost don’t even want tobeme.
“You clearly don’t want me to die, or you wouldn’t be checking in on me and feeding me every day. I won’t even try to escape. Just fucking help me not smell like the rotting corpse of a dead animal. You can’t have gone to all the trouble of kidnapping me just to let me rot down here… Right?” I blink up at him, hoping like hell he’ll find it in him to care enough to help me. At this point I just need to do what I can to find an opening out of here. If I can just get out of this creepy cave basement, I can check out my surroundings and figure out a way to get back home. My mom and nonno must be freaking the hell out, given I haven’t checked in with them since I got to my hotel in Chicago.
The masked man sets a tray of food on my little side table, turning to walk away from me.Again. I can’t let that happen so I move as fast as I can, which is admittedly much slower than normal, given how worn out I am from being down here.
Reaching out to grab his arm, only to catch his hand instead, I yank as hard as I can. When my skin touches his, there’s a spark of electricity that shoots through my veins, fire burning through me at a simple touch. It makes no sense to me. He’s the big, bad masked man. Not to mention, for obvious reasons, I shouldn’t be reacting to anyone like this.
I jerk my hand back quickly but the damage is done. He felt it too. His mask covers his face but his eyes are visible and they tighten as though I’ve pained him. They appear to be black but that may just be the darkness that blankets us in the dull gloom that shadows this cellar. There’s something in his gaze though - an overwhelming sense of familiarity that offers a reassuring comfort to settle my nerves when I lock eyes with him. Why, when I look into them does it feel like home? It’s momentarily paralyzing. Can this be Stockholm Syndrome? Can someone even develop that in such a small amount of time? What in the actual fuck is happening to me?
“Please,” I whisper, showing a vulnerability I know I shouldn’t.
Without warning, he grabs me by my arms and starts to move back to my bed. My sense of self-preservation kicks in and I try to fight him off but he’s already got a hold of me, and with his size and weight, he easily overpowers me. His grip tightens with each of my own combative movements as I try to fight him off. I let my body go lax in an attempt to throw him off by making him drag my dead weight. Sparks or no sparks, I don’t want to let him take me to a bed of any kind. I didn’t survive this long just to be raped in some dungeon-cellar-turned-bedroom for a captive. I don’t care if I felt a goddamn blazing inferno light me up from within or if I’ve suddenly developed some form of temporary mental illness. I willnotlet him take advantage of me.
No one but my guys will have me physically. I belong tothem.I may not have my necklace, my knife, or my gun, but I’m no dummy and I know how to fight. I’ve done it my whole damn life. With all the power I have left in me, I shove him off of me and move to kick him in his kidneys.
Instead he grabs my foot and yanks me to his body. It’s like he can anticipate all of my movements. What the fuck? It’s as if he knows me. Using the momentum of my body coming towards his, he moves his hand upward to grab my thigh. With his other hand, he snatches my other leg so I end up wrapped around his waist. I move to shove myself off by pushing at his chest and trying to drop my legs, but he’s got a firm hold on me now. He’s had the upper hand from the get go and I’m running out of options.
“No! Letgoof me!!” I scream.
He grunts in response while slamming me onto the bed, coming down on me with the full force of his weight. My worst nightmare has always been someone getting me into this position. He’s pressed up tight against my body, his hips moving against mine while he wrestles me into submission from in between my legs. My body instantly locks up. I stop trying to fight him because I’m only making the situation worse by bucking my hips into his. I can feel him harden against my stomach and I become nauseous with worry, but I refuse to let him see me scared. He can have my anger and my fight. He doesn’t get to have my fear.
Hatred seeps into my veins as I think of all the ways I’ll make him pay if he touches me. I don’t care if I die in the process. If he rapes me, Iwillkill him.
Reaching out with one of his giant hands, he clasps my wrists together above my head. Keeping my body locked down with his own, he uses his other hand to pull a set of handcuffs from one of the utility pockets in his cargo pants and locks them onto my wrists, binding me to one of the iron rails at the head rest.
I mindlessly thrash my body around, doing my best to ensure he can’t stay near enough to touch me. My movement causes the cuffs to cut into my wrists with how tightly they are clasped onto me. I can feel the sharp bite of the metal and a small trickle of blood moves down my arms, but that’s the least of my concerns. I continue to kick and fight with the rest of my body but it doesn’t seem to phase the masked man. He steps back and watches me, making no moves to touch me again.
Instant relief floods my entire being at his distance. It appears as though he doesn’t want to force himself on me, but whatdoeshe want? Maybe he’s just trying to get me to think he doesn’t want me? I felt his dick. I know he’s turned on.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, genuinely confused as to what’s going on. When he doesn’t respond once again, I start raging.
“What are you going to do? Rape me? Because I’ll cut your tiny little dick off before I let that happen, you piece of shit!! I fucking dare you to touch me again! One way or another, I’ll find my way out of this. When that day comes, I’m going to fucking destroy you and everything you love.” I’m snarling at this point. Yelling and kicking, baring my teeth like a wild animal. I’m almost convinced that I’m losing my mind.
It’s not like me to lash out in anger. Typically I use it tocalmlyfuel my fire and gain the upper hand. No. This isfear. Pure, unfiltered fear, causing me to lash out and lose my cool. I need to reel it the fuck in and gain some control.
“The only thing I love is you, mia bella.” He whispers in a low growl, turning his face from me, like he can’t stand to see me this way. His voice sends goosebumps down the length of my body. It looks as though it hurts him to see me so hateful.
Something in his voice triggers me. It stops me dead, mid thrash, and I’m suddenly lost in my own thoughts, trapped in my own memories. At least it feels like a memory, or maybe a dream.
It sounds so familiar, but not... There’s something off about it. There’s a hint of an accent but also something else, something I can’t put my finger on. It’s like I’m stuck in a hypnotic-like trance as I let his words sink in and before I can get a full grasp on what’s happening, the masked man walks out the door.
Chapter Five
Alessandra
“Ohh fuck, my head.” I reach up and clasp my hands to my head in an unsuccessful attempt to stop the aching, only to realize I’m no longer handcuffed to the metal bars on the bed, though there are painful marks left behind. My mouth feels so dry and my eyelids are so heavy, they feel like they could be holding the weight of an elephant.
I make a half-hearted attempt to peel open my eyes but the light in the room is blinding and painful. Where’s the light coming from? I grab for my makeshift blanket to pull over my head to stop the awful light from making my headache worse, only the fabric isn’t rough and itchy. It isn’t small either. I grasp a hold of thick, warm, buttery soft sheets and what has to be a feather down comforter. I try to peek one eye open to see what’s going on and even though it still hurts, my eyes shoot open wide at the sight before me.
“What the fuck?” I whisper to myself.
Looking around, there’s a vast difference to the filthy, damp cellar I’d been residing in for the better part of the last month. Even as everything is spinning a bit, I see that the room I’m in is as large, if not larger than my room at home. The walls are a beautiful light coffee coloring with dark wooden accents. I’m lying on a comfortable king size four poster bed, with cream bedding. There’s a delicate ivory lace fabric draped over the bed tied to the posts on each corner of the bed. Next to the bed are two bedside tables, matching beautifully with the chestnut and cream decor. On the table closest to me, I see two Tylenol tablets and a glass of water sitting on top of a note. And no surprise here, there’s another long stemmed black rose.
Ugh, I don’t even want to touch the note. My head hurts so bad that I’m desperate for the pain pills though. Going against my better judgement, I pick up the note after I swallow the pills and down the entire cup of water. I shouldn’t have drank it so fast, because now I feel queasy as shit. The note doesn’t help at all. If anything, I think it makes things worse. Nausea swims through my sour stomach, lurching violently with every line I read on the paper.
