Captive Beauty

Dr. Horn’s gloved fingers press against me, opening my folds, smearing lubricant into me. I squeeze my eyes shut, hate the tears that slide from their corners as he does his work, taking a smear. It’s over within moments. I open my eyes to watch him place the sample in his bag and retrieve two syringes.

“What are those for?”

“Birth control and a blood sample.”

He comes to the top of the bed and I start to struggle. Hugo steps forward.

“Blood first,” the doctor says.

Hugo grips my arm so hard, I can’t move it. It hurts when the doctor sticks the syringe in, taking the sample. When Hugo releases me, I do the only thing I can. I open my mouth and bite his hand.

“Fuck.” He swipes it away.

It wasn’t even hard enough to draw blood.

“I can shoot this one into her hip if you turn her over and hold her still.”

“With pleasure.” Hugo uncuffs one leg, but his grip is so tight as he folds it over the other, that I can’t move it at all. I feel the cold cotton swab readying the area and flinch when the needle penetrates skin. I’m so caught up in what’s happening to me that I don’t even hear Kill when he enters the room.

“She’s compliant, I see,” he says when the doctor pulls the needle out and Hugo releases me so I roll onto my back.

“That’s her. Compliant,” Hugo deadpans.

I look at the scratches down Kill’s face. I got him good. But I know he’ll get me better.

I meet his eyes. The rage of last night is gone. He still looks terrifying even wearing the expensive suit, but he’s not out of control. He shakes the doctor’s hand.

“Thank you, Dr. Horn. Your services are appreciated as is your discretion.”

“Of course, Mr. Black.”

Mr. Black?

But I don’t have time to think about this now because Kill turns his full attention to me, looks me over, walks to the bed, and sits on the edge of it. His gaze wanders over my naked body, pausing at my sex before his eyes meet mine.

“I’m going to teach you to obey me,” he says, and I know he hasn’t forgotten what happened last night. He undoes my still bound leg, then my wrists. I sit up, rub them, cover myself as best I can. From inside his jacket pocket, he takes out a cell phone, scrolls to a number and dials it, then hands me the phone.

I take it, confused, put it to my ear.

“Cill?” It’s Jones.

“Oh, God. Jones.” Relief washes over me and tears warm my eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m okay, sis. Are you?”

I glance at Kill. I’m not sure how to answer that. “Where are you?” I ask instead.

“I can’t say, but I’m safe. I guess he needs you to know that.”

“Are they hurting you?”

“No.”

I nod, but he can’t see me.

“Sis, you shouldn’t have done that,” he says.

I’m crying, wiping my face with one hand, pressing the phone to my ear with the other.

“There. You know he’s not hurt. Now say goodbye,” Kill says.

My eyes snap to his.

“One month. You’ll see him after that,” he says.

I study him, trying to gauge if he’s telling the truth, that he’s not going to hurt Jones. Jones sounds okay though. Not under duress.

“I have to go,” I say. “I’ll see you again when this is over, okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Jones says. “I’m sorry for being an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot.”

“Say goodbye,” Kill repeats.

“Goodbye.”

Kill takes the phone and puts it into his pocket. He gets off the bed. “Get dressed. We’re leaving.” He motions to the shopping bag I hadn’t noticed.

“Leaving?”

“We’re taking a trip.”

“Where to? I have a job. Rent.” I’m a freelance journalist, but still. I need to work to pay the bills.

“You told me that last night. I took care of everything. All you have to worry about for the next month is pleasing me. You do that, and all will be well.”

“You said I could leave.” I don’t know why I bring that up. I won’t leave. I know that.

“I changed my mind.” He gives me a long look, then turns and walks out the door, closing it behind him.

6

Kill

Not fifteen minutes later, Cilla walks out of her bedroom and into the living room. She’s dressed in jeans, a sweater and a pair of knee-high boots I ordered for her from a nearby boutique. I got the size right. The jeans hug her tight ass and the cashmere sweater displays the small, soft curves of her breasts. The deep crimson sets of her olive skin and dark hair. She’s not wearing makeup and still she’s stunning.

I nod in approval and finish my cup of coffee. Helen takes it from me and I retrieve the black wool coat and hand it to Cilla.

“I have clothes,” she says, looking at the coat but not taking it.