Page 35 of Torment

He flipped me over and moved up to the top of the bed so that he was sitting with my head in his lap. His fingertips kept on massaging every inch of me, kneading and caressing my arms and chest. I closed my eyes, savoring the pleasurable warmth of his touch.

“Mason, I really am sorry,” I murmured. “For everything. I should’ve—”

He moved a finger to my lips. “Shh,” he muttered. “Not now.”

I nodded and shuffled slightly downward, making myself more comfortable. I had to do whatever he commanded—I was too afraid not to—but at the same time, I knew we would have to discuss this eventually. We couldn’t just stay like this forever, pretending he hadn’t taken me hostage and tortured me terribly for weeks. Whatever he was doing to me right now was nice, but it could never last.

Part of me wondered if he might try to touch me in other more sensual ways, but he didn’t. He simply finished rubbing the cream on my most bruised areas, and then he pulled away and got off the bed.

“You can rest in here for now,” he said. “If you aren’t tired, the TV remote is on the left bedside table, and I’ll bring you the books from downstairs later.”

Downstairs.As if my cell was merely some sort of basement, rather than the submerged torture room it was in reality.

“Aren’t you staying?” I asked, immediately hating the way my voice came out in a pitiful squeak. I sounded like a clingy girlfriend.

He shook his head. “I’m going to go and make us some food. I found a recipe for chicken with creamy peppercorn sauce, and I picked up a crème brulee for dessert at the store earlier. Sound good?”

I nodded dumbly. He was waiting on me now? Serving me wonderful-sounding meals as if I were a valued hotel guest?

I had no idea what the hell was happening.

Mason smiled. “If you need me, just knock on the bedroom door. I’ll hear you.”

With that, he shut the door and locked me in the room. I was left more confused than ever. How long would I remain here? Would he ever take me back to the horrible cell, or had I somehow done something good and graduated to this much nicer cage?

As desperate as I was to know all the answers, I was still too afraid to ask Mason what he was playing at. I didn’t want all these little luxuries to go away. The comfortable bed, the silky clothing, the bathroom, the offer of decent food… I might lose it all if I asked too much and pissed him off.

With a sigh, I turned on the TV and settled under the blankets for a nap, comforted by the sounds of the game show playing in the background. I pretended I was a tourist at an enormous foreign hotel, sleeping off the jetlag, and the sound of the TV was actually a group of raucous vacationers on a balcony below me.

When Mason finally brought me dinner, I was dragged back to reality, but surprisingly, I didn’t mind so much. He was still being nice, and the food was delicious. The only obvious sign that I was still a captive was the fact that the door and window remained locked.

I drifted back to sleep in his lap an hour or so later, my stomach blissfully full and my skin still tingling pleasurably from the cream he rubbed on me earlier. Just before I went to sleep, it occurred to me that this might’ve been what it was like if we stayed together all those years ago. If things happened differently.

I wished with all my heart for that to be true, wished that the last few years had been nothing but a cruel dream, but when I woke up in the morning, I was still locked in.

We continued in this strange pattern for three more days. Mason let me do whatever I wanted in the bedroom he’d given me, and for an hour each day, I was allowed out to feed Buddy and sit by his tank.

Aside from the daily massages, Mason didn’t touch me, and we shared decadent meals in relative silence, only speaking to ask each other to pass the salt or pepper, or to voice how delicious the food was. I was still too frightened to say much, and he didn’t seem to have a lot to say to me either.

On the fourth day, my curiosity finally outweighed my fear.

I was on the bed again, lying with my head in Mason’s lap as he massaged oil into my fading bruises. He smelled of cinnamon from this morning’s apple and oatmeal breakfast dish, along with a deeper, headier note of men’s aftershave. I would be lying if I said his scent and the feel of his warm, tanned hands on my skin didn’t turn me on like it did every other time, as much as I’d been trying to ignore it.

“Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Tiny spikes of fear raced through me the second the words left my mouth, but it was too late to take them back.

“Doing what?” Mason asked.

“All of this. Being nice to me. Bringing me pretty clothes and good food. It’s…” I stopped and hesitated. “It’s different. I’m not complaining, I swear. I’m just so confused.”

He was silent for a long moment. I was afraid I’d messed everything up, but finally he spoke up, his voice low and soft. “A couple of weeks ago, you said you missed me. You implied that after all this time, you still have some sort of feelings for me.”

I nodded. “Yes. I did say that,” I murmured.

“Was it true?”

I tilted my head back and looked into his eyes. “Yes,” I admitted.

He exhaled heavily before replying. “It occurred to me recently that you may have actually meant it,” he said. “And that I may have been too harsh on you, despite what you did. You were young. You weren’t in a good place at the time.”

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