Page 28 of Take Me

I try to fight it—I really do. The intimacy is a cruel joke after the things he’s done to me. Tears stream from my eyes as I sniffle and whimper. I try to tense up and reject his touch, but as my grief grows, so does my need for comfort. Finally, I’m so broken I sink back into him and give in to the false safety ofhis touch. All I can do is hope he hasn’t broken me for good this time.

CHAPTER

7

“Come with me,” Mikhail says one day after lunch.

I only get out of the cell two times a day. To spend half an hour in a small fitness room with artificial sunlight and to get hosed down. I’ve already worked out today, and the cleaning usually happens after dinner, so I’m a bit tentative as I get up from the mattress.

Two weeks have passed. At least, so I think. My count got muddy somewhere after the first week, and it gets harder by the day to keep track in this static blur of gray walls and humiliations.

He waves a hand at me, silently urging me on, and I pad across the cold stone floor. Instinctively, I step close to him like he’s my shelter that will protect me from whatever is outside the green metal door, and I scold myself inwardly and take a step away.

I’ve grown more pliant during the last few days, willingly giving him my hands when he puts the mittens back on, and my begging for orgasms comes more readily.

I tell myself it’s because I’m depleted and don’t have the energy to fight, but really, I think it’s because his training is working. I can tell by the way his order to come usually pushes me over the edge even before I’m at the precipice. It scares me to the core, and I tell myself I’ll be more aware of his conditioning and fight it the next time. But it never works. He always shuts my brain off expertly, so I never realize what’s happening before it’s too late.

Instead of grabbing me by the arm and hauling me along, he simply presses a hand to the small of my back. And that’s all he needs. I compliantly go along as he guides me through the barren halls.

Butwhen he opens the door to Dax’s room of hell, I freeze in place. Cold fear washes over me as I click my tongue piercing against my teeth and remember the horrible sensation of having my stomach pumped full of water.

“Get on the table.” Mikhail pushes me inside, and I’m not sure if he actually expects me to obey or just leaves the problem up to Dax. Either way, I don’t move as he turns to Dax. “I’ll be back in a minute. Start without me.”

Then he’s gone, leaving the door half ajar, me standing frozen in place as I watch Dax go about preparing whatever degradation he has in store for me.

At first, I only catch a few glimpses of his rolling table behind his broad frame. But when he steps aside to fill a bowl with water, I get the full view.

Lube, latex gloves, and the huge syringe with the long plastic tip that went in my ass.

Panic takes me in a chokehold. Everything within me freezes like it’s a sedative and not adrenaline that has invaded my veins. All I can move are my eyes, and I dart them across the space like it could alleviate the icy fear. But all it does is aggravate the paralyzing powerlessness as I see the many straps on the table, the stirrups, and the metal collar jutting out from the wall by the toilet. And finally, my own leather-bound hands.

Dax places the bowl on the tray and turns to me, retrieving a key from his pocket. Without granting me the humanity of eye contact, he starts working on the mittens. He unlocks the padlock, frees my hands, and removes the collar, leaving me stark naked.

Then he turns to put it all aside and rolls the table up beside the gynecologist’s chair. “Hop on.” He pats the smooth leather surface, still not bothering to look at me.

I stare down at my free hands, flicker my gaze to the table, then back to the open door. Being free from the gloves is like a rush of fresh air—a breath of hope. It knocks me from my paralysis and into action.

What I do next is not a conscious choice or a thought-through plan. It just happens. Instinct kicking in.

Three careful steps are all it takes to bring me out of the room without Dax noticing.

And then I bolt.

I dart down the empty corridor, driven by a sharp burst of adrenaline. I barely even feel the hard stone beneath my feet or the strain in my legs. I just run.

I’m almost at the end, where the hall splits in a T, when I hear Dax’s angry voice behind me. His words don’t register; I only hear the boom of his voice rip through the tunnel-like space. Then the thudding sound of hastened steps. When I veer around the corner and glance back, I’m stunned to find he’s not running.

Fear pulses through my veins as I realize there might not be a way out. Still, I keep going, my bare feet pounding against rough stone as my pulse becomes a jackhammer in my ears. Panic is a violent kick in my beating heart when I reach a closed metal door, more solid than the green cell doors, at the end of the hall. I frantically try the handle. Locked. My eyes dart up and down to assess what I know in my gut is an exit. There’s not even a lock under the handle, only a digital plate beside the door, and that small plate shoots more terror through my veins.

I shove my hand against it. A finger. Bang on it.

Nothing.

Panic spurs me on—down a new corridor full of green doors like the one on my cell. I grab the first handle I see and the next. But they’re all locked. I keep yanking at handles, glancing over my shoulder. Still no Dax.

A shrill scream somewhere jolts my feet back into action. I bolt toward the end and down a new corridor. I keep running, trying handles. Steps echo somewhere in the distance, another scream, then steps from a different direction.

I veer to the left, then right, right then left. I have no idea whether I’m moving in circles. I just try to get away from the sounds.

---