Page 10 of Power and Possession

She moved silently up the stairs in front of me, her head and eyes darting as she took in my home. I’d gone to great lengths to acquire it, since the property should have been mine by birthright. The building itself was incredibly old, built by Queen Victoria for a beloved cousin. It was three stories tall, and was originally three separate units, but I’d converted the inside so that all three floors, plus the basement, were my domain. I’d also bribed the proper officials and added on a secure garage,housing several of my cars below street level. The arrangement offered me complete privacy to conduct my affairs.

We entered the long hallway on the first floor, and she stared at me before I nudged her up the staircase to the second floor. I pushed her into the first guest room on the left, following behind her. Closing the door, I gestured towards the bed, and she sat.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

Surprise crossed her face as I knelt in front of the bed and unlocked the cuffs at her wrists. She whimpered a bit as the metal slipped off, and I tried to avoid looking at the abraded skin covering her petite wrists.

“There’s bars on the windows, so no use in trying to escape,” I threatened. “I’ll send the doctor in shortly to look at your wrists.”

Refusing to look back, I locked the door behind me, and then sunk against it, not believing how weak I truly was.

Chapter Seven

Ashlynn

Just the thought of an actual toilet made me want to fall to the ground and thank my lucky stars. I wasted no time before rushing to the door off to the side of the room. Pushing the door open, I actually sank to the floor and cried in relief as I saw the porcelain toilet in the corner of the bathroom. Quickly picking myself up, I took care of business, still shaking with adrenaline. I was out of that horrid basement, no longer chained to a bed and using a bucket. I looked at my wrists, and then quickly looked away. The skin was raw and tender, and as I washed my hands, every slight movement or splash of water brought tears to my eyes. But at least I was in a room with a bed and a bathroom.

I took in my surroundings more carefully as I dried my hands off on a fluffy white monogrammed towel. D.S. I’d never heard my captor’s name mentioned, but I assumed this was his estate—or apartment…or penthouse? I realized I had no clue where I was. Was I even still in England?

I threw open the door to the bathroom and rushed to the large window. Bars covered the glass, but it didn’t look like it was to keep victims in, but rather to keep people out. Looking past the bars, I caught the smallest glimpse of the London Eye. So, I was still in England. London, to be precise. I sighed, glad I was still in the United Kingdom. Not that it really mattered where I was being held captive, but it might be easier for my father to track me down if he was at least looking in the right area. Did he know I was missing? Did he have men searching for me? Would the Harringtons know who to contact when I didn’t show up for work? It was Tuesday night when I was taken, and Iwas supposed to be at the Harrington Estate the next morning. Hopefully they had contacted the police?

Tearing my gaze away from the London skyline, I took in the measure of the room. It was obvious from my interactions with my captor that he was highly intelligent, and, based on his attire and his house, I guessed he was wealthy. I glanced at the handsome wooden furniture and expensive art adorning the walls. The entire room was paneled with ornate moulding, the walls white and crisp with gold trim. A whimsical chandelier hung delicately above the massive cherub bed, and gauzy cream curtains framed the mattress and floated down, giving the room an ethereal and elegant feel. There was a large oak bookcase filled with aging novels, and a small bedside table with a Tiffany-style lamp. A seating area with an old-fashioned fainting couch and a white walnut-wood coffee table completed the room. Next to the bathroom, another door led to a spacious walk-in closet. Devoid of clothes, the shelves were lined with soft towels, and extra pillows and linens.

It was a room for a princess, not a prisoner.

Beyond that, there were no personal artifacts in the room; no clues to shed light on the type of man my jailor was. I turned back towards the door and tested the handle. It was locked. The bars on the windows were secure, although I supposed I could break the glass window pane and try and call through for help. But, when I looked down into the garden, there was no street nearby, just a little path that weaved through beds of roses and hedges. Beyond the hedges, there was a tall, wrought iron fence. I was still trapped—just with better amenities.

I walked back into the bathroom, my feet leaving dirty prints on the plush cream carpeting. I wasn’t sure exactly how much time had passed since the night I was taken, but I was desperately in need of a shower. A claw foot tub sat against the wall in the bathroom, as well as a large walk-in shower. I debated which sounded better, but decided on the shower after looking at the dried blood on my legs. My ankles were still incredibly tender and the thought of leaving them in water for longer thannecessary made me shudder.

I rummaged through the drawers in the vanity while I waited for the water to warm up. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was looking for, but all I found was some bar soap and extra toilet paper. I hated using bar soap on my hair. That was the one area I tended to splurge on in my life, buying nice shampoo.But bar soap is better than nothing, I thought. My oily brown hair draped across my back as I shed my pajama shorts and tank top.

The cascading fall of warm water was heavenly. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me, but just the ability to shower made me feel more like a human being than a caged animal. I was appreciative of my captor, even though I knew I shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t be thankful for basic human rights, like a toilet and a shower.

Soon the steam was thick in the room, and I lathered up my hair, closing my eyes, preparing to rinse out the suds. A sudden dash of cool air hit me, and I felt hot eyes on me as I turned around.

My kidnapper stood there in the doorway of the bathroom, his mouth slightly agape, his aquamarine eyes drinking in my body.

Normally I would shriek and cover myself, but I was momentarily stunned. I watched his gaze travel down my body, starting at my face and traveling lower and lower as he fixed his eyes on my breasts, then moved to the area between my thighs. When his eyes hit my ankles, I saw a flush of another emotion—shame, perhaps?—cross his handsome face. But it was only fleeting as his eyes went back to my chest.

Although only a few seconds had passed, it felt like a lifetime. My mind finally woke up, and I screeched and turned my back, breaking the tension.

He cleared his throat. I kept my back to him, trying to maintain what little dignity I had left, even though I was sure he was staring at my ass now. “The doctor is here and waiting to see you,” he said, his voice dark and sensual. “I’ve left some things on the bed.”

I heard the door shut, and I turned off the water, breathing hard. What the hell just happened? I could still feel his hot gaze upon me, and I knew he liked what he saw. Although my mind was still foggy, I wondered if I could use his attraction to my advantage. He was a man, after all. Could I make him want me? Barter for my freedom?

I stepped out into the humid bathroom and grabbed another one of the monogrammed towels from the rack before tip-toeing into the room. It was untouched except for a bundle of clothes on the bed. I pulled them towards me, finding a gray pair of sweatpants and a simple men’s shirt. No bra or panties, but much better than the sweat-stained and days old pajamas I had on. I pulled on the pants, rolling the waistband a few times so they stayed up, and then I pulled the shirt over my damp hair. I was instantly enveloped in a warm, masculine scent, like whiskey and cologne. It was a different smell than when I wore my boyfriend’s jersey in high school or slept in between the sheets of my college boyfriend’s bed. Instead of cheap air fresheners and clearance laundry detergent, this scent was the quintessential adult male—layered and mysterious. Clive Christian cologne perhaps? I pulled up the neck of the t-shirt and inhaled deeply. A knock at the door made me drop the neckline quickly, and I ran my fingers through my messy, but clean, hair. The door swung open without waiting for my acknowledgment, but since I was a captive I was pretty sure they didn’t care about that.

A middle-aged man with olive skin and thick bushy eyebrows moved into the room, and a woman trailed behind him. The woman was young, and shared the same skin-tone as the man—his daughter, perhaps? She couldn’t be more than seventeen years old. His eyes instantly flicked to my wrists, and his eyebrows lifted as he took in the damage. I suppressed the urge to hide them behind my back, before remembering I had done nothing wrong other than to be my father’s daughter. Silently, the man nodded to the girl, who began handing him gauze and bottles of antiseptic and creams. I resisted the urge toflinch as he cleaned the wounds on my wrists. I wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of knowing I’d been hurt. Even though my mysterious kidnapper was nowhere to be found, I refused to show any weakness.

The man moved to my ankles, cleaning and placing ointment on the infected areas. The girl gave him a syringe, and I flinched as I saw the thick needle pass by. The doctor took it in his hand, and I fixated oddly on his hairy knuckles before he lodged it under the skin on my ankle.

“What the hell is that?” I screamed.

He shrugged with disinterest and pushed down on the syringe and a burning sensation radiated from my ankle. I glared at the girl, silently demanding information.

“Subdermal implant,” she said, and the man looked angry enough to strike her. I could see fear in her eyes, noticing the way her breathing increased and her pupils dilated so I kept my mouth shut. Somehow, I didn't think I was the only prisoner in this place.

The doctor held a cotton ball to the spot on my lower leg where he’d jabbed me with the needle, and then he wrapped the entirety of my lower leg in a bandage. Before I could even think to ask another question, he left, with his unwilling assistant trailing at his heels. The door was once again shut, and I laid back on the bed, exhausted.

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