Page 61 of Frat Row
He looks at me darkly and vehemently says to me, “Is that any way to reply to your master?”
Color drains from my face; is this a Jekyll and Hyde situation? Not wanting to upset him further, I obediently say, “Yes, Master, that would be very kind of you.”
He sets off walking me around his house, or rather, his museum. There are seven grand bedrooms, five and a half bathrooms that any woman would eat her left arm to have, a theater, a gym, and a library.
At the end of the tour, we make our way back to the kitchen, and the wine must be hitting me because I feel a little buzzed, and my vision is blurry.
“I haven’t shown you my favorite part of the house,” he says coyly.
“Well, you brought me back to the kitchen, so I’ve seen it.”
Martin throws his head back and laughs. “That is most people's favorite part of the house, but it is not mine.”
Not wanting to say the wrong thing, I stay silent.
“No, not the kitchen for me; it’s the wine cellar,” he says with a twisted grin on his perfectly shaped face, pointing coolly to an older-looking Italian door with brushed glass that I hadn’t noticed before.
He gazes at me, his eyes devoid of emotion, which I haven’t seen yet. Fear washes over me.
Sauntering arrogantly over to the door, I follow him, indulging him in this tour that I could give two shits about. I just want to get some sleep. I convince myself that this is just another room, and I need to go since I plan on escaping at the first opportunity, and therefore, need to familiarize myself with every inch of this house.
Swinging open the door, he says, “Ladies first.” His expression is deadly, eyes glinting full of excitement
Straightening my spine, I manage to muster courage I don’t feel. This seems off, but in the back of my mind, I attempt to calm myself down; he could just be a wine enthusiast. After all, it is a wine cellar.
As we descend on a black iron spiral staircase, my mind drifts to Martin, reasoning with myself that he is an extremely attractive, fit older man who comes off as charming if you are into that sort of thing.
And he buys women to keep as his property.
He made me forget that fucked up character trait for a moment.
Hardening my expression, I steadily walk down the steps, not wanting to fall.
The light is very dim, and I take in the fact of how far this underground cellar really is. The coldness trickles through me.
“I custom-built this so I could ship the finest wines from across the world and store them down here.”
He rattles on about the different countries the wine he owns originated from, and I zone out, not meaning to. The wine has hit me in a way alcohol never has; it could be because I went without it for a while and had barely anything on my stomach for days. Everything is swaying. He cuts me off on the staircase, now leading the way down the stairs, and I weakly follow, worrying about being able to physically stand much longer, let alone walk for however long down here.
“I own a few vineyards in Europe and produce my own wine as well,” he continues as we reach the concrete floor at last. There is a wall near me, and I flail my hand out, reaching for it, attempting to balance myself and stop my double vision.
Martin comes over to me and looks me over with genuine care in his eyes, “Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes, yes, I am fine. It must be the wine and the speed at which I drank it after not having a drop of alcohol for so long,” I explain, pushing him away from me in case I vomit.
“You don’t look so good,” he says, leering over me.
My legs give out underneath me, and I fall clumsily to my knees. Soon after, the rest of my body goes slack, and I stare up, panicking and puzzled at what is going on.
Martin towers over me, straddling my head as he bends down, laughing. “We’re going to have so much fun together,” he purrs as he captures my lip with his teeth and bites down firmly.
Everything turns black.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The agony throbbing in my arms pulls me from the darkness, bringing me back to the present. I sluggishly open my eyes, not wanting to see the mess I am in now. Facing it head-on, I frantically take in my predicament. My stomach sinks as I come to. My arms are suspended above my head with my wrists tied into an intricate knot and attached to an elongated hook hanging from a metal rod that extends to each side of the room, anchoring me.
A cool breeze brushes my skin, and I suddenly notice that I am naked and exposed.
