Page 36 of Don't Say A Word

“I am not Marcel. I do not wish to be Marcel. I do not want to hurt you and I certainly don’t get any pleasure from inflicting pain.” He tilts my chin upward again as I let my gaze fall to the ground. “The only reason I’m doing this is because I’m the only one your requestor trusts not to scar, fuck or maim you. But he does expect me to train you. He expects your obedience. He’s given me a specific set of rules, guidelines if you like, and I will ensure that you learn to obey them. I won’t beat you like Marcel beats Star, but I will find ways to make sure you obey.”

His eyes search mine, flicking from left to right as if trying to burn in the importance of his words.

“Do you understand?”

I nod.

Ryker gets to his feet. He places a hand on my head and the heat of it burns my scalp. And then he walks out, leaving me alone with the nightmare of pain I just witnessed looping through my mind.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

MIA

There is no escaping this fate. I am trapped here. To be trained for pleasure and given over to a man, his to command.

I know now that there is no point in fighting it. Star’s bloodied face keeps flashing in my vision as though she is still here, lying on the ground, cowering as he kicks her over and over.

I’m huddled in my corner, watching the stars. Their shine has lessened, as they remind me of her. Who was she before?

She was someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s sister, someone’s lover and now she’s stuck in a nightmare, living in a cell like mine, awaiting footsteps that are far crueler than the ones that visit me.

Ryker was right. I should be grateful.

With the nightmare on repeat in my brain, I need something to concentrate on and distract me from this reality. Every comment, every sideways glance I can remember receiving is now examined under a different light. I am desperate for a clue, longing to figure out who requested me. Who is to become my master. But my memories give me nothing new.

Ryker continues to come to my room regularly. I smile. I obey. I crawl, open, stand, sit, kneel on command. He brings treats to my room. A pillow. A mirror for the bathroom, a plastic one. Another blanket for my bed.

There are times when I wonder if I dreamed of Star and Marcel, if they were just a figment of my imagination trying to rationalize my submission. Ryker never mentions it. In fact, he rarely talks, apart from issuing commands. And even then, there is an unspoken understanding between us, as though he wants me to know that he doesn’t want to be here. He doesn’t want to be doing this. But again, I wonder if I’m seeing things that simply don’t exist. He may not be the one who requested me, but he is still the one who is keeping me captive, the one that demands my submission. Ensures it.

At times he is affectionate. He examines my body daily. Running his fingers over my skin and leaving it tingling in his wake. I have felt no one’s touch but his since I arrived. There are times when I crave it. Just to feel the warmth of another human. Not to be alone.

He scolded me when he found the imprints in the palms of my hands, reminding me that my body doesn’t belong to me. I am not allowed to blemish it. He made me chant it. Say it over and over until the words were burned into my brain. Until they appeared in my dreams.

And now, even in sleep, he is here.

I fantasize about touching him. Imagine what his skin would feel like under my fingers. His hands are rough and calloused. Is the rest of him the same? Does the ink that shows when his sleeves slide upward cover just his arms or does it trail across his body in an array of color?

What would he taste like?

I no longer feel shame when he brings me to climax with his tongue or fingers. Instead, I look straight into those stormy eyes, so he knows how I feel, so he sees my release, the only pleasure I have left to feel.

I reached out for him once, unable to control myself. I was rewarded with a sharp sting across the soles of my feet and a stern warning never to do it again. But despite my recent lesson in obedience and submission, it only made me want to touch him more.

He is forbidden.

And yet I know there are times when he wants to let me. Times when his eyes roll to the back of his head and his jaw clenches as though he’s fighting against some force that threatens to overwhelm him.

I shower often, letting the scalding water turn my skin red. It runs over my face, drips off my nose and falls to the floor, swirling around the drain before disappearing. I wonder where it goes. Why it hesitates. If I had a drain I could crawl down, I would in an instant. I wonder what it gets to see. I miss my daily routine. I miss drowning out the world underwater. A shower is as close as I get.

When I turn around he is watching. He leans against the wall, arms and ankles crossed. As soon as I turn, he pulls himself straight, but I still catch the glint in his eye. The lick of desire.

This man is the one who brings me to a trembling mess with the stroke of his tongue. He is the one who commands me. Who knows every inch of my body. Who feeds me. Who controls me.

And yet, he is doing this for another man. A man he will not name despite me asking every time he allows me a question. He terrifies and excites me. The sound of his voice gives me comfort. Any emotion in his eyes causes my chest to swell as though I am proud.

And I hate myself for it.

“Come here.” He jerks his head, pulling the towel from the railing.

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