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"It was in the pocket of my dress. It probably fell out."

He looked up suddenly and set the roast chicken he had pulled from the oven on the counter, and grabbing his car keys, he left. He was back in a few minutes, holding it up.

"You're lucky I found this." He opened it, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. "You lied to me, Charlotte. Your name isn't Adams, it's Hanover." He put it down and walked over to her, sitting on the edge of the ottoman. Very slowly, he leaned forward, his face inches from hers. His eyes narrowed in leaden concern as he spoke. "Do you know what happens to little girls who lie?" He pushed his sleeves up, resting his strong, muscular forearms on his thighs. She stared at him, frozen with fear. "I asked you a question."

"No." Her voice shook. Alarm erupted inside of her as images of him torturing her raced through her mind. The things the abductor will do to you before you die will be far worse.

"No, sir," he corrected, tilting his head and cocking an eyebrow.

"No, sir," she repeated softly. She couldn't look at him, his presence was overwhelming, his physical appearance confounding in its handsomeness. He took the mug from her and set it on the coffee table.

"They get punished." He tilted her chin up with the tip of his finger, so she had to look into his eyes. Here it was. He was either going to rape her or kill her. She was stupid for lying to him, stupid for divulging information.

He stood up and removed the thick leather belt from around his waist, setting it down on the table beside him. The dog stood up, coming between them. His lip raised as he growled, baring his teeth at his owner. "Out," the man yelled, walking over to the front door and opening it. "Bloody traitor." The roar of the sea crashed against the cliffs outside, emanating a dire warning. William ran out and he shut the door, walking back over. He was both intimidating and fearsome. It was a silly thought considering the seriousness of the situation, but Charlie was reminded of the painting, Jurisprudence by Gustav Klimt, where a withered man stands condemned wrapped in the deadly entwine of a giant squid. In this case, she was the old man and this murderer, like the squid, was nothing more than a beautiful yet terrorizing executioner of the underworld. It was the anti-mimetic philosophy of life imitating art rather than art imitating life. This was her judgment, a simple misfortune in time now viewed as divine punishment. She never should have left Michael. She should be on her honeymoon right now.

He undid the cuff on her ankle and stood her up. Unzipping her jeans, he pulled them down to her knees. Then he sat in the chair and situated her over his lap.

"What are you doing?" She fought to get free. A strong arm came down on her back, holding her in place.

"I'm going to punish you."

"God, no, I'm sorry. I should have told you my real name. Please don't kill me," she begged. "I'll do whatever you ask."

"I'm not going to kill you, Charlotte. I'm going to spank you."

Her thong offered little protection as his hand came down on her bare bottom. She jumped as a slow heat enveloped her cheeks. Again, and again, he continued to smack her until her bottom burned. Tears flowed down her face, staining the cushion of the chair. No one had ever spanked her before and it was both jarring and humiliating. Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped and she stilled in his arms. Please be over. He picked up his belt, folding it in two.

"Five strokes, Charlotte. I want you to count them."

She nearly came out of her skin when the first one hit her already burning backside. She waited for the next strike, the only sound in the room, her crying, which sounded far off and distant to her ears as she tried to keep herself focused in the present.

"Count it," his deep voice rang out.

"One." It was no more than a whisper. She tried to catch her breath as she tensed for the second one.

"Relax."

Relax, was he fucking kidding? She didn't have time to finish the thought before the second one assaulted her. Once more, the soft wail of her tears broke the silence.

"Count it. If I have to remind you again, I'll add more."

"T-two."

The bite of the leather tore at her cheeks. "Three," she screamed. The things the abductor will do to you before you die will be far worse. Why the hell did she leave Michael at the church? Why the hell did she run away without telling anyone where she was going? Why the fucking hell did she go to the bar last night?

Crack. She was in Purgatory; that must be it. She was already dead, and this was Purgatory. "F-f-four." The last one hit with stinging madness. She screamed, gripping his large thigh underneath her for support. The wool of his kilt was rough on her hands, his leg solid steel.

"Say it, darling."

"Five," she cried. "Five." She was sobbing in earnest now and for a moment she forgot where she was, forgot she had been kidnapped. Strong arms sat her up, holding her, and a gentle voice whispered in her ear, "Aye. It's all right now. Stop your greetin'. You're all right."

"Please don't kill me," she repeated, over and over.

"You need to listen to me and do as you're told. I can't keep us safe otherwise." He rubbed her back softly, pulling her against his chest to rest her head. She relented, finding some strange comfort in the solidness of his embrace. His hand brushed the hair off her face, wet and clammy. She was exhausted and obviously in shock, the only reasonable explanation as to why she lay there, relishing his warmth. Her hand drifted across his chest and came to rest on top of the leather holster. His heart beat with a steady thrum, the heat of his body radiating off him, enhancing his scent. She inhaled deeply. He smelled good, of soap and sweat and something more carnal—desire perhaps. Then she remembered where she was, and who he was, and the fact he still wore his weapons. Her hand was just inches from the knife. If she could reach it, she could stab him. The car keys were on the counter. All she had to do was injure him long enough to get away.

He sat her up, as if he too remembered their situation. "You'll listen to me, Charlotte?" he said, standing up as he pulled her pants up and settled her back down in the chair. She winced, as her bottom touched the leather cushion, and looked up at him. His eyes were no longer the cruel black of a sea monster, angry and unrelenting, but rather a softer gray. "I need you to obey me lass."

"Yes, sir," she answered. The words rolled off her tongue so easily, stopping her short. If she could get close to him again and reach one of his weapons, she had a chance. She didn't think he would kill her right away, and now at least she had a plan. She was playing with fire, at the mercy of his cruel tentacles as he doled out a distorted and deceitful justice. But it was something she knew, maybe even understood, for she too lived deep under the surface. She just needed to trust it.

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