Date: 2020-01-14 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Romance; Contemporary; Adult
Description: Claire was held captive for 43 days by a man who did unspeakable things to her. Three years after her escape, she gets her revenge. The only problem is, she's got the wrong man. God help her if he escapes. The Escape Artist is a Dark Romance that has an HEA and NO cliffhangers. The Con Artist also occurs in this world. Both books are interlocking standalone in the same world and can be read in any order. Reader Praise:“Kitty described this book as a hybrid love child between Comfort Food and Tender Mercies (my #1 and #2) and it absolutely is that. If you liked either of those, chances are you’
Rights: Copyright 2020 Kitty Thomas. All rights reserved.

The Escape Artist

Kitty Thomas

Burlesque Press

Contents

Publisher’s Note:

Untitled

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

The Escape Artist

Digital Edition

Copyright 2020 © Kitty Thomas

All rights reserved.

Digital Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or shared. If you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Respecting the hard work of this author makes new books possible.

Publisher’s Note:

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Neither the publisher nor the author endorses any behavior carried out by any character in this work of fiction or any other.

To Willow W: “Kneel”

Your move

1

Forty-three days. That was the amount of time Claire's captor kept her imprisoned. Three years had passed since her escape, yet every night when she closed her eyes she was back in that dank basement with her tormentor.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you, Rich Bitch? Living off daddy's money. Where is he? Where is your family? Why aren't they looking for you? Why has no one come for you?”

She flinched as he gripped her hair and jerked her face close to his.

He poked a grimy finger against her forehead, pushing her away from him again. “Because nobody wants you. You're just like every other spoiled brat disappointment. No one filed a missing person's report. You didn't even make the news. Poor poor little rich girl. What's it like to know even with all your money, you don't matter any more than me in this world?”

Claire shook his words out of her head and took a long slow breath. She had to leave the apartment today. There were things she needed, and she had to go out. She almost never went out. What if he found her? What if he took her again? She always wore sunglasses and a hoodie, at least this time of year. And she only went out in the daylight. She was very very careful. Still, no precaution ever felt like enough.

The tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. He'd planned to kill her that night. She'd seen it in the change of his demeanor. He'd grown bored with her. He was ready for a new toy to torture. He'd fucked her and pimped her out to all his gross friends, and now he needed fresh meat. She could only think the word fucked in her mind. She couldn't let herself think the real word of what he'd done. It would make it real.

If it was real then her life was over. Things would never be okay again.

Who was she kidding? She knew it was real. She knew he was out there. And she was still his prisoner even now. He'd probably moved away or was wrapped up in another victim by now because she knew she wasn't the only one. She hadn't been the first, and she knew she wasn't the last.

Guilt gripped her at the thought of the others he must have hurt by now because she didn't have the courage to go to the police. She didn't trust they could keep her safe. What if he found her before the police could find him? What if the charges didn't stick? If he found her again...

He was right, no one had missed her. Her parents had been abroad. They barely talked to her anyway. They only saw her on holidays. He'd taken her in July, so when she'd escaped in late August, she'd had months to try to pretend she was okay before Thanksgiving rolled around. And the fact that they had bought it? It was only more evidence of how distant they were from her, how little they truly knew her.

They'd taken in her still-gaunt form and thought she was on a fucking diet. They'd had the nerve to say: “Claire, darling, have you lost weight? You look fabulous.” Fabulous. Who the fuck went around saying Fabulous? How could she look fabulous when her eyes were dead and hollow? Did they think heroin chic looked healthy?

She was so fucking alone.

She'd been alone in that basement, but back then alone had been better than when he was there. Now she was alone in her apartment, afraid to leave most days, afraid to connect with anyone because she couldn't stand to be touched, she couldn't bear for anyone to know, and she couldn't trust ever again. But she'd never felt more alone than she had that first year at Thanksgiving and then Christmas as her family had been oblivious to the changes within her.

How could they not see she was broken?

Not only could she not go to the police, she hadn't told her family either. Her father would find the whole thing embarrassing. He'd blame her if she dared to bring the authorities into it, dragging the family name through the mud. And she hadn't realized how shallow her friendships were until she'd tried to spend time with them after everything.

She was never going to connect with anyone again. But still, every day she got up, washed her face, took a shower, forced food down her throat, and existed. Because she didn't have the courage to end her own suffering.

Although she hadn't been abducted from her home, her captor had taken the bag she'd carried with her. He had her driver's license. He'd known where she lived and everything about her. As soon as she'd gotten free, she'd found a new apartment and gotten a new driver's license, and she'd gotten the most top-of-the-line security system money could buy. She'd bought a gun and slept with it beside her bed even though she now lived in an impenetrable fortress. She'd paid one of those high-priced image firms to scrub her entire existence off the internet. She'd deleted all her social media accounts.

And none of it felt like enough.

Even with a big trust fund and practically unlimited money at her disposal, she lived a half-life because she was too afraid for anything more. She couldn't even bring herself to leave this fucking city. Claire had used her last bit of courage to move to this apartment. In the same city. Like the dumbest little victim in the world. So fucking stupid, why didn't she just go far far away? She should have left the country, gotten as far from him as possible, somewhere he couldn't follow or find her.

But she knew why.

There was no running after something like that. An experience like that breaks you beyond the point of feeling safe anywhere. If she fled to another city or another country, what would stop the next monster who found her? There was always another monster. And if she moved that far away she'd be in strange surroundings. She just couldn't. She needed a routine and everything to be familiar. Everything being the same was the last bit of safety she had left.

She'd long ago given up the dream of finishing her degree and going to work for a museum. It seemed silly now. It wasn't as though she needed the money. It would have been a self-indulgent bored rich girl job. She'd wanted to restore art, but she was the one who needed restoration.

The only sound in her apartment now was the ticking of a wall clock. Claire stared at the door for a long moment. It was ten a.m. The city was alive. It was public. It was safe. She told herself this every day that she had to go outside. Her little pep talk to keep on living. She was going to crack soon, just fucking break down. Just snap and lose her shit forever. She fought back the tears and, with a shaking hand, reached out, and opened the door.

* * *

Ari slept in the guest bedroom of his own house. He couldn't be in his room right now, not with his pet gone. He couldn't look at the place she'd slept without disgust. And maybe a bit of sadness. Holly had decided this was fun and all but she'd gotten a modeling contract in Paris, and of course she was going. So C-ya. Basically.

She'd been a brat, anyway. Ari hated brat subs. It wasn't that he had no sense of humor, he just hated women who topped from the bottom. How hard was it to find a girl who could be truly obedient? The phone rang, disrupting his brooding. The name Kane lit up on his cell.

Kane wasn't his real name. Ari actually didn't know which of his friend's many names was his real name, but Kane was the first name Ari had known at the sex club where they'd first met and shared a girl. They'd grown close over the years to the point that Ari knew more about the guarded, secretive man than probably anyone else.

“What?” Ari answered on the fourth ring, not bothering with politeness.

“Are you still in bed?” Kane asked, sounding disapproving. “It's almost ten a.m. for fuck's sake.”

“What are you, my mother now?”

“It's been two weeks since she left. You don't need her. She was a brat, anyway.”

Ari chuckled at Kane's echo of his own thoughts. If there was one thing the two men had in common, it was a disdain for brats. And yet, he'd still let Holly in—into his bed and into his heart. He hadn't been satisfied by the arrangement so he wasn't sure why he was so unhappy now that it was over. It had been familiar—comforting at the same time it was disappointing.

“I could send Saskia over. She'd be happy to please you. Take the edge off? My slut is your slut,” Kane said.

It had started as a joke that first night. Kane had been playing with some girl at the club. He had her all tied up spread-eagled to a St. Andrew's Cross, and that girl was the most interesting thing going on that night. Ari had been bored and asked if he could join in.

Kane's response? My slut is your slut. It had become the foundational statement binding their friendship together.

Ari sighed. “Thanks, but I'm not in the mood. I don't want to take my shit out on her.”

He could practically hear Kane nod over the phone. There was a long pause.

“You know I have connections. I could get you someone who isn't a brat and would never defy you.”

“We've talked about this. You know that's not my style.”

Kane sighed. “If you change your mind, let me know. And don't hide away too long, we miss you at the club.”

“Yeah,” was all Ari said before the call disconnected.

He sighed and got out of bed. The guest room was a sleek minimalist design where the most overpowering color was only light gray. He stared out the window at the vast stretch of property that rolled out from his house like a giant green wave. Trees dotted the far end near the security wall. Usually he liked the wide open space, but today it felt lonely.

He shook that maudlin thought from his mind and went to the kitchen to brew a pot of strong coffee. Kane was right. He had to move past this shit. Ari stared out the window of the quiet room, only a ticking wall clock breaking the stillness. It was so quiet without her.

Inside the stillness, in between the ticks of the clock, Kane's offer hung on the air. It was such a tempting offer. He wished like hell he was the ruthless kind of man who could take it without a trace of guilt or remorse.

Kane knew a guy named Lindsay who was part owner in what was tactfully referred to as the Pleasure House. The women went there willingly. They all had very deeply hardwired submissive needs. But it wasn't a game. They didn't have a safeword. Once they signed on, there was no out. It was like some kind of kinky mafia.

They were trained and sold to the highest bidder. The buyers had to pass a long string of tests and background checks. It might not be as bad as just kidnapping some random woman off the street, but it was still illegal as hell. There was no out for the buyers either. You didn't risk the house. Ever. Any buyer who risked the house by talking or letting a girl go so she was free to talk, made it onto the house enforcer's hit list.

Ari knew Kane wasn't supposed to even be talking to him about it. As far as Ari knew, he hadn't been approved for that kind of security clearance.

As much as the fantasy of truly owning someone appealed, he wasn't the type of man who could irrevocably slam the door shut on a woman's possibility of freedom, all to fulfill some kinky wet dream—even if she thought she was willing. If she later became unwilling, he wouldn't be able to let her go. And that thought bothered him more than all the time he'd wasted with a disobedient brat.

Ari drank down a cup of coffee, showered, and dressed to go into the city. He needed to get out of the house.

* * *

Claire had successfully made it through her list of errands but it had taken longer than she'd anticipated. All she could think about was getting back to the safety of her apartment. That thick reinforced door. All her security. The gun hidden beneath her bed. Then she would finally be able to breathe freely again.

But god, she was hungry. She'd been out for hours, and the last thing she wanted was the same boring food that she always made at her apartment. She needed something... different. Just this once.

It was daylight, she told herself again. The city was bustling. She pressed a hand against her sunglasses as if to prove to herself they were still there acting as a buffer between her and the world. The hood of her hoodie was still up. She probably looked like a terrorist and more conspicuous than she would like. She might blend in better if she dressed like everyone else around her.

He probably wouldn't even remember what she looked like after all this time. And why would he even care? The police hadn't come. He'd probably forgotten her. Moved on. He probably wasn't even still living near here. Wouldn't he have run away to avoid getting caught?

It's daylight. You can go buy a sandwich. Across the street from where she now stood was a new little bistro with an outside area she'd been dying to eat at. Was this her life now? So small and enclosed that she couldn't go buy a fucking sandwich? When was the last time she'd sat and eaten a meal prepared by someone else like a normal fucking person?

She took another deep breath and walked swiftly across the street. He wouldn't be there. He wasn't anywhere except in her nightmares. She could go inside and order a sandwich. She would take it and sit outside in the sunshine in the cool breezy day with red and gold leaves falling off the trees. She would breathe in the crisp air and eat calmly and rationally like a sane person.

A gust of too-cold air conditioning blasted her when she walked in the door. It wasn't hot enough out anymore for that to feel refreshing. Claire scanned her surroundings, knowing she was being irrational. There was no one waiting to jump out at her.

But then her heart stopped. Sitting at a table in the back corner beside the window, reading a paper... was him. She turned around and ran out of the restaurant. She didn't stop running until she reached her car.

Claire sat in the driver's side, her keys clutched in her hands, shaking, tears streaming down her face. It was him. She knew it was him. He had that long sun-streaked hair, broad shoulders, that hard warrior look.

But what she felt, sitting in her car clutching her keys while her knuckles turned white from her death grip, wasn't what she expected. It wasn't the terror she'd expected if she ever saw him again. It was pure, unadulterated rage. The anger bubbled up from somewhere deep and primal inside her, and she felt something snap and twist inside her soul. And suddenly, all she wanted, was revenge.

2

It was mid-December and the holiday bustle had reached a fever pitch. Now that all her plans were finalized, it would be so easy to pull this off. Everyone was in that friendly helping holiday mood, swept up in the spirit of the season. And if they weren't swept up, they were too stressed and distracted to care about anything going on around them.

It had been two months since Claire had first seen her captor again, living carefree, eating his fucking sandwich in the new bistro beside the window. Not a care in the world. The next day she'd gone again at the same time not expecting him to be there two days in a row, convincing herself she was just there to get the sandwich she'd missed out on the day before.

But there he was in the same place as if he hadn't moved an inch from the last time she'd seen him. And again she left before he could glance up to see her.

Then she went the next day and the next. Always there. Always at that back table, sitting by the window reading a paper and eating a fucking sandwich. Every day that she went and saw him—but he didn't see her—gave her a hard surge of adrenaline as if every day she cheated death by being so near to him. It was addictive.

Over time, a plan began to take shape. Suddenly Claire didn't have to motivate herself to get out of bed in the morning. She lived now with a single-minded focus: making that son of a bitch pay for breaking her like this. Soon he wouldn't be casually eating that sandwich with the morning paper, he would be her prisoner.

She spent weeks figuring out how she would capture him, how she would transport him. He was big, even for a man. Tall. Broad. She'd need help—unsuspecting help. She would follow him when the time came. She would risk the night because she could hide in the dark if she knew where he was... if she was the predator instead of the prey. She would drug him. Then she'd get someone to help her move him. “He's my boyfriend. He's drunk. He's on parole and has a curfew. Please, I need help getting him home.” The script already came alive in her mind.

She needed to get the right drugs. How? Where? From whom? She needed to find the right location. It had to be far from her apartment. But she'd need a space where she could stay until she was finished. It would be foolish to go back and forth from her apartment to the location she kept him at. Too many ways she could get caught.

She needed to set it up right, cover her tracks and identity. But she had the resources to make this happen, if she could only be smart enough to pull it off. This motherfucker would regret the day he took her.

* * *

Ari woke, groggy and disoriented, lying on a hard surface wearing only his jeans and boots. No shirt. What the fuck? He felt weak and so thirsty. He tried to remember where he'd been, what he'd been doing. Fragments of his most recent stretch of consciousness started to reform into a memory.

He'd been at a bar drowning his sorrows over Holly. The brat. The one he didn't want. She'd been gone almost three months, and he'd thought he was over her, but the loneliness still cut into him in the weaker moments.

He'd been so close to telling Kane to do it... get him into this Pleasure House inner circle, let him buy someone who couldn't leave. But he hadn't done it. It wasn't in him no matter how simple it seemed or how much he wanted it. Instead he'd ended up drunk off his ass in a downtown bar drowning in his own pathetic self-pity.

He hadn't gotten that drunk. But he had been drunk enough that someone could have put something in his drink.

Fuck.

He shook off the grogginess and took in the cell he was in. That was the only word for it. A cell. Four concrete walls, a concrete floor, ceiling material unclear. Heavy chains were bolted into the wall behind him and on the floor next to him. There was a big round black thing in the center of the ceiling. Maybe a camera, but it looked more like a speaker. No, he thought, spotting something round, black, and shiny angled down on him from one corner. There was the camera. And then a second camera to cover any blind spots from the first.

There was a toilet and a drain in the corner under one of the cameras. The ceiling was high, so high that his six-foot-five frame couldn't reach it even if he were to stand on the toilet. Whoever had installed those cameras had used a high ladder to get up there.

There was a single steel door but no doorknob on his side. There was a thumbprint keypad though and a big slot in the wall, presumably to slip food through. A steel table was bolted into the floor just underneath the slot. Holy fuck, who had him? Who exactly had he pissed off? Clearly someone with some money.

Ari banged on the door and shouted. “Hey, you cowardly motherfucker, I will fucking kill you when I get out of here!”

There was a crackling sound from the speaker above his head.

The voice that spoke, was unexpected. Soft, alluring, female, and sexy as hell.

The voice spoke calmly. “I'm not a motherfucker. I'm the mother that gets fucked. And you are going to wish you hadn't fucked me by the time we're finished here.”

He stared in confusion at the camera. Some woman at a kink club hadn't liked something he'd done? He hadn't exactly been himself lately, so it was possible. Or someone didn't like that he hadn't called her back? This was a level of crazy he hadn't been prepared to deal with tonight.

Though it wasn't his first encounter with an unstable woman. He looked down at the long knife scar slashed diagonally across his chest, a harsh reminder of a foolish mistake. It was the one and only time he'd ignored a safeword. He'd been a regular boy scout since then—even with his less than sparkling personality of recent months.

“Who's helping you?” Ari asked the camera.

The crackle again. “No one is helping me. This is between me. And you.”

He laughed at that. “Sure, sweetheart. Nobody helped you capture me. You did it all by yourself. Go girl power. What are you, a buck twenty dripping wet?” He hadn't seen her, but that voice... it seemed impossible to him that that intoxicating voice could belong to someone who wasn't just as alluring in person.

“A couple of dumbasses helped me get you near the door, and I took it from there using my own creative methods. That's all you need to know.”

“So what did I do? Did I break your heart, cupcake? This psycho-routine is not a good look.”

“You KNOW what you did!” she shouted, with so much menace he forgot for a moment he was dealing with someone probably less than half his size. “And now it's time to pay for it.” Her voice went softer, but no less menacing on that last declaration.

Ari shook his head. “Look, I'm sure this is all some misunderstanding. If you release me now, I'll let it go, okay? I won't hurt you or call the cops.”

She responded with a dark laugh. “No you won't hurt me or call anyone because you will die in that cell. As soon as I'm done playing with you.”

For the first time since realizing his captor was a woman, his blood ran cold, and he realized he may actually be in some danger here.

“Let's go over the rules,” she said. “I will feed you three times a day. One of those meals will be drugged, and you won't know which one. You will eat them all. If you don't eat, you will be punished. When you're sedated, I will chain you up to play with you until I get bored. Then I'll sedate you again before unchaining you. You will be left water and a sponge to bathe. If you get any ideas about breaking apart the toilet to break the cameras, I'll just leave you to starve to death. I'm killing you anyway. Do you understand these rules?”

“Yes,” he gritted out.

“Good boy.”

Minutes of tense silence passed and a tray of food came in through the slot. It was beef stew. The kind that came in a can. He stared at it for a long moment.

The crackle. “Be a good dog and eat,” she said.

“Fuck you. I'm not letting you drug me so you can play with me,” Ari said. He didn't want to know what that meant. At the same time, he was wildly curious to know who had him. Maybe if he could see her, he'd remember what this was about. Maybe he could talk her down or convince her to take her meds.

“If you don't eat like a good puppy, I'll have to punish you,” she replied. “The punishment will stop when you eat.”

Ari laughed. “And how exactly are you going to punish me when I'm in here and you're out there? Seems I found a loophole in your evil villain plan.”

In response, death metal started to pound through the speakers at an ear-splitting volume. Ari covered his ears. Fuck, this fucking bitch!

Fine. He would eat, let her drug him so he could size her up, and figure out how to get out of this shit. It would also be great if she thought she could break him this easily. It would give him an advantage.

The food was hot and not that bad. He finished it, but now he was even more thirsty than he'd started out from the salty stew.

“Good boy,” she purred over the speaker.

* * *

Ari didn't remember falling asleep; the drug had worked fast. When he woke, he was shackled to the wall. There was just enough give in the chains for him to stand, but he remained sitting on the ground, facing the one exit. Waiting.

Soon enough the steel door slid open, and she walked in. Ari's breath hitched in his throat, as an involuntary reaction tightened his pants. She had long, wavy golden blonde hair and the most striking green eyes he'd ever seen. She wasn't wearing any makeup, but the healthy flush of color in her lips and cheeks made it hard to tell at first.

She was delicate, almost breakable by the look of her. Willowy limbs—like a dancer. And she moved that way, too. She wore jeans and a T-shirt—not one of those scoop-necked tops that let a man have a peek at cleavage. This shirt was modest. She wore no shoes and had a light pink polish on her toes.

She appeared sweet in a way that was almost painful to look at, and Ari couldn't stop the image of her on her knees from flitting through his mind. The phrase Don't stick your dick in crazy came to him as a sharp warning. But he didn't recognize this girl. Whatever offense she may have taken at something he'd said or done, he didn't remember it.

Which seemed impossible. Because if there was one thing he would remember, it was this girl.

She carried in a few plastic bottles of water which she left underneath the metal table beside the food slot. She went out again and came back in with a large bucket of water that she had to drag across the room because it was too heavy for her to carry. Some of the water sloshed over the sides. Then she brought a bar of soap and a sponge that she left with the bucket beside the drain in the corner. Each time she went out, she pressed her thumb to the keypad on the wall. There was no code, only biometrics.

The last time she entered the cell, she carried only a beer. She took a bottle opener from her pocket, flicked the cap off, and took a long drink. He couldn't decide if she was drinking to taunt him with something he couldn't have but could definitely use right now, or to calm her own nerves for whatever she had planned next.

She had to know there was no coming back from this. She had to know she was going to prison for a long time.

She shoved the bottle opener and the cap back into her pocket.

“The water will be cold by the time you bathe, but if you don't use it, I will punish you,” she said matter-of-factly as if she were speaking to a small child.

“More death metal?” Ari asked nonchalantly. If he had to hear that music for more than a few minutes at that volume it would be a kind of torture, but he wasn't going to let her know he felt that way.

“If you don't like the playlist, I can change it. I have an entire two hours of harsh metal gears grinding. I could play that for you at the same volume if you prefer.”

“Don't put yourself out,” he replied.

Her eyes narrowed as she took another long drag of the beer. “Do you think this is a fucking game?”

“No, I think you're ill. I think you need help. Now unchain me, and I will see to it that you get the help you need.”

She moved swiftly toward him and slapped him hard across the face. Some of the beer escaped the bottle to hit the floor.

“Don't you dare!” Her expression morphed into something so deadly in that moment it was hard to remember he'd found her cute and disarming only minutes before. “Don't you dare pretend like I'm the crazy one. You psychopathic piece of shit.”

“I've never seen you before in my life,” Ari said.

“No! You will NOT get inside my head. You know what you did. You know. You don't get to play the innocent victim. You know why we're here.”

“Refresh my memory.”

He jerked back when she bent and ran her fingertips over the scar that slashed across his chest.

But she ignored his question. Instead she rose back to stand and paced the floor, staring at the scar like it would leap off his skin and attack her.

“Why me? Why did you take me?” she asked, still pacing. Her voice trembled, and he couldn't tell if it was from fury or fear. Or a deadly cocktail of both.

When he finally decided what to say, he spoke slowly with a soothing tone. “I don't know what you're talking about. I think you're confused. I didn't take you. You took me. I'm the one in the chains, remember?” He rattled them as if to remind her.

“I mean BEFORE!” she shrieked. “Three fucking years ago? What you don't remember? How many women did you keep in that basement? How many did you kill? And you can't remember the one who got away? Bullshit!” She spoke so fast he could barely keep up with her words.

She raised an arm and slammed the beer bottle against the wall, sending beer and glass flying. She advanced on him in a blazing rush, holding the jagged broken bottle under his chin.

“I could slit your throat right now, so you better fucking start admitting to your crimes. Your amnesia act isn't amusing me.”

Ari's eyes widened. Things were escalating far too quickly, and he didn't know what to say to keep breathing. Anything could set her off. He sure as shit wasn't going to admit to any crimes he hadn't committed. For all he knew she had recording devices. Such an admission could land him in prison.

She backed off him and tossed the bottle on the floor. Then she went over to the door and put her thumb to the keypad and calmly walked out as if nothing had happened.

3

Claire leaned against the cell door. She couldn't make her hands stop shaking. She'd actually confronted him—actually spoken to him when she had the power. But she didn't feel like she had it. She'd had to fight past every instinct not to run out of the room the second his cold blue eyes had been on her—as if he could somehow attack her in those heavy chains. She'd tested everything. She knew the chains would hold him. Still.

His act was so convincing. She almost believed him, but it was him. It was definitely him. That scar across his chest. What kind of an idiot did he think she was? She sank into a large leather recliner and closed her eyes, trying not to return to that basement but knowing her mind was already halfway inside the memory.

He'd been drunk that night. He was going to kill her. Something had set him off and he was tired of her. He was antsy, ready to start the whole cycle again with someone new. Claire wasn't sure how she'd known this, but she'd known.

Maybe it was the knife. He'd threatened her with the knife before, but the way he'd held it... with such purpose, his grip on it so tight... She knew. She'd spent the last three hours struggling in ropes he hadn't tied quite right. It was just enough so she could struggle and have stupid hope but not enough to get free. She wondered if he'd done it on purpose to play with her, to make her think she had a chance against him. Or to make killing her more interesting.

Her wrists bled and burned from the struggle against the ropes, but she'd stretched the fibers. She was almost free.

He paced back and forth in the cell rambling again about the government and the elites. And rich bitches like her who had it too good. Too easy. In his drunken haze he waved the large kitchen knife around erratically.

Claire continued to fight with the ropes, biting back the pain as they kept cutting into her in her struggle, feeling the blood as it dripped down her hands. Her own warm life flowing down her skin.

She was nearly free. He laid the knife down on the table beside her and turned his back for just a moment. It was enough for her to slip out of the ropes and grab it. She stood and backed away. She was so hungry and weak. She felt dizzy, but she knew if she gave in to it and fainted, she'd die.

He turned and advanced on her. She stabbed at him, cutting him multiple times but not able to get a good solid jab. The knife was big enough that as long as she kept wildly swinging it around, he couldn't get too close. She slashed out and felt the knife slice through his chest. She turned and ran.

He was right behind her. She fell and the knife flew from her hand as he gripped her ankle and pulled her down.

“NO!” she shrieked, kicking at him, hitting him hard in the face with her foot. He released her and she half-crawled, half-ran up the stairs and out the door into the fresh open air.

Claire pushed the memories away, gripping the leather arm rests, willing her heartbeat and breathing to calm. That was him. She had him in a cell. That was the guy. He had a scar where she'd cut him. How could he lie to her with such a straight face when they both knew he had that scar and how he'd gotten it?

Because he's a sociopath, Claire. He isn't like normal people.

She couldn't let herself forget that—what he was. She couldn't let herself be tricked by the beautiful monster into setting him free and losing her own life. She got up and went to the kitchen, taking another bottle of beer from the fridge. This one she drank all the way down until a light pleasant buzz of calm skated across her skin. She took a long, steadying breath and grabbed the broom and dustbin.

When she returned to the cell, at least the arrogance had left his face. Maybe he was starting to understand his situation, that the tables had turned and he was now at her mercy. Let him lie about things, as long as she could wipe the smug smile off his face.

She silently swept up the shards of the beer bottle. The last thing she needed was for him to have a weapon. That had been his mistake with her after all.

“You can still let me go,” he said. His voice was so gentle and soothing. Calm and reasonable.

He'd never spoken to her like that in the basement. Of course not, he'd had the power then. He has to placate you now.

Claire just laughed. “Right. I'm going to let you go so you can hurt me again. Am I supposed to believe you're reformed? After me, you stopped torturing and killing women? You realized the error of your ways?”

“What's your name?” he asked, changing tactics. “My name...”

“Shut UP! If you speak your name I'll kill you. I swear to fuck I will. I NEVER want to hear your fucking name. EVER. Don't you try to humanize yourself. You're a fucking monster, and you know it!”

“I'm sorry,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in surrender.

No he wasn't, he was placating her.

“What's your name, then?” he said, trying again.

“You know my fucking name. You used to hiss it in my ear while you were...” she trailed off, unable to say the words. She turned away from him and took a deep breath, quickly wiping the tears that threatened to spill over. She was not going to cry in front of him anymore. She'd cried all the tears for him she would cry.

She had the power now. Not him. NOT him. But she was shaking. She could feel the light tremors in her arms. He must be able to see them. He was the one chained up, and he was going to break her again.

Never.

“It's okay if you don't have it in you to hurt me. I don't think you're that kind of person,” he said gently.

“Just shut the fuck up!” she screamed. “I should starve you, just like you starved me for the tiniest act of defiance.” She turned back to finish sweeping the stray shards into the dustpan.

“Look at me,” he said.

It was a fucking command. He thought he could order her around when he was the prisoner? But she turned and looked at him.

“I would never starve you. Ever,” he said, holding her gaze in his.

He'd already starved her, and they both knew it. These head games... she had to regroup her strategy or he was going to get inside her head and mess with it. If she lost her nerve... if he got free again, he'd kill her this time. She was already in too deep. She had to get her shit together and finish this. It was the only choice.

She didn't reply. She just took the dustpan and broom and left the cell.

* * *

Ari watched the door. She'd been gone a while. His first assessment of her was quickly fading, and now he realized how foolish it had been. This girl was not crazy. She wasn't some psycho out for vengeance or attention for some petty drama. This girl had been broken... by someone who no doubt looked a lot like him.

He'd seen the haunted expression in her eyes more than once already. She'd revealed precious few details but the very little she'd given up told him it was bad. Starvation. Probably beatings. Probably rape. How long had her captor had her? Ari wondered if she'd been planning revenge the whole time she'd been free.

Finally the door slid open. When she came in this time she held a whip.

“Don't get too excited, we aren't acting out your kinky fantasies, today,” she said.

Ari bit back the urge to say his kinky fantasies involved him holding the whip. It would end badly.

“I can take whatever you have to give,” he said. It was true. He had a high pain tolerance, and he doubted this girl had enough upper body strength to really make it hurt. If she got this out of her system, she'd break down, and then he could convince her he wasn't the guy who'd done this to her. He just needed to be patient and wait for her to break.

“Stand up,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly hard. Impressive even.

“Or what?” The retort slipped out involuntarily. What was this tiny slip of a girl going to do to make him comply with her demands?

The whip came down hard across his cheek.

“Owww, fucking bitch!” Ari kept forgetting they weren't playing by kink rules. This girl was serious, and she didn't care about the normal safe places to strike someone with a whip. She'd take any exposed skin he offered her.

“I can go for the face. Or your back. Your call.” Her resolve had hardened while she'd been outside the cell.

He wasn't about to sit here and let her slice his face to ribbons if he could stop it. Ari pressed his palms flat against the wall and inched his way up to a standing position.

“Good, now turn around.”

He shifted, so that he faced the wall. Ari had been on the receiving end of chains and whips and canes and clamps and all manner of fun toys because he'd wanted to know what everything felt like before doing it to someone else. He'd wanted to know the limits and boundaries and how hard he could go before he did damage or how much pain was too much for most people's tolerance.

But he hadn't exactly been in this position. He still somehow saw himself as the one in control, still thought he could dominate her and get her to comply with his will. Even though he was locked in a cell and chained at her mercy, he couldn't let go of the idea that he somehow had the power here. Old habits died hard.

He couldn't let himself admit that a girl so small and fragile-looking had the power to break him, given enough time.

“Do your worst,” he said, unable to stop himself. His mouth was going to get him killed. He knew it. He was so used to being the one with the power.

Sure, everybody said subs had all the power, but that was only if they weren't with an abuser. The reality was if someone half your size was tied up and you had a whip in your hand, you had the power, and they just had to hope you were a decent enough human not to abuse their trust. The person chained up never had the power.

But it was a nice idea to put on a T-shirt.

The whip struck him with more force than he remembered from the times he'd submitted to it in the past. It was hard to believe this slight girl could put so much power into her strikes. But she was fueled entirely on rage and fear and adrenaline. And a need for payback.

He winced when the whip came down a second time and then a third and a fourth. She wasn't talking now or screaming at him. Or making threats. She seemed to have found a rhythm and had fallen into a zone.

Ari didn't cry out or beg her to stop even though after a while the sting of the whip was a real and present thing lighting up all the nerve endings along his back, and not in a good way. He just stood there and took it. He told himself it was because he wanted to save her. And a part of him did. It was another habit that was hard to break.

But none of that mattered. She would do this no matter what he said or did or no matter how much he wanted to get his hands on the man who had turned her into this. Her pain was a raw living thing, and it was impossible to be exposed to it for any amount of time and not wish an agonizing death on the person who had created it.

He listened to the crack echoing against the cell walls until he felt his skin break and the blood dripping down. Was she waiting for him to scream, beg, cry? She'd be waiting a long damned time for that.

He gritted his teeth against the blows that continued to fall until finally the whip clattered to the hard floor. And then she was sobbing. He turned back around to see her crumpled on the concrete, her head in her hands, rocking and sobbing.

“How long did he keep you?”

She looked up, and their gazes locked together for a long moment.

“You!” she screamed at him through her tears. “You. Stop pretending. I know it was you! I can see the fucking scar!”

Ari looked down at his chest. He didn't ask about the scar and what she thought it meant. It was obviously such an upsetting issue for her, she'd no doubt just start shrieking at him and threatening to kill him. He needed her calm. So he sidestepped that issue for now.

“How long?” he repeated quietly.

“Forty-three days.”

“Is that how long you're going to keep me?”

She didn't answer. Instead she struggled to her feet and wiped the tears off her face. She withdrew a set of keys from her pocket and put them on the metal table at the end of the cell, far out of his reach—the keys to the chains. Then she took out a syringe.

“We both know I can take that from you,” he said.

“And we both know you can't get out of the chains without me. I've got a tranquilizer gun if you're going to make this difficult. Are you going to fight me?”

Ari thought about it for a moment. The chains might have enough give that if she got close enough he could overpower her, but he couldn't reach the key. He needed her for that. Finally he sighed.

“No, I'm not going to fight you.”

She inched warily closer to him like she didn't believe he wouldn't just kill her out of spite and let them both die.

“Did you get the air out?” he asked. The last thing he needed was someone who didn't know how to operate a syringe.

“I do it when I first prepare them so I won't forget.”

He couldn't stop himself from inhaling her fresh clean scent as she moved closer. Ari winced as she plunged the syringe into the muscle in his arm. The drugs burned in his veins. The scent of her shampoo hit him then, and it was all he could focus on. Raspberries, was his last thought before the room went dark.

* * *

Claire sat behind the monitor, watching him. The drug in the syringe had taken a few hours to wear off, though she wondered if he might be pretending to sleep for longer than was necessary. He was a fool if he thought she'd ever go near him unchained any time but right after the drugs first kicked in.

She knew if he woke unchained and she was in the cell with him, her life was over. The stakes were far too high to break the pattern she'd planned. She'd laid it all out so meticulously, and there could be no deviation from even the slightest detail. She would get her revenge, and then he would die. She tried not to think about the logistics of body disposal.

Except for the microphones in the camera that allowed her to hear him from the surveillance panel, the cell was soundproof. No one would hear the chainsaw. She didn't want to think about that right now. It was too grotesque. But if she didn't want to go to prison for the rest of her life she had to get rid of the body when she was done. She'd known when she'd taken him that there was no backing out of this once she started because even if he'd arrogantly forgotten about her and moved on, after this, it was kill or be killed.

He winced and stood, stretched, and began to pace like the caged animal he was. Blood from the whip lashes had dried on his back while he was unconscious. He stared at the bucket of water at the end of the cell and then up at the camera.

Claire flipped a switch on the control panel and spoke into the microphone. “Leave your clothes beside the door.”

He flipped off the camera with both hands, but started to take off his jeans, not particularly concerned with the prospect of nudity.

She took a deep breath and switched off the microphone. It was an expensive control panel. The microphone wasn't the kind where you had to be constantly pressing a button to talk. You just flipped the switch and could talk hands-free.

He put his shoes and socks and jeans and boxers in a pile next to the door.

“Will I be getting laundry service?” he asked.

Claire flipped the switch again and said, “You won't be needing clothes. You'll spend the rest of your life a naked animal, and then you'll die a naked animal in that cell.”

Her hands shook as she leaned back in her chair. She'd questioned this choice a thousand times. Even chained, him being naked felt like a real threat to her safety. But she wasn't going to wash his clothes. The thought made bile rise in her throat. She'd burn them when this was over. And even that short period of handling them would be difficult to stomach.

The simplest solution was no clothes and a daily bath. But it was still hard to justify that choice given how much violence she knew his body was capable of.

This was the clearest look she'd ever gotten of him. When he'd kept her in the basement he'd always blindfolded her when he'd... when he'd done things. He'd blindfolded her when he'd passed her around, too. She closed her eyes against the memory of all the men who had paid to take a ride on her.

She watched as he stood over the drain, sponging some of the water over himself, gritting his teeth and wincing again as the now-cold water slid down his back. Good. She hoped his skin burned like the hell he was going to when she killed him.

Then she watched as he took the soap and lathered up. A sudden throbbing ache started between her legs at the sight of the sudsy water running over the muscles of his chest and abs. She immediately looked away from the screen. What was wrong with her? She was sick. Objectively he was far better looking unclothed than she ever could have imagined. A truly beautiful monster. But she should react with revulsion at the sight of him, not fucking desire.

When he'd had her in the basement he'd never been able to turn her body against her. Not once. Neither he, nor any of the men he'd pimped her to had the finesse to make her body want anything they did to her or to feel even the slightest pleasure from their touch.

Part of it was because he'd kept her so drugged and starved and terrorized. But if she'd seen him like this, he might have made her body want him. And in many ways, that would have been worse.

He was succeeding now—not even trying. He made no lewd gestures or obscene statements now. He just bathed. And he was winning. He was still winning—still breaking her down in new and different ways just by his presence filling up the cell.

It enraged her that seeing him naked created a visceral physical reaction. Did her body not know what this man had done to her? She wished like hell she could keep him dressed, but clothes got too dirty. The idea of doing his laundry was too fucking repulsive to her. And she couldn't handle the stench if she let him wear the same clothes day after day. It would remind her too much of the basement. She had to keep him clean. And the only way was this way.

4

Ari bit back a scream as he bathed and cleaned the whip marks she'd left on his back. In any other situation he would have taunted her. He would have stroked himself for the camera and said filthy things to the woman watching. But he wouldn't do that with this girl.

He had too much of an idea of what she must have suffered in order to bring her to this point of desperation. So he just cleaned up, rinsed out the sponge, and poured the remaining water down the drain. He shivered in the cell as he paced, thinking through everything. It had been a comfortable temperature with clothes on, but the room chilled him now that he was naked with water dripping off him.

He didn't have a problem with his own nudity. He wasn't particularly bothered by this girl seeing him naked. And he had no fears she would try to force anything sexual on him, not after what she'd clearly gone through. And even if she did try, he wasn't sure it would be forced. In spite of how fucked-up this situation was, he wanted her. The real problem now was, she was going to know that. And given her current emotional state, she would see it as a threat even if he couldn't touch her. It could go very badly for him.

Ari sighed and crossed the room to the metal table. He took one of the waters, broke the seal on the cap, and drank the whole bottle down in one long unending gulp. He needed to keep his wits and figure out how to outsmart her and get out of here. This girl knew she had to kill him. If she really believed he was the man who'd hurt her enough to drive her to this reaction, there was no reasoning with her or talking her into letting him go.

Behind the rage, he could see the fear. She'd obviously thought all this through very carefully. She'd set things up so he couldn't hurt her, but she was still petrified of him, even through the rage, even while he was chained up and at her mercy locked in a cell he had no hope of getting out of. She still feared him.

He took the hard plastic bottle cap and crossed to one wall and etched a faint white line. He needed to estimate the days that passed so he could keep up with the number of meals. He needed to figure out if there was a pattern to which meal she drugged or if it was entirely random. A pattern would be better for his escape odds.

He had no idea what time it was, or if it was day or night now, but he was exhausted. Cold and exhausted. He lay down on the hard floor and, in spite of everything, slept.

Ari jumped, ripped from sleep by a scream coming through the speaker overhead. For a moment he thought she was fucking with him with some kind of sleep depriving sound torture, but then he realized the screams weren't a recording. They were her.

Agonized, sobbing screams.

“No! Please please please,” she pleaded.

It finally occurred to him, she'd left the microphone on. Her bed must be right next to her surveillance set-up. She was having a fucking night terror.

“Please!” she screamed. It came out a long seemingly endless wail for mercy.

It was the most gut-wrenching sound he'd ever heard in his life. All he wanted in this moment was to get to her and make those screams stop.

Ari crossed the room to the metal door and banged on it. “Wake up!” he shouted. “Wake up! You're having a nightmare!” He felt more powerless now than he'd felt when she'd been whipping him. He wasn't sure how far the cell door was from her—if she'd even be able to hear him.

But she just kept screaming and sobbing and begging the man in her nightmare not to hurt her. Something shattered suddenly—like she'd kicked a lamp in her sleep and flailing struggles. The screaming stopped. Then all he heard was soft crying.

* * *

Claire sat shaking on the edge of the bed, taking deep gulping breaths, trying to slow her panicked heart. It was just a dream. Just a dream. She told herself this over and over as if to convince herself. She hadn't had the nightmares in a year. And now they'd come back. It was because he was here, so close to her. Even with him caged, she couldn't sleep with him so close to her. How could she have thought this revenge fantasy wouldn't break her completely? How had she ever thought the rage could outstrip her terror?

She looked up at the screen across the room to see him staring at the camera as if he could actually see her through the lens. She leapt out of bed and raced to the control panel. The green light was on. She'd forgotten to turn off the fucking microphone. He'd heard her screams. That fucking bastard had heard her screaming and begging him.

And now he knew he still had all the power. He stared quietly at the camera, and she couldn't read the look in his eyes.

“Did you enjoy the show?” she asked into the microphone, venom threading her voice.

“No.”

“Why not? Because I know you don't feel guilt. Was it because I interrupted your precious sleep?”

He didn't respond. Claire searched through her sound files and selected one.

“Here, let's have a change of playlist. Here's a fitting song for you to sleep to.”

She turned down the volume on the sound coming from the hidden microphones in the cell, plugged in a cord that would send the music to him and not her own room, cranked up the volume, and pushed play on Rob Zombie's, “Living Dead Girl.”

A satisfied smile curved her lips as he paced, agitated, holding his hands to his ears.

5

Claire was exhausted from so little sleep the previous night. She'd played that song on a loop for about an hour until she was satisfied she'd gotten payback for his intrusion into her privacy. Then she'd turned the microphone off and tried to go back to sleep. She'd failed and finally got up when the sun streamed in through the curtains.

She made bacon and eggs and fixed two plates. She ate hers first, then slipped the cold leftover food on the second plate through the slot to her prisoner. She wasn't going to let her own eggs get cold while delivering his breakfast. She didn't drug it this time.

His food was on a plastic disposable plate. She wasn't about to wash his dishes. Fuck that.

Claire switched on the microphone and said, “When you're finished with breakfast, put the plate under the metal table.”

“Don't I get a fork?” he asked calmly. He didn't say anything about the previous night. She was surprised he wasn't goading her. It would be the perfect opportunity. Maybe he knew how close she was to just going ahead and killing him. Maybe he had the intelligence and self-preservation instinct not to push her.

“Animals don't eat with utensils. Now be a good dog.” She switched off the microphone. She wouldn't make the mistake of leaving it on again. She was still angry with herself for doing something so foolish, something that left her vulnerable again in even the smallest way to him.

Claire showered and got ready. She needed to get groceries and other supplies—more importantly she had to get away from him for a while. She kept wanting to think of him as her captor. She'd never known his name so “captor” was the only word she'd been able to attach to him. But he wasn't her captor now. And even with the clear evidence of that fact, she still had to force herself to attach the new word to him. Prisoner.

She started to put the hoodie and sunglasses on but stopped short. Those things had been to protect herself from discovery by the man she now had locked in a cell.

She smiled at the realization that she could wear any outfit she wanted and go out into the city without hiding. She'd never have to hide again.

Outside the air felt crisp and fresh in a way it hadn't felt to her in a long time. Despite all the things this experience with her captive was bringing up for her, he was in there. And she was out here. He couldn't get to her. She was only able to enjoy this sense of freedom for a few minutes. Then she regressed to worrying about what would happen if he escaped. What if he escaped and found her and...?

Claire took a slow deep breath. He couldn't escape. Yes, he was strong, but that cell was military-grade containment. There was no way out except a steel door that wouldn't open without her thumbprint. There was no lock to pick. No code to figure out. The only key was attached to her hand. He wasn't getting away.

At the grocery store she picked up the usual things she liked to cook along with several cans of beef stew. It was quick, it was easy, and it hid the taste of the sedative. On her way back, she picked up a few necessities from the hardware store.

Even with the rational self-talk, when she returned, she eased inside her temporary living quarters, glancing around furtively, afraid he would jump out at her. She didn't relax until she went to the screen to find him still where she'd left him.

She unloaded her bags and waited for enough time to pass to feed and drug him again. She had to remind him who had the power here. Not him.

* * *

Ari woke to find himself chained again, this time with duct tape over his mouth. She stood over him wearing a red sundress, a black cardigan sweater, and again no shoes. She held the whip in a death grip. Despite this, he still couldn't get the image of her as his captive out of his mind. The dark fantasy was a coping mechanism so he didn't have to think too hard about the way this all ended.

“I thought you'd never wake up,” she said. “I worried I gave you too much. Wouldn't that be a tragedy?”

But they both knew she wasn't worried. Though it did cause Ari to worry because while there had been moments when he thought she might not have it in her to kill him—even though she had to know the price of not following through—now there was the new concern. She might accidentally kill him. She could give him too much of whatever drug she was dosing him with. One of these times when she was feeding him or injecting him with whatever, he could just... never wake up.

It sent a cold wave of anger running through him that she played with his life this way. He wasn't her enemy, but she seemed dead set on turning him into one.

“I know you can't control your smart mouth, and I don't want to talk about last night,” she said, explaining the tape.

He nodded and remained silent. He knew the pointlessness of trying to speak behind the tape. Ari was beginning to feel more helpless than he'd yet felt while under her control. He couldn't even talk to her. Or try to reach her. And he wanted to. He had no idea what he'd say after last night, but he needed to talk to this girl.

The previous night he could have forgiven her for what she'd done to him. Those helpless agonized screams would be seared into his own nightmares for a good long time. But now? With the way she was looking at him and whatever she might be about to do to punish him for hearing? He wasn't so sure.

Ari flinched when her fingertips skimmed over the scar on his chest again. What he wouldn't give to know what she thought that scar meant.

Her gaze panned over his naked body, and she flinched. Oh shit. Yeah, he still couldn't control his body's reaction to her. Damaged or not, she was exactly his type. She was everything he'd wished Holly had been. That sweet and fragile look just did it for him. Except that despite her fragile exterior and how she hung to the edge of sanity by a thread, this girl could fuck his shit up beyond recovery. He knew that now. It was probably better she'd used the tape. He needed to buy himself enough time to figure out the drugging pattern. And after last night she was far too volatile to risk any of the million wrong things he could say right now.

Both times she'd drugged him, it had been in the beef stew. Probably covering up the taste of the drugs. So then the other foods shouldn't be drugged. Though she wasn't a stupid woman. She'd no doubt send him some decoy stew so he could never be one hundred percent sure which meals were drugged and which meals weren't.

His eyes widened as a hard slap connected with his face. His gaze flew to hers. He thought she'd smacked him because he'd zoned out, but the next words out of her mouth proved otherwise.

“You sick piece of shit. You can have a hard on until the end of time but you will NEVER touch me again, do you understand?”

He nodded quickly. It wasn't as though he could help his physical reaction to her. She was so goddamned gorgeous. There was no part of Ari that liked being dominated. It wasn't her act of being in control that affected him. It was the tragic vulnerability that threatened to escape out from under her mask of calm, cold retribution.

The mask had already slipped when she'd whipped him and fallen into sobbing fits on the floor. Some absolutely insane part of him had wanted to comfort her in that moment. Both of them were playing games they were ill-equipped to handle.

He didn't do well without the control. His smartass remarks were a way to deflect from the very real distress over not being the one with the power. He didn't even like the minor defiance of a brat sub, let alone being in a position like this. They were in the wrong roles here. She should be on her knees at his feet, and he should be the one holding the whip.

She paced back and forth across the cell, watching him carefully. Finally she snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention—as if there was anything else in this room he could give his attention to. She was in too deep. They both knew it. She was breaking apart at the seams even as she broke his skin with her whip. He needed control of her. And he needed it soon. Before this went too far.

In one swift movement, she ripped the tape off his mouth.

“Owww, motherfuck!” he growled.

“I changed my mind. We should talk,” she said. “Does it give you a thrill to know you can get into my head in my dreams? I bet you just love that I'm still fucking running from you even when I've got you helpless and at my mercy. Do you like that? Is that why you're so hard?”

Ari sighed. “I'm not him. I'm not the man from your nightmares.”

Those calm words earned him another hard slap across the face.

“Stop. Fucking. Lying to me! We both know the truth. You have the scar. You look the same. You're HIM!”

She began to pace back and forth, her eyes wild.

“I don't know what you want me to say. You're not going to believe it anyway so what's the point?” Ari said. She might become even more erratic if she knew how he'd gotten the scar. And if he made up any other lie he was sure she'd read it on his face. It was both risky and pointless.

She gripped his throat and held him against the wall. Even chained he could probably buck her off him, but if she got injured with him confined like this it wouldn't help anything. And despite how crazy he knew it was, he didn't want to hurt her. He wanted to take her out of here and fix this.

He just had to figure out a way to escape her inescapable fortress cell.

She squeezed harder against his throat. He would no doubt have a bruise if she didn't just kill him. He wished he knew her name. He needed something to call her. How could you reach and reason with a person if you didn't even know their name? He was sure she wouldn't respond favorably to any of his standard pet names. Calling her Doll might get him castrated.

Finally she released him and went back to pacing.

“I think this is hurting you more than me,” Ari said, knowing even as he said it, that it was probably the wrong thing to say.

She laughed. It was a bitter sound that bounced eerily off the walls of the cell. “Right. So... me letting you go... that's for my benefit. You are an evil fucking piece of work.”

He captured and held her gaze in his. “Yes. I think letting me go is for your benefit. It will destroy you if you take a life. You and I both know it. You don't have it in you. You don't have to do this. I won't go to the police. I'm not going to hurt you. I know it might seem that way, but I'm not him. Do I act the same way?”

“You're the one in the chains! Of course you don't act the same way. You have to act reasonable. You have to trick me! You think I'm dumb enough to let you trick me into my own grave?”

Ari took a slow calming breath and tried again. “If I was the type of man who would have done unspeakable things to you, do you really believe I'd still be calm right now? Wouldn't I be yelling and threatening you?”

“You DID threaten me, the first day!”

Ari shook his head. “That was before...”

“When you thought you'd been taken by a man? Am I supposed to be charmed by the patronizing sexism?”

“Tell me your name,” Ari tried again.

“Fuck you!”

“Is that the way it's printed on your birth certificate?”

She pulled another piece of duct tape off the roll and slapped the tape over his mouth. “We're done talking. You're not getting inside my head. It's bad enough you can still do it while I'm sleeping. You will never be in control while I'm conscious.”

Ari raised a brow. Wanna bet?

* * *

Claire stood in front of the monitor watching him. He'd just woken from their most recent session. He calmly cleaned the wounds but he seemed near his breaking point. Or maybe that was what she wanted to believe. Her hands shook as she looked down at his blood on her hands. Just a few small splatters from the whip. She touched her face and realized there were a couple of drops there as well.

Without warning, her stomach roiled, and she ran headlong for the bathroom. She collapsed in front of the toilet, throwing up the contents of her stomach. She spent another fifteen minutes dry-heaving, her body unwilling to give her peace.

That goddamned bastard was right. She was the one breaking. Claire flushed the toilet and went to turn on the faucet. She washed her face and took a sip of water and brushed her teeth. She gripped the edge of the counter and was caught off guard by her reflection.

She looked... haunted. He was doing this to her—or hurting him was doing this to her. How could hurting the man who'd destroyed her cause this much pain? Why was he so different in the cell from when he'd kept her in the basement?

You know why. Because he doesn't have the power anymore. It's all a trick. If he gets free, you'll die.

He seemed so reasonable. Like he understood her pain. Like he wasn't the one who'd created it and turned her into the dead thing she didn't recognize staring back at her out of the mirror. She'd give anything to turn back the clock and not do this. Some fantasies were meant to stay fantasies. She'd already learned that lesson once.

Yes, she'd wanted revenge. He deserved all of this. But she hadn't anticipated the way all of these vicious violent acts would carve away pieces of her soul until she hated herself. She wanted to go back to the girl she'd been before this, before the basement. When everything had been so simple. When her biggest problem had been being caught carrying a bag from last season.

How she longed for those shallow worries.

And if he got free, he probably wouldn't immediately kill her. Without clothing he'd had no way to hide the hard length of his erection from her. The thought of it terrified her. When she'd seen it, she'd almost run from the cell as memories of the blindfold and him inside her had come rushing forth.

She'd hurt him until he'd gone soft, until the threat of him had passed. After she'd injected him with the drug to make him sleep, she hadn't been able to stop shaking as she'd taken away all the things she'd brought into the cell and left him a fresh bucket of water.

What the fuck was he doing to her?

6

Claire held a glass of champagne at her parents' annual Christmas Eve party. The elegant ballroom at their estate was filled with all of their important friends. People Claire barely knew. Thanksgiving and Christmas day were just family. Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve were big impersonal parties filled to the brim with all the people her parents wanted to impress.

A string quartet was set up at one end of the room, playing Christmas carols. The party spilled out onto the back terrace. It was particularly cold—even for December, a thick blanket of snow coating the ground outside—but it didn't stop the guests from going out to appreciate the winter wonderland. Large outdoor space heaters had been set up all around the terrace, keeping the space surprisingly warm, all things considered.

“Oh Claire, darling, you look fabulous!” her mother cooed in her normal fake cheery tone. She hugged her and gave her air kisses on each side of her cheek as though Claire were some casual spa friend she saw on Thursdays for mani-pedi day instead of her daughter. “Have you lost weight?” her mother continued.

“Maybe a little,” Claire said. She wanted to extract herself from the awkward exchange with a woman who only seemed to know her daughter in passing, but her mother had barely heard her answer. She'd already turned her attention to someone else on the far end of the room.

“Mary Alice!” her mother called out, waving. Then she disappeared back into the crowd without a goodbye or backward glance.

Claire would blame all the excitement and noise and activity, but it had been like this at Thanksgiving, too. And maybe she had seemed more alive at Thanksgiving, with the revenge fantasies still swirling through her head, unfulfilled.

But she felt dead now. How was it possible that her mother could be so distracted that she couldn't see her own daughter's pain? And what was she even distracted by that was of such fucking importance? Claire hadn't even bothered flagging her dad down. He was on the back terrace talking stocks and drinking brandy next to one of the heaters with his golf buddies. He'd be even more distracted than her mother.

She escaped out of the crowded ballroom into the closest guest bathroom and locked herself in. She held onto the marble counter top for support and took a long, steadying breath. She'd thought about not even coming tonight. But even though her parents seemed oblivious to her emotional state, they would notice if she made them look bad by not showing up.

They didn't want to see her pain. They didn't want to be inconvenienced by it. So they pretended she looked fabulous and never allowed an opening for her to really talk to them to discredit that theory—not that she could have brought herself to speak of the secret shame of forty-three days in that basement. Or the shame of what she was doing now.

They wouldn't understand. Even if they had the emotional capacity, they still wouldn't understand. And the pain of that disconnect would be worse than what she felt now.

Claire splashed water on her face and stared into the mirror, willing her reflection to change. She looked pale, and the circles under her eyes were starting to creep out and become prominent again. The nightmares barely let her sleep anymore. No matter how much she broke him down, he only rose up stronger and more terrifying in her dreams. If only she could find a way out of this chain of events she'd set into motion. But there was no way out.

She wondered what her parents would think if they knew at this very moment she held a man captive in a cell, that she took out all her pain on him, beat him, threatened him. She wondered if they would still be talking about her apparent fabulous weight loss plan.

Here's the fucking plan, Mom. Destroy your own soul by torturing someone else. The weight will melt right off.

Claire opened her makeup bag and reapplied her lip gloss, a bit more blush, and then some concealer under her eyes. She took a step back and assessed. There. Almost human now.

She went back out to the party and ran into Roman. Literally, ran into him. He was a childhood friend, and she wished she could be happier to see him. A few months ago, she would have given anything to run into him again. It had been years. Since... before everything.

Roman grabbed her elbow to steady her. “Whoa there,” he said. Then he took a step back and got a better look at her. “Claire!”

He hugged her tight, and it took everything inside of her not to start bawling on his shoulder and spill all her secrets. Roman might finish that fucker off for her so she wouldn't have to, but she couldn't bear for him to know the things that had happened. The terrible ways she'd changed. To him, she was just a sweet girl he'd grown up with.

Not a kidnapper. Not a torturer. Not a killer.

He took in her appearance, and she couldn't meet his eyes.

“You look like shit, Claire.”

She laughed. She couldn't help it. Even with her makeup touch-up, Roman whom she hadn't seen in so many years could still see through her. It was dangerous to let him see her. If she stayed here, she'd end up telling him everything, and as much as she wanted to believe he'd be on her side and help her, deep down she knew Roman wasn't a killer.

And Claire knew all too well just how much these dark deeds could break anyone who wasn't a true sociopath.

“Thanks, love you too,” she replied sarcastically. “I think I'm going to get out of here. I'm tired.”

He clearly wanted to push, but he only nodded. “Maybe we can catch up at New Year's. You're coming to the party, right?”

“I always do,” she replied, and then made her escape from the suffocating throng of party guests.

But she didn't show up for New Year's Eve. Instead, she called and made her excuses, feigning the flu. Her mother had made the appropriate sympathy noises and told her to get better. She'd watched the big ball drop on a screen next to the monitor with her captive pacing, oblivious. He had no idea the old year was slipping into the new and that he would never see it in the daylight.

She'd drunk down an entire bottle of champagne by herself and had collapsed on the bed, gaining one blissful night free of the nightmares.

Now it was a week into January, and Claire knew she couldn't continue like this. She kept trying to prove she could handle it...she'd find the hard edge within herself again, and she'd ride that fucking edge until she finished him off. And then she would have peace. She would be free.

Where was the girl she'd been when she'd first taken him? She'd been nearly giddy at the prospect of breaking down the man who'd tortured her. She'd loved the idea of slicing his throat open with a knife so similar to the one he'd planned to use on her.

It had felt like some fucked-up movie reel inside her head. The fantasy. Taking her power back. But the reality was nothing like the fantasy. Reality was never ever like fantasy. It was always so much worse.

The nightmares kept coming night after night without pause, punishing her for becoming the monster.

She'd gone days at a time feeding him but leaving him alone in the cell, watching him on the monitor as he tried to get her to talk to him. She was convinced if he'd behaved according to the script in her head this would have gone the way she'd wanted. But he hadn't. He'd maintained his innocence like an inmate on death row.

Claire had almost asked him to explain the scar, then! If he wasn't the guy, explain that fucking scar! It was the one beacon that always drew her back to the truth that this man deserved everything she'd given him.

She'd whipped him over and over and over until he bled for her each time. She always wanted him to scream or beg for her to stop just like she'd once begged him, but he never did. He never gave her that empty satisfaction.

He never fucking broke, no matter what she did to him. She always gave him a few days to heal. Then she repeated it. But she'd lost her taste for this sad vengeance. Every time she hurt him, she fell apart crying in a pathetic sobbing heap in the cell. She'd managed to start timing her meals so she at least didn't lose her food anymore. Though she wasn't eating nearly as much as she used to.

Each time he tried to soothe her and told her that it was okay. It wasn't too late. She could still let him go. He wouldn't go to the cops. He wasn't the guy. He wouldn't hurt her. All lies. She wanted to believe every single one of those lies so badly.

But Claire knew if she let him inside her head—if she caved—he'd kill her the second he got free. And then he would win. He'd already won. She felt more broken now than when she'd first escaped him.

She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her former captor on the screen. His back was to the camera, the latest evidence of all her pain splashed in angry lashes across his skin. Even though he was turned away from her, she could see his jaws working as he chewed the drugged beef stew. It was the last can, and she wouldn't be buying more. Her hands shook in her lap as she watched him, dreading what was about to come even as she knew she had to do it.

She had to kill him. Today was the day. She had to do this. In spite of all he'd done to her when he'd kept her in that basement, she was beginning to feel pity for him. Her resolve had started to weaken. She'd burned through most of her rage too fast, bright, and hot, and now there was a mere dying ember left. The ember wasn't enough to keep going. She wouldn't be able to stomach doing this much longer.

It didn't matter that he was a monster. Claire was a monster too, now. She hadn't realized how empty she would feel when she reached the end of this. How much more lonely and isolated and disconnected she'd be. How much more broken. How completely alien from other people in the world—the people of her parents' shiny, happy, shallow world of stock speculation and spa retreats. She'd never be able to live in that world again.

But she couldn't let him go. Not just because of all he'd done to her and the people he'd killed or because of the personal threat he posed to her safety, but because even if he didn't kill her, she'd go to prison. And she wasn't going to prison for this piece of shit.

The large kitchen knife sat beside her on the bed. She ran through it all in her head. The plan. She just had to do the things on the list in her head. She had to get through it. Then she would scrub everything down and go back to her own apartment. She'd resume her life. She'd be free.

But she was anything but free. The weight of this dark sickness was too heavy, too suffocating. She couldn't breathe.

She stared at the knife, trying to stop her hands from shaking. And she took another long, slow breath. It had to be the knife. She'd already decided. She'd thought about just giving him too much of the drugs and letting him die from an overdose, but she needed to look him in the eyes. She needed him to know, to see it coming and to make peace with the death she was about to deliver.

She needed to watch the life leave him so she could be sure this was truly done. The worst part was this hadn't fixed anything. It hadn't healed her. It hadn't freed her. And she didn't know how she would ever live a normal life after this—if she could even live at all.

The list Claire... just go through the list. She would go in there and chain him up. Then she'd come back out here and wait for the drugs to wear off. When he was awake, Claire would take the knife and she would go kill him. But first, she'd cover herself from head-to-toe in a makeshift Hazmat suit she'd put together. And she'd put the tape on his mouth first because she couldn't deal with him talking when she needed to focus.

When it was finished, she'd use the chainsaw to make everything small enough and put him into trash bags. She still hadn't worked out where she'd dump the body.

Her mind was stuck on the dismembering part. Bile rose in her throat at the idea of doing that to any human being. He's not human. He's not a person.

But there were so many times he'd looked at her and had seemed like a person. With their positions reversed for weeks it was so easy to forget which one of them had started this.

She looked at the screen and saw him lie down on the ground. It was time to end it.

* * *

Ari lay in the cell perfectly still, his breath evening out into the rhythm of sleep. If he'd judged the pattern wrong, he was fucked. He might not get the chance to outsmart her again. Minutes passed. The door creaked open, and a small smile curved his lips. He'd chosen the right meal.

His body was turned away from her so he knew she couldn't see it, but he schooled his features as she approached.

Her light footsteps moved quickly over the concrete. She took one of his wrists to secure it. His eyes snapped open as he grabbed her wrist with his free hand, wrenching her off him.

The shock in her eyes was quickly followed by panic as she struggled and fought. She must know she didn't have the ability to take him down without all these safeguards she'd put in place—safeguards that had finally failed her.

Her gaze darted to the spot behind where Ari had been lying to see all the food he'd pretended to eat with his back to the camera.

Frantically, she used her free hand to dig into her pocket for something. Ari felt a surge of adrenaline when he saw the syringe. She'd somehow gotten the cap off the needle as they struggled. She fought him like a wildcat. He couldn't let her stick him with that thing. She might not be physically strong but she was fast and kept jerking and twisting and flailing so much that it was hard to hold her in place.

He was determined this small woman was not going to best him. She wouldn't break him. She wouldn't kill him. They were not going to continue this way. He shoved her back. She seemed surprised by this sudden turn in events as if she couldn't process why he'd pushed her away instead of continuing to try to overpower her. As her back hit the wall, the syringe flew from her hand and skidded across the floor.

Her eyes widened, then they both lunged for it. He was faster. She tried to run from him, but he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her down, flipping her, and straddling her small body beneath him. He breathed hard as he looked down at her. Goddammit, she was so beautiful.

It was so fucked-up that he still wanted her in spite of everything.

Her eyes filled with a look of absolute terror, tears streaming down her face as she looked at the syringe he held poised over the muscle in her arm.

“Please, please,” she whimpered. “That's too much. It'll kill me.”

“Good,” Ari bit out. But he knew it was too much, and he didn't want her dead. Death was too good for her now. He was careful to only give her half the contents in the syringe. Enough to knock her out. Not enough to kill her.

She noticed he'd adjusted the dose, but suddenly the realization that he wasn't killing her and what that meant, kicked in. Her eyes widened. “Oh god, please no, not again.” And then her eyes drifted closed, and she slumped helpless in his arms.

The thrill of pure adrenaline pumped through him as he took in his prize. The prize for surviving and thwarting her plan.

Ari carried her to the door and pressed her thumb against the biometric panel. The heavy steel slid easily open. He let out a long, shuddering breath as he stepped out into freedom. He found his clothes and shoes in a trash bag shoved into a corner of the main living area and put them back on. His jeans were loose. She'd sometimes forgotten to feed him. And even when he'd gotten three squares a day, it hadn't been enough to sustain his body weight.

He stepped into her bathroom and took a look at the marks she'd left. He was healing up better than he expected though he still needed to put something on the newest marks. It was a miracle none of the injuries she'd given him had gotten infected, and he didn't want to tempt fate on that score now that he was finally out of the cell. The scars would eventually fade, but they'd never be gone completely.

Ari found her car keys and put them in his pocket. He was about to carry her out when it occurred to him that if someone found this place, there was evidence he'd been here. Fingerprints, traces of blood. He didn't want there to be anything linking the two of them together. He didn't want anything to draw the attention of a forensics team.

He found some bleach and sponges and rags and filled the bucket with water again. Then he carried her over to the cell door and used her thumbprint to go back inside. He felt a bit crazed voluntarily stepping back inside the cell he just escaped, but he needed to be smart about this.

Someone might want to know what was behind that door with the bizarre high security measures. And with the right tools, they could get inside. He propped her against a wall while he scrubbed the small blood stains down with bleach. Miraculously it all came out. Then he wiped down every surface in the cell he'd ever touched, being sure to wipe up the space his tormentor's unconscious form now occupied. He mopped the entire floor, and then he used her thumbprint to leave the cell again and wiped the biometric pad down on the way out the door.

He found the syringes she'd prepared to use on him and put a few of them in his pocket, just in case. He grabbed her purse with all her credit cards and cash and identifying information. Then he wiped down every surface in the main living area he'd touched, which wasn't much. Ari grabbed the trash bags that no doubt contained water bottles and plates with his fingerprints on them. Then he lifted her into his arms and used her hand grasped around the knob to open the main door. He locked up with her key after several fumbling attempts.

She'd had him on the top floor of some huge industrial-looking building. Her door was the only one of this floor. He carried her down the hall to a stairwell. She felt like she weighed nothing—as if her bones were hollow like a bird's. When he reached the parking garage, Ari pushed the button on the key ring. A silver Lexus beeped briefly, lights flashing twice.

The car he'd been driving on the day of his capture was in a parking garage in the city, assuming someone hadn't stolen it by now. He'd worry about that later.

He loaded her into the passenger side, put the trash bags in the trunk, got in on the driver's side, and started the car. He wasn't sure how long she'd be out, but surely long enough to get her to his house outside the city. And if not, he had backup drugs—though he didn't like the idea of using them on her. He didn't want to risk killing her, and even now he worried what he'd given her was too much.

As he drove toward his own home, he couldn't tamp down the buzz of excitement at his newly found freedom. It was only now, moving out onto the road and into the flow of late evening traffic amidst a steady fall of snow, that he realized just how close he'd been to breaking down completely. He glanced over at her, so sweet and innocent-looking in sleep, and he couldn't believe it. She was his.

It was nearly seven p.m. when Ari finally punched in the security code and drove through the iron gate of his estate. The gate shut with harsh finality behind him. He didn't park in the circular drive, instead choosing to put the Lexus in his large garage with the many other cars he owned.

He backed in so that her license plate was against the wall and not facing out street-side—just to be extra safe until he could get the fucking thing off the back of the car and destroyed. Even though he lived well outside the city within his own strong security setup, he was still grateful for the cover of darkness as he carried her over the cobblestone path up to the front door. The snow began to fall more heavily as he carried her inside.

Ari set the security code then let out another long sigh. He'd need to get that changed. He needed a security system that wouldn't allow the doors to open from either side without clearance. And he might want to look into thumbprints this time. It was pretty fail-safe. And unlike Ari, this girl would not be able to drag or carry his unconscious body to the keypad to escape.

He carried her to his room and secured her, then he took the cell phone that was still in the pocket of his jeans and plugged it up to charge. Once the battery was strong enough to use, he turned the phone on. The date glared back at him: January 6th. She'd had him three weeks.

He'd lost track of time in the cell after the first few days and had given up on making marks to count them. After a while it hadn't even mattered to him what day it was, though it did feel strange having missed most of the holiday season. Not that he was a fan of the holidays.

Ari was unsurprised to find no less than fifty messages from Kane. He didn't bother reading them, he just dialed the number.

Kane answered without preamble on the second ring. “Where the fuck have you been, Ari? You have a deadline. Two more weeks until they want to see the final plans.”

Ari scrubbed a hand through his hair, only now realizing how utterly exhausted he was and how desperately he needed to squeeze in a few hours of sleep before the girl's drugs wore off.

“I had to get away and clear my head, move past this shit with Holly. I was camping in the middle of nowhere and didn't have cell reception. I told you I'd make the deadline.” One thing was certain, the past three weeks had gotten him past Holly. Now his sole overriding obsession was the girl chained up in his bedroom.

“Camping in the winter?” Kane asked. He didn't bother to mention the holidays and family. He knew Ari rarely went home for Christmas. The camping lie was actually a good one. Ari often went away during the holidays. His absence hadn't even broken his normal pattern. Kane was the only one who'd noticed him missing, and that was only because of a looming deadline with contacts Kane had set up. It was his reputation on the line if Ari didn't come through.

“It's not cold everywhere,” Ari said. “I was in Arizona.” The lie fell from his lips easily.

“Well you scared the shit out of me. You could have texted before you disappeared.”

“I'm back now. And I'll have the final plans on the date agreed. Tell them to chill their asses out.”

Ari disconnected the call and let out a long sigh. He'd been under deadline to complete architectural plans for a private kink club about ten miles outside the city when Claire had taken him. The club was meant to seem like a normal estate in a wealthy neighborhood with enough land around it to act as a buffer against those who had no business and no invitation to be there.

He was grateful he'd gotten an early jump on the project. Realistically he could finish in the two weeks remaining—assuming he could drag his attention away from his new captive long enough.

7

Claire snuggled into the warm blankets and pillows. She was so comfortable. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so comfortable. She wanted to go back to sleep, but slowly unfamiliar realities began to intrude on her senses. One was the sound of rushing water, the second was that she was naked. She never slept naked. And the third was a heavy metal chain around one ankle. That was the sensory input that finally jolted her out of comfort.

She sat up abruptly as the memories flooded her. The struggle in the cell, her captive's look of triumph as he'd injected her with her own drugs, and the terrifying blackness that had closed in as she'd felt his arms come around her in a possessive embrace. Still, something wasn't right about this.

She wasn't in the basement. He'd never kept her in a comfortable bed before. It was part of why the cell she'd kept him in hadn't had even a mattress. Claire opened her eyes to find a warm glow lighting the room. It was only then that she heard the crackling sounds coming from a fireplace somewhere below her. The fire lit up the room enough that she could take in her surroundings.

Her heart pounded in her chest as the immediate unsettling reality became clear. She'd taken the wrong man. This man had too much money to have ever called her a rich bitch.

The room she found herself in was enormous. Magnificent wouldn't be too strong of a word to describe it. There were high vaulted ceilings with intricate designs etched into them, made clear to her via shadow from the flickering firelight below. It looked like a grand cathedral. The room was all done in white. And it was set up on two levels.

She was up in a sort of second-level nook. It was small compared to the rest of the room but not cramped, and you could stand up in it without having to bend down. A large chain that ended in the shackle enclosed around her ankle was bolted into the floor. She was on a mattress.

It wasn't a bed on box springs, just a mattress on the floor. But it was a very nice mattress with light gray silk sheets and a downy white comforter. There were several soft pillows, also covered in silk. It was an incongruent level of comfort for obvious captivity, and she didn't understand the motives behind it.

She felt a sudden sense of shame that she'd had so much money of her own but had never had a bed this comfortable with bedding quite this nice. She'd had the ability to have it, but she'd just never bothered to care for herself in that way.

If she hadn't been able to give this small luxury to herself, why would he give it to her?

Also, how had he given it to her? The amount of time the sedative lasted wouldn't afford the opportunity for him to set all this up, which meant he'd already had all this. Claire swallowed hard around the lump in her throat as she took in the rest of the room.

A few feet beyond where her mattress ended, was what appeared to be a large indoor waterfall. The water came out underneath the hard floor and emptied into a giant tub with jets creating bubbles in the water. But the jets were quiet.

Down on the main level against the wall opposite from her was a large fireplace. The floor was a blond hardwood covered in white fur rugs so only a bit of the wood was visible wherever she looked. Small white pillows were positioned around the fireplace. The pillows were far enough away to not be a fire hazard. Though there was a screen set up around the fire for added safety.

A clock on the mantel showed ten o'clock. But morning or night? She didn't know. There were no windows in this room. It was practically a cave.

On the far end of the room on the main floor was a large white four poster bed. The posts were made of a sturdy-looking steel material. Her heart rate ratcheted up to an impossibly fast rate as she took in the metal chains which hung from the ceiling ending in white leather cuffs at various places over the bed.

Hanging on hooks on the wall beside the bed were riding crops and whips of various sizes and types. Suddenly she couldn't breathe.

Not only had she taken the wrong man, she'd tortured someone who had his own collection of whips. She couldn't stop the trembling when it began to flow through her limbs or the tears that slipped down her cheeks.

Hadn't she had doubts? But he'd had the scar. She was sure it was him. She'd been so drugged and starved during her captivity. The details were fuzzy now, or maybe they'd never been clear. She remembered his hair, and his build. And that scar. But that man had called her a rich bitch.

This man had called her a bitch a few times, but he'd never called her a rich bitch. It was so obvious now in hindsight... now that she wasn't so amped up on the adrenaline of revenge, anger, and fear. It would have been obvious to him the amount of financial resources it would take to keep him in that cell... to set up that cell in the first place.

He would have been infuriated by those resources. He would have rambled about her money if it was the guy. Maybe she'd thought he was smart enough not to call her that or give anything away since he'd told her he wasn't the man who'd taken her.

But he wasn't the man who'd taken her.

The door opened and her new captor walked in. His hard, arctic gaze rose to hers. She watched him warily from the mattress as he approached. When he reached the top of the stairs and stood mere feet away, she scooted back, cringing from him. As if there were anywhere she could go with the wall at her back and the strong heavy chain around her ankle.

Her lip trembled as she became even more aware of her nudity, the absolute vulnerability to this man she'd hurt over and over. She was afraid to even beg him. She was afraid to exist. To breathe. But she couldn't stop the ragged sobs that came out of her even as she tried to quiet her crying. He would have no mercy for her. She knew it.

His hard gaze froze the blood in her veins as he regarded her with a kind of determined coldness she'd hoped never to be on the receiving end of again. He hadn't broken in the cell. She could see it in his eyes.

If anything, the things she'd done had strengthened him, hardened his resolve. Even though he'd lost some weight in her care, he looked absolutely lethal standing in front of her in only a pair of jeans that rode low on his hips. He'd showered and bandaged his most recent wounds. Medical tape was barely visible, wrapping over his shoulder to the front.

His long dark sun-streaked blond hair was still wet from a shower. He looked like a warrior from some long-forgotten battlefield.

A slow smile curved his lips. It wasn't sinister, but it wasn't exactly friendly either. His voice was a low, dark growl when he spoke.

“My turn. Kneel.”

Claire didn't need further explanation. She wasn't prepared to beg or bargain or try to resist or act defiant. She was smarter than that. She scrambled off the mattress and knelt in front of him, her body shaking uncontrollably for what would come next. Oh, god, what would he do to her?

She hadn't deserved what the last man had done. But this one she'd actually harmed.

She'd wanted to feel powerful after so long of feeling so powerless. She thought if she could get payback, she could burn away the shame she'd felt at being completely at the mercy of a monster.

And yet here she was again... feeling that same shame. The shame and degradation of utter powerlessness, mingled now with the new shame of hurting someone who hadn't done anything to deserve her fury. Nothing could ever absolve her of what she'd done to him.

It seemed like an eternity passed with her kneeling at the feet of the man she'd tortured. She didn't fight him because she knew better. One could say she was an experienced captive, and there was no need to be retrained. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to block out all the things her first captor had done to her, wondering how many of those things she'd be subjected to again.

It hadn't mattered to her captor if she'd obeyed quickly. He'd still punished her. Everything he'd done had been out-of-control and filled with rage.

She could feel the rage pulsing off this man—a raw energy that consumed all the air around her. Somewhere deep inside she knew appeasing him wouldn't work. It wouldn't matter what she did, he would still hurt her. He would still torture her, and then most likely he would still kill her. Just like her first captor had planned.

How was she back in the same place again?

“I'm not the man who hurt you,” he said quietly. His voice was softer than when he'd ordered her to kneel.

“I know that now,” she whispered through her tears.

“How do you know? You seemed so sure before.”

She dared to look up into his eyes, and then her gaze darted around the room. “He didn't have money like this.”

“How do you know he didn't have money?” the stranger asked with more curiosity than anger. It seemed so odd to think of this man as a stranger. The level of intimacy they'd shared... that of predator and prey, took them well beyond seeing each other as strangers. And now that she'd moved from the captor to the captive, that level of dark intimacy had just ratcheted up another notch.

“He kept me in an old basement, and I could hear him moving around on the top level. He lived there. When I escaped I could see it was a normal-sized house. Maybe even on the small side. And he called me a rich bitch. He said he was going to bring me down to his level and then kill me like all the other rich bitches who thought they were too good for him.”

She dropped her head back down. “Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry. Please don't kill me.”

She flinched when he touched her hair, but it was a gentle touch. Her first captor had never touched her with gentleness—not that she would have wanted him to. But the difference in this man's touch made her foolishly hope she might be able to reach something compassionate and merciful in him.

“I don't kill what's mine.”

Even though she knew it would never happen she still had to say it. “Please, just let me go.”

“No. You belong to me now. After what you did, I've earned the right to keep you forever. You obviously can't be left to run free. I understand someone really hurt you, so prison seems unjust when you were just trying to fight back. But you owe me, little one.”

He'd begun absently stroking her hair, and she hated herself for leaning into that touch, however slightly. He was right, she couldn't be free. But not because she was a criminal who deserved punishment. It was because she'd spent the last three years unable to live and function in the world.

It was too dangerous. She'd experienced the darkness of this life first hand and she couldn't go back to pretending the world was a different, brighter, safer place. Those illusions others naively carried with them had been shattered for her. She'd been barely living.

The first time she'd felt alive in the past three years was when she'd been hurting the man who now held the power of life and death over her—even as hurting him had been slowly killing her. Another whimper escaped her throat.

“My name is Ari,” he said. “But you will call me, Master. Do you understand, little one?”

“Y-yes, Master.” Again, she didn't fight him. She didn't act indignant. There was no giant shield wall of pride that came rushing to her defense. She knew from hard experience that obeying wouldn't make it better, but disobeying or fighting in any way could only make it worse.

The only reason she'd had the strength to fight back the first time was that she'd known she would die that day if she didn't, so what did she have to lose? Her life was forfeit either way, but with fighting she'd at least had the hope of escape.

She had no hope of escape here with Ari. He had far more resources to ensure she never got away. She couldn't even get to the stairs with the heavy chain locked around her ankle. There was no space to run. Fighting him would be foolish.

“Now tell me your name,” he said.

He'd asked her repeatedly in the cell, and now she couldn't refuse him an answer to his question. Or at least she wouldn't if she was smart.

“Claire,” she whispered.

“Claire.” There was a stretch of silence between them, and then he said, “Are you hungry or do you want to wait until morning?”

Why was he being this way? He hadn't made any obvious threats yet—short of keeping her prisoner, of course. Was this a trick? When would he start hurting her for what she did to him? If he was a good man he wouldn't have taken her and locked her up like this. She'd be free.

So then was she not good? Because she'd taken him.

“Claire, I asked you a question,” he said calmly.

She was hungry. Ridiculously hungry and thirsty. Probably a side effect of the drugs. But she also hadn't eaten very much that day at all. The weight of her plan to kill him had pressed so hard on her that she hadn't been able to work up an appetite. She'd been planning to eat... after.

She looked up at him. “Yes,” she whispered. Even though she knew she'd have to eat—assuming he didn't starve her—she didn't want to admit it. He could use it to hurt her. She felt like an injured cornered animal trying to hide any sign of weakness. What if he drugged her like she'd drugged him?

“Yes, what?” He'd gone back to petting her hair, and she couldn't stop shaking beneath his touch.

“Yes, Master,” she said quietly.

“Good girl.”

Those words filled her with an inexplicable warmth and a shame at feeling that warmth.

“I'll be right back.”

When he'd left her, she got back in bed under the covers. Only now was she able to fully process the fact that he'd undressed her and chained her up in his house, and then she'd left the protective shield of the blankets to kneel at his feet like some well-trained dog without even a moment's hesitation because she'd been too afraid of the consequences if she resisted.

Several minutes later the door opened again and he came up the stairs with food. He sat on the floor beside the mattress and set the plate on the bed. He handed her a water bottle.

Claire reached out from under the blankets to take the offered water as she stared at the plate. It was pizza. He must have had something delivered while she was still sleeping. Of course he did. Most of the food in his house had probably spoiled in his absence.

“Is it drugged?” She looked up at him, pleading, “Please don't drug me.” As if she had any right to ask that after everything.

“It's not drugged.” Ari took a bite of one slice of pizza and laid it back on the plate. “See? It's safe.” He scooted the plate to her. He could have put something on the second piece, or something near the crust. Him taking a bite didn't mean it was safe, but she was SO hungry, and it smelled so good.

Claire struggled to sit up, moving to lean against the wall. She pulled the plate toward her and ate, the tears silently moving down her cheeks.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I-I thought you were him.”

“I know,” he said.

She quietly ate her pizza and drank her water, then she scooted the plate back to him. “T-thank you, Master.” She didn't forget this time to give him the title he wanted to hear.

“You're welcome, little one.”

Claire wanted to ask what he planned to do with her, but she also wanted to live in ignorance for as long as possible. Too many questions clawed at the back of her throat, demanding answers. She finally settled on the one screaming the loudest.

“W-why is there a mattress up here and a chain? You already had all this stuff... why?”

“My pet used to sleep up here.”

“Used to?” These words filled Claire with dread. When he said pet, she knew he didn't mean a dog or a cat. He meant a person. A woman like her.

She flinched when he reached out to push a strand of hair behind her ear, but he made no comment about her reaction to him moving into her space. “Yes. She and I are no longer together.”

“B-but you didn't kill her?”

Ari shook his head. “No. She's alive and well and living out her modeling dreams in Paris.” He stood and picked up the empty plate.

He loomed over her. “I have some questions and you will answer them.”

She nodded quickly.

“Do you live in an apartment or a house?”

“A-apartment.”

“Rent or own?”

“Own.”

He nodded. She could see the wheels in his head turning. She already knew he was working out the logistics of her life. He wanted to know how to make her missing without being missed. She hadn't been listed as missing the first time she'd been taken. It was the downside of not having many close friends and all your bills paid automatically. Things had a way of humming along without interruption, particularly when you had seemingly endless money and no employer to complain about your absence.

As if reading her mind, his next question was, “How are your bills paid?”

She wanted to lie, give some indication that she'd be missed, that she would be looked for. But he seemed able to read her mind. His hard gaze warned sternly against the lie that had been on the edge of her tongue.

“Auto-pay. Online. The bills all get paid without me having to do anything.” She felt the hot tears streaming down her cheeks as the felt the vise of fate tighten around her.

“Who will miss you?”

Her voice broke when she said “No one.” Again she'd wanted to lie, but somehow she was sure he would know if she did. And she was too afraid to make him angry. She'd already done so many things to make him angry.

He nodded. “It's late. Try to get some sleep. I'll explain my expectations going forward, tomorrow.”

He had to know she'd never be able to sleep knowing that whatever he planned to do would start the next day. And he had an entire night to fully realize just how easily he would get away with whatever he decided to do with her.

* * *

Ari bolted upright at the sound of Claire's screams. He jumped out of the bed and took the stairs two at a time to get to her. By the time he reached her, she was sitting up in bed, her back pressed against the wall, the blankets pulled up to her chest, crying and shaking.

“Please, Master I'm sorry... please,” she whimpered.

Ari's chest tightened at the fact that instead of begging the monster in her dream, she was begging him. “What are you sorry for?” he asked, betraying nothing in his tone.

“I'm sorry I woke you.”

He shook his head. “It's not your fault you had a nightmare. Scoot away from the wall.” He motioned her and she did as he asked, watching him as if he might attack.

Ari took one of the many pillows, pulled the blankets away, and laid down with his back pressed against the wall.

“Come here,” he said.

She hesitated, but he waited patiently until she moved closer. He pulled her into his arms and held her against his chest, covering her with the blankets. He pressed a kiss against the side of her throat.

“Shhhh, you're okay. He will never find you here,” Ari said, stroking her hair until she finally calmed and settled in his arms. He knew her fear and tension were equal parts the man from her dream and him. He didn't want her to fear him, even after all she'd put him through.

After a while, her breathing evened out into sleep. But Ari couldn't go back to sleep. His mind was too full with everything that had happened.

He could barely believe he had her here. He kept waiting for guilt to rise up, but his conscience remained quiet in the face of everything. The girl in his arms was everything he'd ever wanted, and he'd paid dearly for her. He would have scars on his back for the rest of his life, and she would wear his collar in return. It was a fair trade in his eyes.

He could forgive her, but he could feel no remorse for his own response. She was too broken to ever be free again. She'd always be looking over her shoulder for the man who'd hurt her—a man who was still out there somewhere. Ari couldn't risk that man finding her again to finish what he'd started. And he couldn't stand the thought of her rotting away in some prison cell. He'd seen the guilt in her eyes. It would eat her up inside without the absolution he offered her now.

She would atone. And she would be safe. And if they were both very very lucky, she would eventually be happy in her new situation.

Ari had been so used to the bratty behavior from Holly that he'd barely covered his shock when Claire had obeyed him the first time without the slightest hesitation. Even with as afraid as he knew she was, he'd worried she'd make things difficult.

He'd seen too much of her pain and fear to be unable to forgive her. But that didn't mean he wouldn't demand his own brand of restitution. She would sweetly obey him, and he would reward her with comfort and safety and protection and pleasure.

There were no words to describe how he'd felt when she'd immediately knelt and called him Master. An intoxicating power had coursed through him, and in that moment he knew he wouldn't hold anything she'd done to him in that cell against her because it had made it possible for him to bring them both to this moment.

Absolute ownership. The one thing he'd never been able to take without guilt. Until now. He'd just gotten his first pure hit of the good stuff. And he was addicted.

8

When Claire woke, it took her a few minutes to remember where she was, but when the memory fully reformed in her mind, she sat up in bed, her gaze darting around the room. Ari wasn't in bed with her. He wasn't even in the room. The fire had died, and now everything was quiet. Too quiet. Except the waterfall just beneath her.

She leaned against the wall, staring at the door on the lower level. It was only a matter of time before that door opened. She used this brief reprieve—this small window of solitude—to review everything she knew about this man.

While her situation with him may be new and uncertain, he wasn't new. They had danced the waltz of captor and captive for weeks. Only the roles had been reversed. In that time, he'd mostly seemed calm, stoic. Reasonable.

Except for that first day, most of the time he hadn't acted angry with her. He'd told her over and over he wouldn't hurt her if she let him go.

Claire fought to shut out all the memories of the times she'd beaten him. All the times she'd made him bleed. He could have gotten infected. He could have died in that cell because of her. The memory of the handle of the knife in her hand was still sharp, as if it had left a tactile impression she couldn't rub away.

Behind the fear, she'd felt the hint of relief when he'd gotten the syringe, when the power balance had changed, because no matter what happened she wouldn't have to kill him. She wouldn't have to cut his body into small pieces and get rid of it. No matter what he did to her now, he'd saved her from having to become a killer because she'd found no other path to take but the one that ended in endless blood covering the walls and floor of that cell. It seemed inevitable now that he'd escaped—like the only thing that could have possibly happened.

She remembered the way he'd winced whenever he cleaned the wounds. When he'd wake from the drugs... that wince as the water had touched his skin had been the only evidence he'd shown her that what she'd done was actually hurting him. Even the flow of blood had barely seemed real—like it was just an image without any suffering attached. She'd done her best to detach, to disconnect and impassively watch, to remember what he'd done to her, that he deserved it.

Except now that wasn't true. It had never been true. And she had to live with that reality.

Last night the nightmares had come again, no doubt to punish her for what she'd done. In the dream she'd been in the basement, recaptured. And this time she hadn't gotten away. This time he'd killed her. She'd woken right as he'd been stabbing her, the screams coming out of her half from fear, and half still believing it was really happening in that moment. When Ari had run up the stairs, at first she'd been stuck in the dream, only dimly aware that she was awake and safe... more or less.

At least safer than she'd been in the dream.

He'd been so calm and... non-violent so far in her short time as his captive. So different from the introduction she'd given him when the power had been reversed.

She'd expected more direct retribution. Her gaze fell suddenly on the chains hanging over his bed and the whips lining the wall, and then back down to her own ankle, chained. She swallowed hard.

Pet. His pet had slept up here. But if Ari was telling the truth, that woman was safe and happy in Paris. So then she must have been here willingly. He wouldn't have let her go unless she'd agreed to be here. Ari hadn't been committing a crime with her.

So all of this was... a kink? Claire squeezed her eyes shut trying to block it all out. She hadn't had an orgasm in three years—since before she'd been taken. Before... the things she'd fantasized about hadn't seemed wrong. But after...? She'd thought after something so terrible had happened to her, she wouldn't fantasize about those things again. Because she knew better. She knew it wasn't a fantasy, and it wasn't sexy to be hurt. But she couldn't get off thinking of normal sweet romantic sex. She'd never liked normal sweet romantic sex.

But anything darker... she couldn't let herself think those things anymore and get off to them. So she'd stopped. She'd shoved her sex drive down a dark hole where she never had to take it out and look at it or think about it. She could never have an orgasm that way again. It was wrong. How could she after...?

She'd tried a few times with more normal thoughts, but she couldn't come. She couldn't even get aroused until the fantasy started to go darker, more depraved, more dangerous. Until she was a captive at the absolute mercy of a beautiful powerful male. She'd stopped herself before she could come, and then she'd run to the bathroom and lost her dinner.

Since then, she'd shut down that part of herself, distracted herself from it. People could live without sex. They could live without orgasms. Plenty of people did it every day, and she'd been determined to be one of them because the alternative was too shameful to contemplate. But now, looking at Ari's bedroom and the stark evidence of what he was into...

She was sure he hadn't demanded she call him Master just because he literally owned her in some clinical way. It was sexual. She'd known it the second the words had come out of his mouth. The way his fingers had played gently at the nape of her neck as he'd stroked her hair. He was going to fuck her. She couldn't use that other word.

Except this time she couldn't use that other word because no matter how wrong she knew it was, she wanted him inside her. She needed him inside her. She needed to be fucked so badly she could barely breathe from everything she'd repressed and shoved down and denied herself. There was an aching hollow pit inside her from the vast lonely stretch of life without pleasure. And he was so raw and masculine and beautiful. She couldn't imagine any woman who could resist Ari's charms if he aimed them in her direction.

Claire shouldn't want him. She shouldn't want any man inside her, let alone a man who clearly intended to keep her as his slave. Not after the things she'd been through—and definitely not knowing the way he would want it. But her body, which had remained rigid and dry throughout her entire captivity with the first man, was awake and hungry for this one. Right or wrong be damned.

When he'd held her in the night, both of them had been naked under the blankets. She'd felt his thick, hard erection pressed against her low back. The place between her legs had answered that hardness with soft, pliant wetness. Her body had been ready to welcome him inside her. She'd tensed, both afraid he'd penetrate her and hoping he would even though it was sick and wrong. But he did nothing but hold her until she drifted off to sleep.

It didn't matter. There was an animal inside her that recognized the animal inside Ari. And the two of them wanted each other. It was pure raw lust. And it was going to be sated one way or another. Claire had no doubts about this. And that terrified the shit out of her.

Only now in the space of emptiness Ari had allowed her could she admit this truth to herself. When he'd told her to kneel and she'd gone to the ground so quickly at his feet, it hadn't just been about fear. Because even in that moment, though she'd tried not to think about it, she'd felt the beginnings of the throbbing wetness between her legs.

She was sick and wrong. Maybe she should have died in that basement.

Before she could entertain that dark thought any further, the door on the lower level opened, and Ari walked through it. She watched as he moved toward the stairs, his eyes never leaving hers.

It didn't matter what she craved and fantasized about, she'd already experienced the harsh reality of captivity, and this man had scars left by her hand. She couldn't let herself hope he wouldn't hurt her. He would definitely hurt her.

* * *

Ari watched her from the main level. She looked like a doe, frozen in fear. But there was something else in her eyes. Desire. He shook the thought away. No. It would be convenient if she easily went along with and wanted all the things he wanted, but he knew that was insane.

She likely didn't even want normal sex after what had happened to her, let alone what he brought to the table. What if he couldn't train her? What if he couldn't make her body respond as he wished?

Of course he wouldn't be able to make her body respond. She was traumatized. Broken. And he just wanted to take more because he was a selfish fucking bastard who felt she owed him or that he was saving her somehow from the world. Or saving the world from her.

He climbed the stairs and stood in the same place he'd stood the night before when she'd first woken to her new circumstances. She didn't speak a word. She dropped her gaze and crawled across the mattress until she was on the ground, kneeling at his feet just like she had the night before.

A sharp breath left him. It startled her and drew her gaze up to his. Ari quickly wiped his face of all expression and stared her down until she looked back at the ground.

What in the fuck?

Now that she'd had something to eat and some non-drugged sleep and time alone to gain a sense of her situation the last thing he'd expected was for her to kneel before him without a word. He'd expected her to cry. Or beg him again to let her go. Maybe even fight or scream or throw something. The only thing she could throw was sheets and pillows. Still. He'd expected her to act out in some way. Maybe it just hadn't bubbled to the surface yet.

He was determined to train her, to demand her unfailing obedience, but he still couldn't believe she'd done this without a single command.

He'd always thought some subs played dumb. Or maybe they were afraid to act on their instincts and submit without being directed at every turn. Maybe they were self-conscious, afraid he would laugh or judge them. Not his Claire.

She flinched when he began to stroke her hair, but it seemed more from surprise at the touch than anything else. Surprise he was still being gentle. She didn't seem actively repulsed by him. Though he could easily change that if he made the wrong move. Everything was so precarious.

He sighed. “Claire, I have to punish you.”

He expected her to beg, to move away and huddle against the wall like she had the previous night, but she didn't. She only cried softly. She didn't ask what her crime was. At least she wouldn't insult him that way.

Ari had spent a good part of his time in the cell fantasizing about keeping her as his slave. He'd had dark fantasies before, but these were different. These weren't just spank fantasies to get him off. They were plans. Now that he had her, he wished he could get inside her head and know what she was thinking. He could ask, but there was no guarantee she'd be honest.

In fact, he was sure right now she'd tell him whatever she thought he wanted to hear. It was such a shift from Holly. If this were Holly she'd be smarting off, pushing his buttons, irritating the shit out of him until he just wanted her to leave.

Ari stood there, waiting for Claire to speak, to beg, to ask questions and demand answers, to scream, to curse, but except for the soft crying, she was quiet. She didn't look up at him. She did nothing but wait. He could feel the words radiating off her, but she never let them escape into the air. What in the hell was she thinking? What was her strategy? Was she quietly planning her own escape? Giving him an artificial surrender to lower his guard?

He wasn't foolish enough to underestimate this woman.

A few months ago, he never would have thought he could be the kind of man who enjoyed and wanted this. He'd always been concerned that everyone had a safeword and wanted to play the game. There were good subs out there. They weren't all brats. Just because his last few had been didn't mean he had to resort to keeping a terrified woman captive.

He should be questioning his own behaviors, not hers. She was just trying to survive. And he'd only offered her minimal reassurance so far.

Maybe she had broken him. She'd definitely broken his conscience. When he'd woken, he'd half expected to feel guilty, to go soft on her and make no demands. But instead he found no emotion inside him except the satisfaction that she now lived at his mercy.

Ari withdrew a piece of black silk from his pocket and tied it around her eyes. She jumped when the silk touched her, but she didn't pull away. She didn't beg. She seemed to have the crying under control. For now. A few silent tears slid down her cheeks every few seconds. He shifted her to uncuff the thick piece of metal from her ankle.

Then he scooped her up and carried her down the stairs. He wasn't ready for her to see the rest of the house yet. When he reached the main level he crossed to his attached master bathroom beside the walk-in closet. Neither door was visible from her small perch.

She would enjoy this room when he was ready for her to see it. The bathroom had white and light gray marble tile in intricate patterns that mirrored the patterns on his vaulted ceiling in the bedroom. There was an oversized garden tub with generous counter space for candles and soaps and gels and lotions.

Behind the tub was a large floor to ceiling window with an expansive view of the property and some of the closest-to-the-house trees the estate had. A large glassed-in shower stood along another wall with floor-to-ceiling windows on either side. Despite the openness of this room, his large property and gated security ensured privacy—even if one felt exposed.

Ari sat her down on the toilet. “Do what you need to do. Don't remove the blindfold.”

She opened her mouth as if she might protest but closed it again. He knew she wouldn't want him to watch her. It wasn't as though it gave him a thrill, but he couldn't leave her unattended yet. Soon enough, privacy would be a distant memory to her anyway.

He opened and shut the door, then remained very still, his breathing slow and quiet. She turned her head as if trying to see he'd left. He expected her to remove the blindfold. Why wouldn't she? Surely she was curious and thought he'd gone. At the same time, she no doubt knew he could return just as quickly as he seemed to have left. She didn't touch the blindfold. She just used the restroom and flushed.

Ari opened and shut the door again. “Did you remove the blindfold?” It would be the normal thing to ask if he'd actually left the room.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Good girl.”

She flinched as though she expected some blow to come despite her obedience. It unsettled him. This was wrong in every way a thing could be wrong. But he hadn't been able to leave her alone in a world she could no longer navigate, and he wasn't noble enough to pass up this opportunity or just keep her as his indefinite platonic house guest.

If someone had asked him three weeks ago, he would have been sure he was that noble. He wouldn't even recognize who he'd become in this short span of time.

He picked her up and carried her out of the bathroom. This time he took her out of his room and down the large front hallway, brightly lit by the sun shining in, bouncing off chandeliers. At the far end of one wing was a door that led down to the dungeon. He had a playroom on the first floor with all the same accoutrements except with a softer color palette and windows. But he'd told her he had to punish her for what she'd done, so it had to be the dungeon. He didn't want to confuse her.

Ari set his trembling captive on her feet in the dungeon. He regarded her, watching her shaky breaths moving in and out of her. He couldn't decide if he should leave the blindfold on or take it off. He was intrigued that she hadn't tried to cover herself. The normal thing to do would be to try to hide herself from his gaze. Especially with her history.

No begging. No running. No screaming. No fighting. What cocktail of things inside her psyche could make someone this compliant? Even the tears had seemed involuntary. She seemed determined to give him total obedience despite her fears. It made his hands clench and unclench at his sides because he knew what had made her this way. And now he was just a second monster holding her captive.

Maybe he shouldn't punish her. She was trying so hard even with little direction. But she needed to know what it would be like, and early. She needed to know that he wouldn't break her skin. He wouldn't torture her. He wouldn't starve her. He wouldn't share her. Today was an opportunity to show her.

“Claire,” he said quietly.

Her face rose to his. He could see how intently she listened.

“Do you know why you're being punished?”

“Yes, Master,” she said quietly, the tears once again slipping past the confines of the blindfold.

“Tell me why.”

“F-for what I did to you,” she whispered.

“No.”

She flinched, again as if waiting for a blow for getting the wrong answer.

Ari removed her blindfold. She immediately dropped her gaze, but he put his fingers under her chin and forced her to look at him. Stark green eyes met his.

“You are being punished because you need absolution and me just keeping you as my slave isn't enough. You need something more visceral. You also need to know I'm not going to harm you.”

Maybe that was why she cried but didn't fight. She knew she deserved punishment. The night before she'd begged him not to kill her. It hadn't escaped his notice that she hadn't begged him not to hurt her.

He'd watched her shatter in that cell over and over when she'd beaten him. He'd been the one taking the lashes but she was the one who cried, the one who broke apart.

He'd known from the first moment she'd walked inside his cell that everything was backward and wrong. He'd felt how badly she needed someone to take control of her, her shattered life, everything. Someone who wouldn't truly hurt her. But she could never ask for such a thing. And she could never feel safe if it were offered. Because she didn't know who to trust. She probably didn't believe there was anyone in the world to trust.

It wasn't that he thought she was kinky. There was no way he could get that lucky. But there was something... a need... a desperate plea that had risen off her body with every step even when she'd been the one holding the whip. Take me. Help me. Please. Please. It had screamed.

Now that he was the one with the whip, the mask of power and control had slipped gracefully from her face. Would this help her? He wasn't sure. Society would judge him a monster. Hell, his friends would do the same. But something primal inside her reached out to him, and the beast answered back.

Nothing about any of this was normal or right or okay. He wouldn't justify it even as he wouldn't apologize for it. But it was what they were doing. She'd had her turn with the whip and him at her mercy, and the universal laws demanded this reversal to balance the scale. She'd started this game. He was finishing it.

This was her sentence. And Ari remained convinced it was better than the prison cell she would have been given by what passed for justice in this world.

The law wouldn't have cared about the pain and abuse she'd suffered to create the person who would do the things she'd done. They wouldn't have cared what had driven her to her actions. She still would have been in prison. At least she could come to love the cage with Ari. When she understood the pleasure and care he offered her, her obedience would come from gratitude, not fear.

He took her hands in his and led her over to a St. Andrew's Cross. He needed her standing for this, and it was similar to the position she'd put him in except that his arms hadn't been raised out over his head like hers would be.

The panic finally came. She struggled and pulled away. The action surprised him, and his grip loosened enough for her to wrench herself free of his grasp. But she didn't run up the stairs. She was smart enough to know how futile it would be. He was sure she didn't want him to chase her.

Instead she dropped to her knees. “Master, please, please...” she sobbed.

Ari took a deep breath. He had to remind himself what she'd done. If he hadn't escaped, she would have killed him. The only way he would have left that cell was in trash bags if he hadn't tricked her and gotten free.

And now that he had her, the only move left to him was to keep her. He couldn't let her go, and he sure as hell wasn't going to kill her. For better or worse they had to work their issues out between them.

He crossed to the wall of gleaming hooks with varying styles and sizes of whips, floggers, canes, and crops. He took a whip almost identical to the one she'd beaten him with. When he returned, he dropped the whip in front of her. She jumped when it hit the ground.

“Are you happier when you're holding the whip?” he asked. “Maybe you'd like to whip me again.”

She looked up at him, horrified. “N-no, Master.”

At least she was still addressing him properly. Ari moved back several yards and sat in a plush red leather chair at the other end of the room, giving her some space. “We aren't leaving here until that whip gets used. I can whip you, or you can whip me. Choose.”

She stared down in horror at the whip as if it might rise up and strike her of its own accord. It was unorthodox, but Ari was one hundred percent certain that she couldn't bring herself to whip him again. This was the first step in her surrender.

“Claire, if I whip you, I won't break your skin. I know what I'm doing with a whip, and I do not wish to damage you. But if you whip me, you will break the skin... or else. We can't have you changing up your methods. It has to be fair. So... who gets the whip? Who deserves the whip?”

The tears came harder. “Master, please. I can't... I can't.”

“You can't what? Whip me or be whipped by me?”

Her head dropped into her hands. “Please... I can't.”

“If I whip you, it will be ten lashes, no more. You will count them. Then I'll take you up to the kitchen for breakfast. And I will never punish you again unless you disobey me.”

“And w-what if I whip you?” she asked.

“Then you're still playing the villain. And you can't atone. You can't have absolution or peace.”

“Please...” she whimpered.

Ari refused to be moved. “You will either put the whip in your mouth, crawl to me and place it on my lap, and take your punishment like a good girl, or you will pick up the whip, stand, and order me to put my hands on the wall. One of those two things is going to happen. Choose.”

9

Claire stared at the whip on the ground in front of her. What the hell was she going to do? She wondered if the option to whip him was a trap that would only make him hurt her more. It had to be. But it didn't matter because she absolutely could never hit him again. The very thought of it made her feel sick.

She glanced furtively around the room. She couldn't outrun him. And where would she go? She spied a small connected room. It looked like a bathroom. She could just make out a mirror and sink from her vantage point. She wanted to run and lock herself in that room, but she was sure he could easily break down the door, and then everything would be worse.

She tried to block out the memory of whipping him in that cell, making him bleed, watching as he bit back the screams. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of his screams—as if any of it had given her satisfaction.

She couldn't whip Ari even as she knew his kindness must be a lie. The lack of violence was ending now. But she couldn't hurt him again. She couldn't do it.

And she couldn't crawl to him and give him the whip to beat her. The reason she couldn't do that was far more shameful than any reason a normal person would assume. She was supposed to not want to do it because nobody wants to be hurt. And he was going to hurt her.

Claire was definitely afraid of that, but the more pressing concern was the growing wetness between her legs. He was going to see it. He would know. He'd know what a sick fucking freak she was. It wasn't kink that she thought was sick. She'd never been ashamed of her fantasies before the basement.

But after...? She'd just expected her mind and body to change. She'd expected to become someone different who didn't crave or fantasize about the same things because the reality of captivity is obviously not the same as the kinky fantasy. She'd always known they were different, and it had never bothered her before because fantasies were fantasies and fantasies were okay. Every daytime talk show confirmed this fact.

She wasn't hurting anyone with the thoughts she masturbated to.

But now? Wasn't she hurting herself? After what happened in the basement... she couldn't. And this wasn't even a kinky fantasy. Ari wasn't playing a game with her. He was holding her prisoner forever. And that was if she was lucky. If she was unlucky, he'd get bored and kill her.

They both knew he couldn't let her go. For the same reasons she couldn't let him go. Once you crossed that line you couldn't uncross it because prison was the only outcome if you did. He wouldn't go to prison for her any more than she would have gone for him. So it was down to keep or kill? She'd chosen the latter for him. Which would he choose for her?

She couldn't have even played a safe kinky sex game with someone after the basement. And nothing about this situation was safe.

And yet, every time the word Master fell from her lips she felt this stupid insane sort of peace fall over her. As if the word itself were a drug to soothe her frazzled mind. Every time she called him that, it made that feeling between her legs grow more intense. This conflict between fear and need was more than she could take right now.

All of this was so unfair. The two of them obviously had needs that matched. If neither of them had been imprisoned, this would be the fairy tale. But that wasn't their story. He wanted to really punish her for a crime that deserved punishment. And she was too broken to ever be put back together.

She pushed away the thoughts she'd touched herself to the day before that man had taken her and locked her in his basement. Her last orgasm. She'd been so grateful that her body hadn't responded to him or his friends during her captivity. She'd been so relieved her body hadn't turned against her because she could convince herself that her fantasies were different and they were still okay even if she couldn't go there again.

But now? It was all unraveling now. She chanced a glance up at the man now demanding she call him Master. He sat calmly, patiently, as if he had the rest of time itself to wait on her to make this decision. He wore only a pair of jeans, his legs spread wide, taking up so much space... taking up the entire room somehow. He was so fucking beautiful. Why did he have to look so good?

She remembered watching him on the monitor as he'd bathed, becoming aroused by the very sight of him, and the shame of it because of who she'd thought he was. He wasn't that guy, so was she allowed to find him attractive now? She shouldn't. It still felt so wrong.

Part of her believed she deserved this. It was karma. He had no idea what he was doing... what he would become if he did this to her. He'd become the monster she'd become. You just couldn't do these sorts of things to people and come out unscathed.

And that scar. How could Ari have the same scar? And the same build? And the same hair? Did he have the same eyes? She didn't know. She couldn't remember. Shouldn't she be able to remember eyes like Ari's?

But he wasn't the same. This guy had money.

Another realization came then, landing like a stone in the empty pit of her stomach. What if he was the same guy? He could have come into money. Maybe a rich uncle died. Maybe he'd won the lottery. Anything could have happened in three years. Wealth wasn't some fixed and unmovable thing. People lost money, and they gained money. Things happened.

“Claire...” he said, finally, interrupting her thoughts. He couldn't have interrupted them before she'd realized he could still be the guy? No. She was being crazy. He didn't treat her at all the same way. His voice and tone were different. She may have forgotten a lot of details, but she'd never forget that. That guy hadn't been smart enough to maintain a ruse this long. Had he?

Even if she'd convinced herself he'd spoken and acted differently in the cell to appease her because she had the power, he had it now. He didn't have to restrain himself. He didn't have to pretend.

“W-why do you have that scar?” She had to know even as she wished she could stuff those words back into her mouth and never let them escape.

Ari sighed. There was a long pause, during which she was sure he wouldn't answer her. But finally he spoke. “I was in a kink club playing with this girl...” He paused again as if he wasn't sure how much he should say. “We were doing something called edge play. Do you know what that is?”

She nodded. He raised a brow, surprised by that.

“A knife was involved,” he continued.

Claire's breath stopped. The panic began to rise up, pushing away the arousal she'd fought with herself over only moments before.

“Claire. Breathe.” It was a command. “I would never do that to you. It was a game both of us wanted to play at the time. But it was too much for her. She got scared and used her safeword. I was caught up in the moment and didn't stop immediately. She freaked out. When I let her go, she grabbed the knife and gave me this souvenir.” He gestured to the scar.

“But I don't get a safeword,” Claire said.

“We're not playing a game. You're mine. You know why we're here.”

Her words came back to her like a slap in the face. Only he didn't say them with anger or the same malice. But he was right. She did know why they were here. Because she'd slipped up, made a mistake, and let her prey escape to become the predator now holding her captive.

“Have you decided which one of us is wielding the whip today?” Ari asked gently.

It was such a mockery to pretend this was a choice. It wasn't a choice when she couldn't choose either thing. Would you rather have your arm cut off or your leg? Neither, thanks.

But between these two impossible choices, deep down she knew there was one she could make. Even though it was the most confusing option.

Claire took a long shaky breath and met his gaze again. He knew the choice she'd made. She could see the recognition in his eyes. He nodded at her. It was the barest sign of approval, and it caused something to flip low in her stomach. And then the arousal was stronger than the fear again. She couldn't decide which of those feelings she wanted to be in control. Both of them were overwhelming. Both of them caused her shame.

She put the whip in her mouth and crawled carefully across the floor to him, stopping on her knees between his spread legs. Her hands shook as she laid the whip across his thighs. All the while her mind screamed What are you doing? Run. Run. You have to try!

But she couldn't run. A man with this much money had some type of security. She'd never get past it. He was faster than her. He was stronger than her. She couldn't run. She'd barely been able to crawl. And all she could think was that running would only make it worse.

She flinched when he bent closer. But he only touched her hair, petting her like the good dog he obviously thought she was.

“Good girl,” he murmured.

“Master, p-please don't hurt me.” If only she could stop this stammering, this tremble that came to her voice.

Ari touched the side of her cheek. “It will hurt, but I won't damage you. Now go back over to the St. Andrew's Cross, and stretch your arms and legs out for me.”

He took her hands in his to help her stand. Then she turned and walked like a robot over to the giant X-shaped contraption he was going to tie her to.

Run. Run. Run. Run. Run.

But she didn't. She couldn't. Where could she go? If she had to go to another family function where they treated her like a stranger and told her she looked fabulous, she was going to die. If she had to work up the will to leave her apartment again by herself, she was going to die. What did it even matter at this point if Ari killed her? Wasn't she already dead? What was she so afraid of? What could he possibly do to her that hadn't already been done?

It should make her brave. Strong.

But she just wanted to be safe. She'd somehow forgotten her nudity in the midst of everything. There were so many bigger things now than her lack of clothing. Besides, she'd kept him naked in a cell, shivering while she blasted air conditioning on him. This was fair. It was fitting and appropriate. She couldn't bring herself to be indignant about it. She'd done the same to him. Worse.

At least he'd given her a warm bed and a fire roaring in the fireplace. He hadn't left her cold.

She stood facing the giant X and spread her legs and reached her arms out over her head.

Then he was next to her, binding her arms and legs while she cried.

“Shhhh,” he said, stroking her back. “You will be fine. Everything will be okay.”

Why would he say that to her if it wasn't true? But how could it possibly ever be true?

He wrapped another strap around her waist at the center point of the X, securing her further. She could only whimper as he made escape even more impossible.

“This is to keep you safe. If you're squirming, you could get hurt.”

Hurt. He was about to whip her. Of course she was going to get hurt. But she knew what he meant.

You know why we're here.

Had she been concerned he would get hurt when she'd used a similar whip on him? No. He'd had to protect himself with his own force of will not to move so the whip wouldn't cause even more damage than she'd intentionally delivered. That thought made her shudder.

Ari stroked her back again. He ran his fingers through her hair, then he was wrapping an elastic hair band around first the hair on one side, then the other, making low pigtails. She didn't know where he'd gotten the hair bands. Were they in his pocket?

“We don't want your hair in the way,” he said as he pulled the secured hair forward over her shoulders.

“How many lashes?” he asked.

“Ten, Master.”

“And you will count them?”

“Yes, Master.”

He pressed a kiss to the middle of her shoulder blades, just below her neck. “Good girl.”

She wished she could squeeze her thighs together, but such a thing was impossible in her current position. She was too vulnerable to him, and that twisted thing inside her mind responded with even more excitement. He would see it. He would know. It was too shameful for him to know this was turning her on. What in the fuck was wrong with her?

Without warning, the whip came down across her back leaving a sharp stinging burn in its wake. “One,” she said through her tears.

He was right, it hurt. But she'd been whipped before, and even though it was only the first strike, this time was different than the basement. The next few lashes confirmed it. She could feel his control in each strike. This was definitely not the same man.

Relieved tears flowed out of her. The man in the basement hadn't been controlled. He'd just beaten her in a wild out-of-control savagery. Even though Ari was whipping her, it wasn't like that. The scar was just a fucked-up coincidence. It wasn't the same guy. More relieved tears.

“Count,” he reminded her, gently when she stopped.

“S-six,” she said.

He stroked her back. She shivered as he ran his tongue over the warm welts she felt rising on her flesh. They throbbed a little. The throb echoed the growing pulse in her pussy.

“Claire, I need you to stay with me. Focus and count. We're almost done. You're doing so well.”

She tried to stay with him and focus, but there were so many things in her head fighting for dominance. And despite the pain, every time the whip landed, she just became more aroused. Everything about this man was different. She wanted him like she'd never wanted anyone.

But she didn't deserve him after what she'd done to him. And maybe he didn't deserve her after what he was doing to her now. But she didn't care. She wanted him.

Claire counted the last few lashes. She cringed, expecting the tenth to be the worst, but it wasn't. It was the same. They were all the same. Perfectly controlled precise movements laying rows of warm welts across her back. In a way, it was almost comforting.

“Such a good girl,” he said. “You are so perfect.”

So perfectly fucked-up. But she didn't dare say it out loud.

He released the bonds first at her ankles, then her waist, then her wrists. She was shocked she couldn't hold herself up, but he caught her when she fell back.

“Adrenaline dump,” he whispered. “Close your eyes and don't open them again until I tell you to.”

She closed her eyes and rested her head against his shoulder as he carried her up the stairs, down what felt like a long hallway, and finally back into another room. Even though her eyes were closed, she knew he'd taken her past windows because of how bright it was even behind her eyelids.

“You can open them now,” he said as he laid her down on a soft bed.

She opened her eyes. They were back in his room. He'd laid her down on his bed, not her own at the top of the stairs.

“Stay,” he commanded.

Claire lay there, looking up at the chains hanging from his ceiling over the bed. They hung from so many different points that he seemed to have unlimited options when it came to chaining a girl to his bed.

That thought shouldn't make her so excited. It should terrify and repulse her.

Ari returned before she could replay the track of This is so wrong and I'm so terrible for wanting him to touch me.

“Roll onto your stomach.”

“M-Master?”

He held up a tube of aloe gel. “It's for your back.”

She nodded and rolled over, her head resting on one of the huge fluffy pillows while he applied the cooling gel. His touch was light and careful as he rubbed it into her skin.

“I'm not a sadist. I don't like causing excessive pain,” he said. “What I want is absolute control and your complete and total obedience. I will use pain as a tool if I need to use it, but I don't want to use it. Now tell me. Who do you belong to?”

As if that were even a question anymore.

“You, Master,” she whispered. She knew she should, but it was too hard to fight this. It felt so easy to just let go of all the darkness that had been drowning her for so long. She was still afraid he'd torture or kill her. Why wouldn't he?

Only a day ago, she'd sat with a knife on her lap, contemplating the grisly details of this man's murder, and now she was his captive instead. Somehow in this short time, she was calling him Master, as if this were some completely normal thing. As if every moment in her life both good and bad had been building to this.

She didn't want to let herself believe this man could be decent to her. What he was doing wasn't right but... it was hard to think she didn't deserve some sort of retribution for her actions. And was it even retribution when she was about to come out of her skin from the need to be touched by him? Her body didn't seem to register any of this as punishment.

The things she'd done were so wrong, and the way he'd treated her by comparison was far better than she should expect.

Claire tried to shove those thoughts away. The small unexpected ways he'd been kind to her, combined with the attraction she'd tried to suppress for too long were creating feelings and desires she didn't know what to do with.

She arched closer to him as he stroked the side of her hip and over the curve of her ass. Then he trailed fingertips from one ankle, up her leg... He didn't even get to the top of her thigh before he reached the evidence of her arousal sliding down to meet his welcoming fingers.

“Do you need to come, little one?”

She couldn't stop herself from giving him the truth. “Yes, Master,” she breathed, drawing one knee up, exposing herself further to him, her body begging him to give her the pleasure she'd been denied for far too long.

She let out a strangled gasp when he started to stroke between her legs. She hadn't quite believed he would really touch her there, that he would let her feel pleasure after all the pain she'd given him. She didn't care how wrong it was, she needed him inside her. She wanted him to bend her over and fuck her. She needed to forget everything in her life for just a little while. She needed the oblivion that she knew his touch could bring.

Claire moved with him as his fingers pressed deeper inside her. She'd never been this wet in her life. She'd thought she could go without sexual pleasure. She'd been so wrong about that.

Right now she had to come. She didn't care if it was wrong. What difference would these dark fantasies make now? Would it really make anything worse if she surrendered her body to this man's touch?

“Please,” she whimpered. “please... please.”

He pressed one hand against her back. “Be still and let me touch you the way I want to touch you.” Ari held her in place while the fingers of his other hand played over her swollen sex as if she were his instrument and he knew exactly the song he wanted to play. Her hips bucked and rocked with him, her breath coming in heavy pants.

This was so fucking wrong. She was even more turned on by the way he held her down, demanding her complete surrender, insisting on controlling the exact position she laid, the exact angle at which his fingers brushed her sex, not letting her have even the smallest input in how she would get off.

His touch went from gentle teasing to a hard, punishing finger fuck. She was so far gone that the pleasure only mounted higher the more rough his touch became. There wasn't a way he could touch her in this moment that wouldn't result in her climax.

“Come,” he demanded. His voice had gone harder than she'd heard it since her capture. But instead of fear, that guttural command only made her body respond more.

Claire let go of the tenuous string of control she'd been holding and allowed the orgasm to crash over her. The intensity of the sensations he created caused tears to flow down her cheeks.

“Yes,” Ari growled. “Give it all to me. Fuck yourself on my fingers.”

She writhed and moaned, jerking against his fingers until she was wrung out. Until she couldn't come anymore. He finally pulled his hand away.

“Good girl.”

They stared at each other for a long time before he spoke again. “When was the last time, Claire?”

She didn't play dumb. She knew what he was asking. Nobody had an orgasm that hard that quickly and easily unless there had been a drought. That sort of frenzied desperation only came from long denial.

She looked away unable to meet his gaze. “Three years.”

“Three years since your last orgasm, even by yourself?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Did it happen when that psychopath had you?” Ari asked. There was something dark and jagged in his voice she couldn't define. His fingers dug hard into her hip as he gripped her. He didn't seem to realize he was doing it.

She shook her head.

“Are you lying to me, Claire?”

“N-no, Master.”

He let out a sigh and released his grip on her. “Because it's okay if you did. It's not your fault. It doesn't mean you wanted...”

“I know that... but I didn't. The last time was before he took me.”

Ari sighed. “Why? Why haven't you let yourself come? You obviously needed it, so why haven't you touched yourself?”

She pulled away from him and curled in on herself. For the first time, her nudity was becoming a problem. She felt too exposed. She wished he'd stop looking at her like that. It wasn't fair. He had on jeans. And she was left naked and vulnerable, having a conversation she very much did not want to be having.

“Claire...”

“I just can't, okay!”

“Why?”

She shook her head and curled into a tighter ball. She flinched when he touched her back.

“Would you rather tell me or go back to the dungeon? I won't allow you to keep secrets from me.”

Was Ari as bad as that other man? How was he any different? Why did she want him so much? Some sick twisted place inside of her wanted his control. She wanted his demands and his orders. She wanted the implacable absoluteness of him. Even though it was so fucked up. She wanted to just give everything to him.

If this was the way toward absolution, she would do it. The immediate panic over being his captive was receding in light of the way he kept restraining himself with her. She just wanted to obey him. But how could she want that?

It had been so hard holding the pieces of herself together all alone in the world. She'd had no one to confide in. No one to trust. She just didn't want to do it anymore. She couldn't do it anymore. And yet... she couldn't admit this out loud. The deep dark shame that no one else could ever know about.

“Please don't make me talk about this,” she whimpered.

He patted her on the hip. “All right. Come on, let's go back to the dungeon.”

“Master, please...”

“Tell me, then. Why can't you touch yourself?”

“Because I can't get off unless I...” She couldn't say this out loud. It was too fucked up. But Ari had all these whips and chains all over his house. He would understand. He wouldn't judge her... would he? Did she care if he judged her? What he was doing was as disturbed as any of her fantasies. They were both a mess.

“Unless you fantasize about things you can't let yourself think about anymore because of what happened to you?” he asked quietly.

She let out a long shuddering breath and nodded.

“Did you have these fantasies before you were taken?”

“Yes, but they aren't okay anymore.”

He moved so fast she could barely process what had happened. All at once, he had her out of the curled-up ball she'd huddled herself into, flat on her back. He straddled her, staring her down, a hand wrapped around her throat. He wasn't squeezing, just holding her there. But he could squeeze. And they both knew it.

But despite their positions, she got the strangest feeling that Ari didn't truly want to hurt her. He wanted things from her, but he didn't want to damage her in the process. She was beginning to realize his motivation for taking her hadn't been revenge.

She gasped as he held her, her body arching toward him even as she knew a smart woman would be pulling away or struggling or pleading for mercy. She'd only thought she was wrung out. That aching pulsing throb started between her legs again.

Claire's gaze was held hostage in his.

“This excites you, doesn't it? Tell me the truth.”

“Y-yes,” she gasped.

Ari stroked the side of her face. “Good girl. I want you to be excited for me.”

She whimpered and leaned into his touch. She could feel herself falling. She imagined the shattered pieces of herself drifting off into the wind somewhere. And she didn't have the will or energy to chase after them. She just watched it happen. It was easier to give in.

Already she felt more peace as Ari's slave than she'd felt since the moment she'd decided to capture him. Everything that had been wound so tight inside her just released in the face of this new reality.

Ari's voice broke through her thoughts. “My first rule. From now on, every morning when you wake up, you will make yourself come. And you will be loud about it. I want you to moan. I want to hear your release. Every. Morning. Do you understand?”

“I can't... unless I...”

“Unless you let yourself have those fantasies. I know. You will let yourself think those thoughts, and you will come. Every morning. It's the first thing you do from now on when you wake up. Do you understand, little one?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good girl.”

Why did that soft murmur of approval do things to her? Why did she crave hearing it over and over?

Ari got off her and off the bed.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked.

“Because I need it. And you clearly do, too.”

“But it's so wrong.”

Claire wanted him. She wanted this... whatever this was. But could she really just go along with it? It was different last night when she'd been so afraid he would hurt her. Everything she'd done was for survival. But more and more she felt that he didn't actually want to destroy her. And if that was true, could she let herself... want this?

Ari laughed. “What you did to me was wrong.”

She looked down at her hands. “So is this payback? I hurt you so you hurt me?”

He shook his head. “No. This is me taking what I want and giving you what you need. Fuck morality. It's just you and me now working our fucked-up shit out between us in our own way.”

She wanted to retort that he meant his way, but if that were true, her body wouldn't be crying out for his.

10

Ari pre-heated the oven and put in the leftover pizza from the night before. It was better in the oven on a baking stone. While their food heated, he put a coat on and went out to the garage. He removed the license plate from Claire's car and cut it into pieces with an electric saw, obliterating all the identifying information it contained. When he was finished, he dropped it into one of the trash bags he'd taken from her place and put them in the trash cans. He took the cans to the end of the vast property for pickup.

The long walk gave him time to sort through his thoughts. Ari was pretty sure the place he'd been kept in wasn't her actual home. The whole vibe of the space had seemed far too utilitarian and temporary to be her home. There had been no art or pictures on the walls, no decorative flourishes. It was all too sterile.

He slipped his fingers underneath the collar of his shirt to feel the bandages from the last time she'd whipped him. She was lucky he wanted to save her more than he wanted revenge... despite the payment he intended to extract from her. The plans he had for her were far more merciful than most would offer.

The two of them existed separate from society now. They'd both moved so far outside the realm of the polite rules of the social structure that the law or morality hardly even mattered anymore. None of the carefully crafted rules made sense for them. He felt suddenly like a very alien creature as though he didn't quite fit into this world anymore. He wasn't sure if it was his brief time as a powerless captive or his own actions since then, but the world felt somehow unreal. He felt disconnected from everything but her.

Claire was real in a way not even the biting cold outside could compare to, and he needed to be near her. If he lost her, he might also lose himself. Something had been forged between them in the scars he now carried for her.

He wouldn't abandon her to the world or let her carry the shame she felt over her needs. He could take care of those needs, and he could remove her guilt for needing it in spite of all the events that had led her here.

By the time he returned to the house, the pizza was done. He took it from the oven and put a couple of slices on a plate for his new pet. The kitchen was extra warm from the heat of the oven. He took off the coat and shirt he'd been wearing and hurriedly ate his own food, leaning over the counter. He had so much work he should be doing right now with the club plans, but Claire was a tempting distraction.

He couldn't believe she'd been wet when he'd touched her. And not just wet, dripping. It had been years since he'd been with a woman that aroused. She wanted him. She'd begged him. Ari had always hated subs who begged for pleasure. He'd always thought it was like a dog begging for scraps—whining and wheedling to get their way. It had annoyed the shit out of him whenever Holly had done it.

But then Holly had done it to manipulate him and distract him from punishments. She was a brat for the attention, but then when she got it, she didn't want the attention she'd earned. She just wanted him to make her come. And he'd far too easily given in to it. It had gotten to the point where all her needs were met, but none of his were. Holly had been the one in control in that relationship, collar or no. There hadn't been any true submission in her. And yet Ari had continued to indulge her—maybe out of boredom or the fear of never finding the right girl.

But when Claire begged for pleasure? Ari bit back a groan. His jeans tightened uncomfortably at the memory of what had happened between them. He wanted Claire to beg. He might have to insist on it.

He grabbed another water bottle and the food and went back to his room. She was lying on her bed in the nook where he'd chained her. She was covered with blankets. Her gaze was filled with hunger when it met his—and not just for food. The wariness was still there though, combined with an uncertainty.

This time she didn't kneel. He found himself disappointed, but she'd been acting from fear before, and he hadn't truly laid out his expectations beyond her daily morning self-care. And she no doubt felt more self-conscious after her first orgasm in three years.

“Kneel,” he said softly.

Claire pulled back the blankets and crawled over to him, stopping on the floor next to his feet. She'd just been waiting for direction, for parameters.

He pressed the bottle of water into her hand. “Good girl. When I come up here, I want you to kneel and wait for me to decide what to do with you.”

Her breath hitched in her throat.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“I'm sorry, pizza is all we have. I need to go to the store.”

She looked up suddenly, panic straining her features. “Please don't leave me alone!” Then the tears came.

Ari took a deep breath, reminding himself she wasn't Holly. She couldn't be a brat because he had all the power. He placed the plate on the bed and sat on the floor beside Claire and brushed the tears off her face.

“Shhh.” The panic over being left was obviously linked to her former captivity. Ari bit back the curse that almost slipped past his lips. How could he keep her locked up like this, given her history?

He should give her free reign of the house at least. But he wasn't ready. He had to be firm with her. It was the only way to keep this rare thing he'd acquired. He wouldn't half-ass this no matter how much he wanted to.

He was finally willing to admit that part of the reason he always ended up with brat subs was his own too-lenient training methods. He wouldn't keep making the same mistake. The desperation Claire had to please him would fade away if he was too soft too soon. She had to earn time out of the nook.

“I won't be gone long,” Ari said stroking her hair. It was still in the low pigtails he'd put it in to get it out of the way down in the dungeon. And he had a thing for the schoolgirl look.

He had too much work to do to be out running domestic errands. But he'd have to go out anyway when he went to get her collar from the jeweler. Holly had left hers behind, but he wouldn't give it to Claire. It was bad luck. His previous pet had picked out her own collar, and Ari had never liked what she'd chosen. It was too ornate and tacky for his taste. He wanted a gold band for Claire. Classy and elegant, but simple.

Ari took a slice of pizza and held it out to her. She opened her mouth and took the food from his hand. Neither of them said a word. He just hand fed her like a bird until the plate was clean.

“Claire,” he finally said.

“Yes, Master?”

She still knelt on the floor where he'd ordered her, even though he was on the ground beside her.

“Tell me about the scar.”

She tensed. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. The scar on my chest. What does this scar mean to you? Or what did you think it meant?” He was surprised he hadn't already pulled this answer out of her. After all, it was the one question that had taunted him for weeks in the cell.

She looked as though she might shut down again but he gave her a stern look. Her gaze went down to her hands, and she took a deep breath.

“That last night, he was going to kill me. He had a big knife. When I escaped, I grabbed it and slashed him in a big diagonal motion. I know I got him. I felt the knife go into him. So when I saw your chest, I thought it was more evidence you were the guy. He would have had a scar exactly like that. And it seemed too crazy to me that there would be multiple men running around in the world with your build and hair and that same scar.”

Ari sighed. Claire cringed when he stroked her hair.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said.

“You're really never letting me go, are you?” she asked, tears still moving down her cheeks.

“No,” Ari said. “Never.”

“How is that going to work? You'll get bored eventually. When you do, what does that mean for me?”

“Look at me.”

Scared green eyes rose to his.

“You are mine, little one. It doesn't matter how we got here. We're here. Can you honestly say you don't want the things I can give you?”

She remained silent, but they both knew he was right. The way she responded... the fantasies she'd admitted to. The things she needed. The things he could provide. At this point with all both of them had gone through, it was foolish to deny the alchemy that had taken place between them.

“What would you do if I let you go back out into the world? What are you losing out there?”

“Nothing,” she whispered.

That single word confirmed everything he'd suspected since he'd first laid eyes on her. That stark, hollow loneliness. He'd wanted to take her out of that loneliness from the moment their eyes had first locked. Maybe he'd always known. Even when it seemed impossible, and she'd been the one in control. She was always supposed to be his.

“So you will obey me, and I will take care of you and give you pleasure. It's very simple.”

“And when you get tired of me?”

“Oh Claire, I will never get tired of you.”

She remained silent, likely doubting the promise in his words. Eventually she would know it was true. Fate had given him this girl, and he wasn't about to reject the generous gift.

* * *

Claire woke the next morning in her bed in the nook, the chain secure around her ankle. Ari had slept downstairs in his own bed. He hadn't fucked her yet. He'd allowed her an entire day free of that intrusion, even though they both knew she wanted him inside her. She couldn't deny it even to herself. The possibility of their joining and the anticipation of it hung on the air, a palpable pleasure.

Even as she wanted him, she was afraid. What if she had a flashback? What if she couldn't handle it? Even though they hadn't had sex, everything he did with her was somehow sexual and promised dark carnality which she both wanted and was afraid to taste at the same time.

The way he'd started feeding her from his hand. The kneeling. Her nudity. The obedience. The way he'd bathed her the day before. The way his fingertips had gently caressed her old, faded scars from a more violent captivity.

While his bedroom was a bright white windowless cave, she'd found when the blindfold was removed that his bathroom had huge floor-to-ceiling windows. It seemed so strange to have no privacy in the bathroom. But the enormity of his property and the protected gates around it ensured no one could peep inside. Still, it had been both nice and strange to sit in a tub and be able to see the trees next to the bathroom while red birds twittered away in the snow-covered branches.

Claire's face flamed as the memory shifted away from the scenery and to the feel of his soapy fingers caressing her breasts and stroking between her thighs. The careful, deliberate way he'd touched and watched her and the helpless way she'd opened herself to that touch. She hadn't offered him the slightest resistance after her punishment in the dungeon, and it wasn't from fear of the whip. She couldn't even pretend she didn't want his hands on her. Even now, she was too aroused by the sharp memory to deny it.

From the moment that first whip lash had fallen across her back, she'd had little room for anything in her mind but Ari. Instead of waking with some awful memory of the basement, she'd woken with the memory of his large hand between her legs making her come, first lying spread open across his bed, and then later in the bath.

“Claire?” Ari called from the main level. His deep, growling voice caused her stomach to flip.

“Y-yes, Master?”

She quickly crawled out of the bed to kneel on the floor as he climbed the stairs. Her gaze dropped to the ground. He hadn't told her to look at the ground. It was just hard to meet his gaze after the things she'd been thinking.

“How long have you been awake?” he asked.

“I-I don't know. Maybe fifteen minutes?”

“Why aren't you touching yourself like I told you to? Every morning. Was I not clear enough?”

She felt herself go rigid under his scrutiny, unable to respond to his demand.

“I want to wake up every morning to the sound of your orgasm,” he said. “I woke to very disappointing silence this morning. Do you want to disappoint me?”

“No, Master.” She felt tears begin to slide down her cheeks.

“Good girl. Start. It's not a wake-up call, but watching a live show is nice, too. I might be moved to forgive you for the disobedience this time. But don't make it a habit.”

“Master, I can't.”

“Why not?” His ice blue gaze froze her from the inside out. There was a hard challenge in his eyes.

“You know why.” She held her breath. She just couldn't... think those things and bring herself to orgasm. She'd thought she could. She'd rationalized and reasoned and justified. It wasn't as though thinking these forbidden thoughts changed her situation in any way. What harm could it do now?

“Lie back on the bed and spread your legs.”

Claire obeyed the command. This was so much easier. He told her what to do, and she did it. After all, how could she refuse? There was a dungeon downstairs. And whips. And it wasn't as though he needed props to be a threat. He was so tall and broad and muscled.

He owed her so much pain for what she'd given him. They both knew that. It was easier to follow his orders than to initiate these things on her own. She could admit that she wanted him and even the sexual fantasies he promised to fulfill, but she didn't know if she could surrender fully in her own mind. Giving him what he wanted this time meant not just giving him her body, but letting him control what she thought about because the only way to perform the physical act to completion was to let those dark thoughts free from their cage inside her mind.

Her gaze drifted to his chest. He was tall and broad but his muscles weren't bulky. He'd lost some weight in the time she'd had him, but he hadn't had bulky bodybuilder muscles even then. Ari's muscles were all about performance. Strength. He was sleek like a jungle cat. And he had that V that dipped underneath his jeans taunting her. She could see he was hard and ready. Yet he hadn't made her touch him or suck him. He hadn't fucked her yet.

She licked her suddenly dry lips.

“Was there something here you wanted?” Ari asked, a smirk inching up his face. Yeah, he knew how appealing he was. He was just as beautiful and dangerous as the animal he reminded her of.

Claire didn't have an answer to his question. She was afraid to say yes, but she couldn't say no.

Mercifully he didn't push.

“Tomorrow you will do this without my help. But today I will give you the images you need to get off. Put your hand between your legs and start rubbing your clit. And don't take your eyes off mine. If you want even a little privacy for your morning orgasm, you'll do it on your own in the future. I can either just hear it, or I can hear and watch it. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Master.”

He might think it was harder for her to look in his eyes to do this, but it wasn't. Following his direct orders, convincing herself terrible things would happen if she didn't, all so she could let go and feel pleasure... it was so much easier than dredging up those fantasies she'd kept locked away for so long. But for today at least, Claire could leave that box closed and locked. She didn't need it.

Ari began to paint a picture in her mind. “Let me tell you what will happen between us, little one. I want to be sure you understand it fully. I am going to train your body to obey my every command. I plan to train and use every hole. You will learn to properly offer these things to me for my pleasure.”

A gasp left Claire's throat. Her hips moved with her fingers as she stroked herself. His words made her pussy ache from the need for him to fuck her. And that low growl in his voice. It was as if his voice alone could call forth the wetness that already began to coat her fingers.

“You will kneel and crawl and obey. That is your life now. The only thing you concern yourself with from now on is what will please your master. I'll take your mouth and teach you to suck and swallow like my good and dirty little whore.”

A whimper. “Master, please...”

“I'll take you down to the dungeon, tie you down and paddle your ass. When the wetness is dripping down your thighs from the paddle, I'll fuck your tight little cunt. Once I'm pleased with that, I'll start training your ass to take me...”

Ari couldn't get any further with whatever else he planned to say because Claire couldn't hold back the orgasm any longer. She moaned loudly, not caring about the sound. He wanted to hear it, after all. She writhed and bucked against her fingers giving him everything he'd demanded as she took her own pleasure.

Finally, her orgasm subsided. She lay on the bed, her breath still coming out in pants, her gaze still locked with his.

He smiled. “Good girl.”

11

Ari went to the closet and grabbed a blindfold and took the key to the chain off his dresser then he went back up the stairs to her. This time, he didn't have to tell her to kneel. She did it easily. He stroked her hair, and she leaned into his approving touch.

Ari unlocked the chain and carried her downstairs to the bathroom.

“Use the bathroom, brush your teeth, and take a shower,” he said before leaving her alone. He'd be glad when she was free to roam the house, but for now, this level of dependence would more tightly forge the bond he wanted between them. He wanted her to remember that every bit of pleasure, every small comfort, every basic need, came from him.

He stepped back into the bathroom when she was in the shower and sat on the edge of the tub to watch her. The shower didn't have the standard mottled glass that blurred the edges of naked bodies. It was clear and smooth, revealing everything to his greedy gaze.

She flushed when she noticed him watching her, but she didn't stop. He wondered when the shy blushing would stop. Ari would miss it when it did. He considered getting in the shower with her, but she was still adjusting to her new situation. He knew he was large and intimidating, and even though it was a big shower, he didn't want to make her feel unnecessarily threatened.

At least he wouldn't have to leave her today. Even though Claire thought he'd gone out to the store and left her alone, he'd decided instead to have groceries for the week delivered so he could focus on getting work done on the project. The combination of isolated captivity and this growing contentment over his new acquisition acted as a catalyst for the creative flow.

It had been shut off for weeks, but instead of slowly creaking back to life, the inspiration had flowed through him like water. He'd worked well into the night and had made a lot of progress on the plans. Creative and structural problems which had plagued him before Claire, had magically seemed to unlock, giving him all the answers he needed to meet his looming deadline.

When Claire shut off the shower, Ari stood ready for her with a large fluffy towel. When she stepped out, he dried her off and wrapped her in it.

“Sit,” he said, indicating the place he'd been sitting, “And enjoy the show.” He winked at her, and she flushed again.

* * *

Claire tried not to ogle Ari in the shower. She shouldn't want him so much. Then again, she knew first-hand how terrible captivity could be when you didn't want to be touched by the person who held your life in their hands. Was this the better option? To be held captive by someone who lit all your nerve endings on fire in all the best ways?

She thought about her abandoned apartment in the city. She couldn't imagine ever going back to that place again. She couldn't imagine standing there, alone in her kitchen staring at the front door, willing herself to step outside. And now she couldn't go outside at all. Not unless Ari decided to take her out. And why would he? It would be too much of a risk.

Her supposed freedom in that apartment had felt too open-ended, like it could stretch out forever without another person ever joining her in her life. Such a thought should have given her comfort after the basement, but it didn't. With too many possibilities and options, her world had narrowed and closed in on itself so that the simplest tasks became Herculean. And now? Now everything was so small, except for the larger-than-life presence in the shower. And it somehow felt better than what she'd had.

She should have been happy about her escape from the basement, her freedom. But how could she ever be normal again? Or happy again?

The worst thing had been the loneliness. She had no one she could share her experience with, no one who could understand. But Ari understood. They'd each taken turns playing both roles in this drama. He filled up all the empty spaces. The screaming void of a solitary person with no companion was gone forever now. And even though she knew she shouldn't, a part of her trusted this fucked-up bond between them. It felt strangely structurally sound.

The water shut off, and Ari got out of the shower. She watched the water drip off him as he bent to pick up a towel from the bottom shelf of the towel rack. But when he stood again, she got a view of the marks she'd left on him and winced. It was worse without the bandages hiding her crime.

He dried off and left the bathroom without even glancing her way. She sat there, wondering if she was still supposed to stay here or follow him.

He'd left her a brand new toothbrush still in the package, and there was a little space in the toothbrush holder beside his for hers. It felt so oddly domestic in spite of everything to brush her teeth and put her pink toothbrush in the holder next to his green one. It still seemed impossible that he hadn't locked her in a cell like the one she'd kept him in.

He hadn't drugged her, or made her sleep on the floor or threatened to kill her or made her bleed. Or yelled at her. He'd given her a warm bath and a hot shower. Never cold water out of a bucket with a sponge. And he'd held her when she'd had the nightmare, not fucking her when she knew he wanted to. All these things felt like small kindnesses in light of the evidence of her own violence she'd just seen on his back.

Ari returned wearing a fresh pair of jeans but no shirt.

“Will I ever get clothes again?”

A smirk inched up his cheek. “Eventually. Maybe.”

It was then that she noticed the blindfold he held in one hand.

“Close your eyes.”

Claire closed her eyes and didn't even flinch when he secured the blindfold, though her heart thundered in her chest, wondering what was coming next. She worried her mind might snap out of the way this man seemed to have hypnotized her. She worried she might stop wanting him and this twisted thing growing between them. Ari took the towel off her, but he didn't leave her naked. A few moments later he was helping her into a bathrobe.

Then he scooped her up and carried her from the room. He didn't take her down any stairs this time.

Ari stopped and set her on her feet on hardwood floor. He removed the blindfold, and she took a moment to look at her surroundings. They were in the kitchen. White, gray, black. It was a very modern kitchen with a large stainless steel island that somehow looked stylish instead of cold. Along one wall beside a long blond wood kitchen table was a sliding glass door. Snow fell in big fluffy pieces, gently landing and collecting on the frozen ground.

Ari began taking things out of the refrigerator and started making breakfast.

Claire couldn't remember the last time it had snowed so much in January. She moved to the table and ran her hand along the natural finish.

“This table is amazing,” she said. She'd never seen a table like this in any store or even design catalog. It was simple, yet elegant. Sturdy. It felt like it could last centuries.

“I made it,” he said.

She glanced up, surprised. “You made this?” For a moment she forgot the circumstances between them. She had to take a break from reality to marvel at this table.

“It's beautiful. Is that what you do for work?”

She watched as Ari kneaded and rolled out dough on the stainless steel island. That island wasn't mere design. It was practical. This was not a man who did instant biscuits out of a tin, she realized, cringing again at all the canned beef stew she'd fed him. He must have been going out of his mind for real food and this kitchen.

“No, not work. It's just a hobby.”

“What do you do for work?” He had to be independently wealthy. Any job would have fired him after a three-week unexplained absence. Another wave of guilt washed over her at all the ways she'd fucked up this man's life.

He stopped working the dough and gave her a stern look. “Are you forgetting yourself, little one? We're getting awfully casual here.”

“I-I'm sorry, Master.”

He nodded and went back to the dough, clearly not prepared to talk about his work, whatever it might be.

Claire looked back at the falling snow. A fox stood outside the door, only feet away, staring at her. She yelped.

Ari came over to where she stood to see what had caused that sound to come out of her.

“The fox?” he asked.

She nodded. Claire had never seen a fox outside a nature show.

“Yeah, that's Arnold.”

“You have a fox?”

Ari went back to his work, flipping some breakfast ham that he'd started frying in a skillet.

“He's not my fox. I found him injured on the property last year. I guess he was lost, and he couldn't feed himself because of the injury. So I kept him safe and fed him. When he got better he disappeared back into the woods. I thought he was gone for good, but he kept coming back. Probably because I keep giving him scraps.”

With that, Ari picked up one of the frying pieces of ham off the skillet and tossed it out the door into the snow. The fox ran after it.

“But you named him,” Claire said.

“I couldn't just call him hey fox. I had to call him something.” Ari went back to breakfast, placing the carefully cut biscuits on a pan and sliding them into the oven. He started a pot of coffee.

“Milk, juice, or coffee?” he asked her.

“Coffee, please.”

Ari nodded and got out two mugs and a single plate. “How do you take it?”

“Black.”

“A real coffee drinker,” he said. Was he teasing her? She watched as he poured coffee into their mugs.

“D-do you have any other pets?” she asked, wondering if she was again pushing too far or being too casual.

His hungry gaze held hers. “Just you.”

Claire's breath caught in her throat, and just like that she was done with the Q&A portion of the morning.

When the timer went off, he turned off the oven and stove top. Ari took the pan out and put three huge biscuits on a plate and a slice of ham inside each one. He carried one mug and the plate to the table.

“Get your coffee and join me.”

Claire got her coffee off the countertop and went back to the table. Was he going to just eat in front of her? Was this when his cruelty would begin? So fucking stupid to think he wouldn't turn on her. Of course he'd turn on her. Why wouldn't he? He'd probably start feeding her beef stew out of a can. Or feed her dog food. After all, hadn't she called him a dog enough times?

She started to sit in one of the chairs at the table.

“No,” Ari said. “Sit here.” He patted his lap.

Claire put her mug of coffee down beside his plate and sat across his lap. He took a bite of biscuit and ham. But then he fed her a bite. Just like with the pizza, he seemed to like making her eat from his hand. Like a pet. She tried not to think too much about how she liked it, too.

By the time they were finished he'd eaten two of the biscuits and had fed her one.

12

Ari woke to the sound of Claire's moaning as she brought herself to orgasm. He smiled. It had been two weeks of that lovely morning alarm. After the first day where he'd had to coax her and give her the images to help her get off, she'd followed his orders on her own. He wondered what she thought about. Did she think of Ari and the way he touched her or had she returned to older fantasies? Either option must carry its own set of difficulties, but she pushed through until the delicious sounds of her moans and whimpers filled the room.

When she'd finished, he got up, took a quick shower, and went to the kitchen to make their breakfast.

Arnold stood at the glass door, peering into the house. The snow had finally stopped three days ago, but it hadn't fully melted. Patches of grass showed through where the sun's rays had melted some of it the previous day. The fox stood in one of those patches watching him cautiously.

Ari took down a box of soft gourmet dog treats from the top of the fridge. They were hidden behind the boxes of cereal. He couldn't say exactly why he'd hidden them, why he didn't want Claire to know he didn't just feed the fox scraps. He'd practically domesticated him. Though he would never keep him indoors.

He'd briefly entertained the idea of keeping Arnold as a full-fledged pet once his leg was healed, but a few videos about foxes as pets immediately cured him of that idea. Foxes were dogs on the outside and cats on the inside and twice as destructive as both. No, Arnold belonged in the wild, even if they'd developed a relationship of sorts.

Ari opened the sliding door and sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor. He dropped a treat onto the patch of nearby snow. Arnold warily approached it. It was the first time the fox had come back since that first morning with Claire in the kitchen.

“Did you miss me?” Ari asked the fox.

The fox stared back. Ari imagined he could see a cross between fear and betrayal in the canine's eyes. Arnold was already going wild again. Not that he'd ever been truly tamed. He just trusted Ari. At least he had before this break in their routine. The fox let out a shrill demanding whine.

“Okay, buddy, calm down. You can have a couple more.”

Ari laid another treat down, and this time the fox moved closer.

Arnold had visited every few days for the past year since he'd recovered. Ari was surprised the fox had returned after three weeks of nothing. The scraps and dog treats couldn't be that good.

With the third treat, the fox was curled up in his lap letting him scratch him behind the ears.

“Don't worry, I won't tell the other wildlife about this,” Ari said.

The fox made a vocalization that sounded almost like a laugh before leaping up off his lap and darting down the hill. Ari could just make out a fluffy tail squeezing through the bars of the gate at the south end of the property.

He shut the door and returned the treats to their hiding spot. After he'd scrubbed up and made breakfast, he took care of Claire. The fox may need to be free, but Claire needed to be contained. In the last week he'd gotten his security system set up to accommodate her wandering. He'd even set the same security on the outside gate system with a remote option to open the gate from inside the house. Soon he'd let her off the chain to wander but not today.

He moved her through their morning routine. Bathroom, bathing, feeding, blindfold, and finally down to the dungeon. She knelt. She crawled. She said “Yes, Master,” and “No, Master.” In two weeks she was nearly perfectly trained. He still hadn't allowed her clothes. She seemed to have become strangely comfortable with her nudity in his presence. Good.

She didn't fight or cry or beg when he positioned her straddled over the spanking horse and strapped her down. He left her blindfold on. Ari crossed to a chair to retrieve the sleek black box he'd picked up from the jeweler the day before while she'd been napping.

He opened the box to admire the gold collar. There were intricate angular knotwork engravings around the outside of the band. A few days ago Ari had held his hands around her throat to estimate a measurement while she'd held her breath unsure of what he was about to do. He hadn't mentioned the collar.

He didn't want it too tight. He wanted it to rest lightly against the edge of her collarbone so he could still kiss and suck at the skin on her neck above it.

He hadn't fucked her yet. Not in any way. He couldn't bring himself to cross that line with her until he was sure she needed it. It wasn't enough that she just wouldn't be traumatized or that she could tolerate it. She had to need it.

He'd given her pleasure each day, but denied himself outside his own self-care in the shower. And each day she'd become more perplexed and frustrated by the lack of completion. Good.

He bent next to her ear. “Are you ready to be fucked, little one?”

Her breath seemed to lurch from her chest. “Y-yes, Master.” She squirmed on the bench.

“But you just came, moaning like a wanton slut,” Ari said, teasing her.

“Master, please... please...”

That sweet begging. He would never get enough of it.

He left her and crossed to the wall, taking a paddle off a hook. When he returned he smacked her ass with it. She jumped and yelped, not expecting the sting. A beautiful flush of red warmth bloomed out over her ass. He rubbed the sting out.

“M-master did I do something wrong?”

“No. I'm just testing a theory.” The paddle landed again with a loud crack against her flesh. And then again and again until her skin was heated and bright red. Tears slipped from under the blindfold.

“Master, please...” she whimpered.

“Shhhhh.” He trailed the edge of the paddle over her back. Then he set it down on the ground and dipped a hand between her legs.

“I knew this would make you wet,” he said. “Now, you're ready to be fucked.”

Another whimper left her, but this one was desire. As he stroked between her legs, the whimper turned into a low moan.

“Claire?”

“Yes, Master?”

“From this point on, things are changing. I won't just give. I will also take my own pleasure from you. However I want, whenever I want. When I take you in any way, you will say 'thank you, Master', when I'm finished. Do you understand, little one?”

When she spoke, Claire's voice came out breathy. “Y-yes, Master.” She squirmed again.

Ari smacked her ass, and she stilled. “Good girl.”

Then he took her. No more words passed between them. Her tight little cunt gripped him as if for survival as he moved inside her. Her breathy moans filled the spaces of the room, practically bouncing off the walls in their excitement. Her hips rose eagerly to meet his thrusts.

“Please, please, please...” she whimpered.

“I love how you beg.”

Her pussy clenched around him as she screamed out her pleasure. Ari followed with his own climax, emptying himself into her. He collapsed on top of her, his body curling possessively around hers, the relief of the moment overwhelming.

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

Ari kissed her cheek and smiled.

* * *

Claire lay on her stomach on the spanking horse, trying to get her breathing to return to its normal cadence. Every day for the past two weeks, she'd been sure this was the day he would take her, but every day it wasn't. He'd restrained himself even as she could see the evidence of how much he wanted her tightening his jeans with the hard rigid outline of his impressive cock. Instead he'd only given her pleasure without making any demands in return. Even as she'd wanted him, she'd been afraid of what might happen when he fucked her.

For years she'd lived in almost perpetual fear of even a random flashback hitting her. They'd been frequent the first year, but after that they'd seemed to come out of nowhere, like panic attacks. Everything would be fine, and then it would come like a crippling blow, putting her back in that basement again.

So surely actual sex with someone in such a confusing captive situation would trigger a full-blown terror-filled flashback. But nothing happened. Nothing bad anyway. She'd felt the tight ball of fear unclench when he'd finally pushed himself inside her. And despite every lingering fear, both her mind and body had been on board when he'd finally fully claimed her.

After her orgasm had washed over her, the strongest feeling left in its wake was relief.

Ari had curled around her as if they could be “big spoon” and “little spoon” somehow on a spanking horse. He got up now, put his jeans back on, and untied her. He helped her up, and then he pulled her into his arms and just held her for the longest time. So much strange domesticity with a man who'd decided she should be his slave.

“Are you okay?” he murmured into her hair.

“Yes, Master. I'm okay.”

After a few minutes of holding her in an embrace that shouldn't feel so safe, he led her across the room to a plush round pillow on the floor.

“Kneel,” he said softly.

Claire knelt on the pillow and waited. Her gaze had fallen quite naturally to the floor again. Maybe it was because it was painful to crane her neck up to watch his every move. Maybe it was a natural submission that bubbled out of her in his presence. He barely even needed to tell her to kneel.

If he wasn't holding her upright, it sometimes felt almost impossible to stand in his presence. He was just so overwhelmingly dominant and powerful as though he could take control of any space he occupied or anyone he encountered on a whim. That kind of power should terrify her, but she'd quickly learned he had no plans to use it against her.

Ari stepped away for a moment. When he returned, he placed a black velvet box in her hands.

“Open it.”

Claire opened the box and gasped at the contents. Inside was the prettiest collar she'd ever seen. Someone else might look at it and just see a piece of jewelry, but Claire understood what he was giving her.

It was a solid gleaming gold band that had a hidden groove on the underside that allowed it to be opened. On the outside, the evidence of where the collar opened was hidden amongst intricate engraved knotwork that wrapped around the band giving it the illusion of a complete, unbroken circle.

There had been a time in the distant past when kidnapping had been considered a legitimate form of marriage. It seemed Ari had decided to revive his own version of this tradition.

He didn't have to give her this beautiful piece of jewelry. If he had a thing for collars, he could use a cheap dog collar, or one of those leather BDSM collars. There was no need to spend an extravagant amount of money to give her something this beautiful.

She looked up to find him studying her reaction.

“Thank you, Master.”

Surprise flitted across his features. Had he expected her to be upset about it? They'd established two weeks ago that he was never releasing her, and somehow as the days had worn on that promise had felt more like safety and security and less like a threat. Or had he thought she wouldn't understand what a collar meant to someone like him?

She remembered what he'd said about the nook and the chain and his last pet occupying that space, and an unfamiliar feeling passed through her.

“Is this the same collar that...”

“No,” he said before she could finish her thought. “Holly had a different collar. I had this one made specifically for you.”

She shouldn't feel so fucking warm and happy about this revelation, but she did. And as Ari took the collar from the box and put it around her throat, the finality of this thing between them sunk in. Instead of the million negative feelings she thought such a realization might elicit, all she felt was calm acceptance.

13

Claire woke the next morning, surprised to find the metal chain wasn't locked around her ankle. Was it some sort of trick or test? Had he just forgotten? Should she stay and wait for him? Two weeks ago her first thought would have been to try to run.

But she didn't want to run now. It was as if the gold band around her throat tied her to him more powerfully than any actual chain could.

Claire got out of bed for the first time without an escort and walked down the stairs into the main part of the room. The fireplace crackled quietly with a small fire that was running out of fuel.

She went into Ari's walk-in closet. Would he be upset with her if she put something of his on? She couldn't bring herself to wander around his house naked. It didn't matter that he'd seen everything.

She found a crisp white button-down shirt hanging in the closet with about fifteen more exactly like it. She put it on and buttoned it up, leaving a couple of buttons at the top open. The shirt was huge on her. It felt strange now to have any fabric brush across her skin beyond that of the sheets and comforter in her bed.

She used the bathroom and brushed her teeth and stopped to admire the collar in the mirror. Then she went to see if he'd left the bedroom door unlocked. Would he be upset with her if she left his room?

The door to the bedroom easily clicked open in her hand, and she crept out into the hallway. Even though she'd seen parts of the house in disconnected puzzle pieces, she hadn't seen this. On one side was nothing but windows, letting the bright sunlight in, streaking patterns and prisms from the intricately designed glass across the floor and onto the wall.

Exquisite chandeliers hung in the massive high-ceiling hallway and cast even more tiny rainbows across the wall. She shouldn't be awed by his home. If they were to put their bank accounts side-by-side, she probably had as much money as he did.

But she'd never had the knack for this much style. You could have a lot of money and still not own the most beautiful things. Beauty wasn't always about money. It was about taste, style, talent, art. And Ari's house was a work of art.

When she reached the front door, she paused and glanced around furtively, but she was alone. There was a keypad beside the entry, much like the one she'd set up to keep Ari in the cell. There was no place to input a code, only a fingerprint.

Claire tried to turn the knob and felt the resistance. There was no visible lock or keyhole in the doorknob. Bending down to peer more closely she could see deadbolts between the small crack in the door—or they would be deadbolts if there were any locks she could physically turn.

She wondered idly if she could break the glass? But just looking at the windows along the hallway, she knew this wasn't the kind of glass she could ever shatter. This wasn't the glass in a normal person's home. With this much security, none of it would break, at least not by anything she could do.

Claire let out a long sigh. She didn't have to berate herself for not trying to escape. Ari's careful security would keep her inside. She never could have predicted that the thing that would finally fully break her was pleasure and kindness.

Further down the hallway she heard voices. One of them she recognized as Ari, but the second was an unknown male voice. Her heart hammered in her chest at the awareness of an unfamiliar male. She thought about turning and running, but instead she edged closer, her curiosity too overwhelming. The other voice felt like a threat because it came out of a man, and so many men had hurt her.

But she couldn't resist the urge to assess the threat for herself. She eased along the wall and stopped just outside the door to listen. The door was cracked open a few inches. The two men were talking about some sort of project and plans and a deadline. She peeked through the opening, just a quick look inside.

“Hello,” the strange man said, looking up at her. He was older than Ari but attractive in a sort of devastating way.

She leapt back into the hallway and was about to turn and flee back to the white room when her master's voice stopped her.

“Claire? Come here.”

His tone was firm, and she knew if she ran he'd be very upset with her. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves and pushed the door open, grateful his shirt was so big. It was practically a dress on her. Still she was aware of how naked she was underneath his shirt. Her nipples pebbled out against the linen. She was about to turn and run—consequences be damned—when Ari's ice blue gaze snared hers.

“Claire, come here,” he said again, more firmly.

He wore the same shirt she did. They were a matching pair. Except he only had one button undone and wore a pair of jeans.

She eased into the room. Ari sat at a large drafting table. The stranger stood on his other side. There were what looked like blueprints spread out across the table. Her hand drifted to the gold collar around her throat.

“Kneel,” Ari said when she reached him.

Her breath caught in her throat. Claire's gaze dropped to the ground, feeling the stranger's eyes on her. She felt the panic edging in, the tears prickling the corners of her eyes. “But...” she whispered.

“Now,” Ari commanded. It was a quiet command, but it carried so much weight.

She looked into his eyes and didn't speak another word in protest. His expression was absolutely serious, and she still didn't know if she was supposed to be wandering around the house like this. She was angry at herself for thinking these things. She found herself grateful again that she'd tested the bars of her cage, because otherwise she'd regret not trying to escape when she'd had the opportunity.

At least she'd tried. It was the most important thing.

The tears threatened to spill from her eyes, but she got down on her knees next to him and stared at her hands, her breath coming in short, shallow pants. She wished her breathing was quieter. She wished it wasn't so obvious just how upset she was. What would the stranger think about this?

Ari's hand was immediately in her hair, petting her. “Good girl,” he said, his voice going back to that softer place that soothed her and made her feel safer than she should feel in captivity.

“Were you trying to escape?” he asked. His tone was casual, like he was making a joke, but they both knew he wasn't. Surely he had to keep up the pretense for the other man, that this was all some game. She hoped he had to keep up that pretense, anyway. The possibility that the stranger would approve of what Ari was doing would be so much more dangerous.

“No,” she lied.

“No, what?” His tone went back to that harder place again.

She felt the heat rise in her face.

“No, Master,” she said quietly, but she knew the other man could hear. The room was too quiet, the only other sound was the ticking clock on the wall.

Finally the stranger spoke. “So, you have a new pet. Hiding her from me? When do I get to play with her?”

His tone was light, but the moment was anything but light for Claire. A small whimper escaped her throat, and she moved closer to Ari, as if begging his protection from this man. She was too afraid to actually beg him—afraid it would only make things worse. Begging had never done her any good in the basement. It only made her captor do more terrible things to her.

“I'm not sharing this one,” Ari said, still gently stroking her hair and the nape of her neck. She leaned into him as he petted her.

“Whatever happened to my slut is your slut?” the other man asked.

Claire flinched at that, biting back the sob that wanted to escape as she waited, still terrified Ari would turn on her.

“I'm afraid we won't be playing that game anymore,” Ari said. “Claire is different.” Then his attention turned to her. “Look at me, little one.”

The gentleness in his tone called her gaze to his. He wiped away the tears on her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Did you need something or were you just exploring?” he asked.

“E-exploring,” she said because she couldn't think of a made-up need. She still wasn't convinced he hadn't forgotten to lock the chain around her ankle. Would he punish her for wandering through his house?

“Let me watch, then,” the man said.

“Kane...” Her master sounded exasperated.

“You know how much I like to watch. I promise I won't comment or interfere or touch her.”

There was a pause as if he were actually considering it, and Claire found herself holding her breath.

“You want to paint her,” Ari said finally as if a realization of some importance had just hit him.

Claire chanced a glance up at Kane. He stared right into her. It was a hard unyielding stare that unnerved her, but there was no malice or cruelty in it. He looked at her as if he could see through the shirt she wore, but there was surprisingly nothing lewd in his expression. He wasn't leering at her. She wasn't sure what it was she saw in his gaze, but it contained an intense raw power, whatever it was. And it scared her.

“No, I need to paint her. You've always wanted me to paint one of your girls,” Kane said.

“And you've always said no.”

“Holly? Are you kidding me? I wouldn't mar a canvas or waste the paint on that brat. I'm glad she's in Paris. This one suits you much better. And those eyes... holy fuck, Ari. I have to paint her. You know I have to paint her. But I need to observe her in action first.”

So Kane was an artist? But he wanted to watch Ari touch her? Or fuck her? What kind of art did he make? Claire's gaze had returned to the floor as the two men talked about her like she wasn't in the room.

“When would you want to do it?” Ari asked.

“If you let me watch you with her today, I'm free tomorrow morning to paint.”

“How much?”

“I'll give you the friends and family discount. Two hundred thousand,” Kane said.

Claire's breath felt trapped in her chest as she waited. Ari wasn't selling her to this man, but the exchange of money, the negotiation over her... it felt too uncomfortably familiar.

“How big would the piece be?” Ari asked.

“You've seen my work. The standard size.”

Ari sighed. “Okay.”

He stroked her hair, and she looked up at him, knowing he would see the fear and question in her gaze. She couldn't wipe it from her face in time to hide it from him.

“He's not going to hurt you,” Ari said, “but he is going to watch, and tomorrow you'll pose for a painting.”

“Y-yes, Master,” she said even though she had no idea what any of this meant or why Ari didn't seem able to say no to Kane's request.

“Good girl.”

“She really is perfect,” Kane said. “Even if I'd agreed to paint Holly she would have opened that smart mouth of hers when you told her. She never would have just said Yes Master and obeyed, even if she wanted to pose for me.”

“And that's why Holly only called me Sir,” Ari said.

“I'd assumed as much.”

Claire chanced a glance up to catch Kane pulling a white tube out of his pocket. He placed it on the table. “Use this on her.”

Ari picked up the tube. “What is it?”

“Arousal cream,” Kane said. “I got a whole crate of it from Lindsay. The results are... intense to say the least.”

Ari turned the tube over, reading the words printed on the back. “Have you used it on Saskia?”

“Oh yes. Many times. It turns her into an even more wanton whore than normal.”

Claire flinched at that, but Ari just chuckled.

“It would make this much easier on her,” Kane said, his eyes meeting Claire's. She looked back down at the ground, her pulse racing.

“How long does it take to reach full effect?” Ari asked.

“Up to fifteen minutes. Depends on the person.”

“And how long does it last?”

“An hour more or less,” Kane said. “You can use more if it wears off before you want it to.”

Ari nodded, still reading the back of the tube. “Go to the playroom, We'll join you in a few.”

Kane left the room without another word, closing the office door softly behind him. When they were alone, Claire started to cry.

“Master, please. I can't...”

“Look at me.”

She looked up.

“You've been such a good girl. And you will be a good girl today. My friend won't hurt you. He isn't going to fuck you or touch you. He paints the most amazing nudes. I've been trying to get him to paint one for me for years. He wants to paint you. It would mean a lot to me to have this painting,” he said.

That last admission was her undoing.

“W-what if he decides he won't paint me unless you let him fuck me?”

“Then he won't paint you. But he won't make those kinds of demands. He really wants to paint you. He won't jeopardize it by pushing me.”

“But he wants to watch you... do things to me,” she said, unsure how she felt about that. Her fear was beginning to edge out her arousal again. Kane was a stranger. Against all odds, Ari didn't trigger any traumatic flashbacks when he touched her, but what if Kane just watching did?

“It's part of his artistic process. It helps him figure out his composition. It gives him a sense of the subject before he figures out what he needs to pull out of her to paint the piece.”

What he needs to pull out of her? What did that mean?

“Will you do this for me, little one?”

Claire looked down at the ground for a few seconds, thinking, gathering her nerve. Finally she said, “Yes, Master.”

Ari pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Good girl.”

He helped her stand and positioned her so that she leaned back against the drafting table, her legs spread. He unscrewed the cap on the white tube.

“W-what will happen when you put that on me?”

“If Kane's glowing review is to be believed, it's going to make you very very excited.”

Claire bit her lip and nodded. She gasped at the first touch of the cold cream. Ari spread a generous amount between her legs, covering all of her pussy, including her clit. Then he put more on his finger and put some of the cream inside her, stroking her inner walls with it.

She moaned and arched toward him.

He withdrew his finger. “Not yet, little one. Wait. Save the show for Kane.”

Claire felt the flush crawl up her neck.

* * *

Ari took Claire to the end of the brightly lit front hallway. She was squeezing the life out of his hand. He shouldn't do this to her.

He had to keep reminding himself she wasn't like his other subs. She wasn't a sub at all. How had he ever gotten to the point where he'd justified taking an actual captive, a real slave? She couldn't just safeword out of something that upset her. And he didn't want to traumatize her. He just wanted her. Her and her obedience. So if he didn't want her a broken mess at his feet, he had to watch her carefully and not push her beyond what she could take.

He pressed her against the wall next to the playroom door.

“Claire, look at me.”

Wide, scared eyes met his.

“If this is too much for you, I can send him away and punish you instead.” He needed to give her an out, however weak. He should have made her tell him everything that had happened in her former captivity but he couldn't bring himself to hear the details. It would only confirm what a monster he was for keeping her like this.

“What if I have a flashback?”

Ari brushed her hair back and kissed the shell of her ear. “If you have a flashback, I'll get rid of him.”

He pushed the door open. “Kane? Could you come here a minute?”

The other man joined them out in the hallway, and Claire flinched. Not a great sign. He should shut this down right now. But if she couldn't handle it, she needed to tell him and take the out he'd given her.

“Yeah, what it is?” Kane said, his gaze raking over Claire.

“Will you go get me a bottle of water from the kitchen?” He didn't want to leave her alone right now.

“Sure.”

Kane was gone a couple of minutes. Ari stroked her hair and carefully watched her for signs of a panic attack.

“Here,” Kane said when he returned. “Is she okay?”

He actually looked concerned. That expression was weird on his usually impassive face. But the show of concern seemed to loosen Claire's tension. Ari couldn't begin to imagine what mental acrobatics were going through her head to make this even a little bit okay for her.

“She'll be fine. Just give us another minute.”

“Sure.” Kane went back into the playroom.

Ari unscrewed the bottle cap and handed the water to Claire. She took several long drinks. Finally, when the bottle was half empty she handed it back to him.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes, Master.”

“Listen to me. He's in art mode. When we go in there, he's looking at you as an artist. Nothing more. He's not judging you, and he's not going to hurt you. Or touch you. Okay?”

She nodded. The fear was starting to recede. Her breathing had moved back into a more normal pattern. Her pupils were beginning to dilate, evidence that the arousal cream was working.

When they were inside the playroom, Ari turned to observe her reaction to the space. Unlike the foreboding dungeon, this room was bright and welcoming with sunlight streaming in through a giant window which took up one full wall.

Outside the window was a view of the pool which was covered for the winter. Beyond the pool was a seemingly endless stretch of green rolling hills. Or they would be green if they weren't covered in snow. The trees next to the perimeter fence sat so far away, they looked like small landscaping bushes. Gauzy light gray drapes were pulled back from the windows letting the full light and view in.

He watched Claire as she walked around the room, taking everything in. Her bare feet padded over the blond hardwood before sinking into one of the fluffy white rugs scattered about the room. He had the same bondage equipment upstairs that he had in the dungeon as well as many of the same whips and crops and canes. Only in this room, the sex furniture was a light gray leather against blond stained wood. Any metal parts, instead of being black, were a bright stainless steel.

He'd designed and made each piece for this room.

In one corner was a large blond stained wood box filled with every manner of sex toy—except Claire couldn't see the contents from her vantage point. Kane had made himself comfortable on a gray leather sofa placed along the far wall. On either side of the sofa, two gray leather chairs were turned inward facing each other. The only thing missing between them was a coffee table.

But there was no coffee table, only a thick soft white rug his former pets had knelt on to service his guests—Kane usually being that guest. He was used to sitting on that sofa, just as he sat now, legs spread wide with soft lips wrapped around his cock. If Kane was bothered by the change in the rules of their game, he didn't show it. His gaze remained intently focused on Claire.

Ari wondered if his friend could possibly be putting together any of her history as he watched her with the calculating focus he was known for. Kane hadn't missed her flinch out in the hallway either. Or her fear when she'd first come into Ari's office, her small body huddling closer to him, seeking his protection from Kane's hard stare.

“Claire,” Ari said.

Her gaze jerked to his. Her pupils remained dilated, even in the brightness of the room, as though the arousal cream were more powerful than the sun. Her breathing began to come in shallow pants as she gripped a spanking horse close to her for support.

“Do you need to come, little one?”

Her gaze shifted briefly to Kane, then returned to Ari. “Y-yes, Master. Please.”

“Much more polite than Holly,” Kane remarked from the sofa.

“I thought you said you wouldn't make commentary,” Ari said.

“Sorry. She's just so perfect. I never thought you'd find someone so... perfect.”

He didn't tell Kane the reason she was so perfect was because she couldn't just flounce out the door whenever she felt like it. Or that someone else had broken her so that she was so desperate to stay safe that she could be molded as easily as soft bread dough in his hands.

When Kane had arrived, he'd seen the new biometric security panel, but he'd made no comment. Ari's friend was shrewd. Had he started collecting and putting the pieces together yet?

Ari thought back to the night he'd first met Kane's pet, Saskia. They'd been at a private and very secret club hours south in the middle of the desert. It was an old warehouse building marked only with a sign that read Mr. Fizzy Pop Bottling Company.

The girl had seemed too scared to Ari, and he'd wondered if Saskia was there entirely of her own free will. He'd tried to rescue her from Kane that night only for her to scream her safeword to get him to release her hand when he'd tried to drag her from the building. And now? Would Kane perceive the same thing in Claire?

If he did, he didn't say anything. And he wasn't exactly the gallant rescuing type.

Ari crossed the short distance to Claire and began unbuttoning the white shirt she wore. She didn't protest, and she didn't appear scared anymore. The only thing on her face as he looked at her now was raw animal need. She whimpered when his fingertips brushed against the hardened points of her nipples as he took the shirt off her. He draped it over the spanking horse.

“Master, please.” She moved closer to him, her hips bucking upward, her body begging him to touch her.

Curiosity won against his plans and he dipped a finger inside her. She was so ready. Her warm wet heat defied all expectation. It certainly defied her hesitance only minutes ago in the hallway. He tore himself away from her and crossed the room to sit in the leather chair facing away from the window. He needed her closer to Kane, so the artist could watch—so he could get whatever sense he needed to get of her to put her on canvas.

She looked forlorn, her body clearly aching with need as she gripped the leather of the spanking horse where Ari had left her.

“Claire, crawl to me.”

She dropped gracefully to the floor and crawled across the patchwork of thick white rugs. She moved like a cat, her eyes never leaving his. Claire stopped at his feet, her gaze cast down. It seemed to take everything in her not to rise and straddle his leg. He knew she needed to grind against something pretty desperately. Her skin was flushed, her nipples hard. Little mewling whimpers kept escaping her mouth despite how hard she must be trying to keep quiet. Her hands clenched and unclenched against her thighs.

And he wasn't even touching her yet.

Ari leaned back in the chair. “Claire, I want you to sit on my lap facing Kane, and spread your legs wide so he can get a good view.”

He expected her to cry or beg or hesitate, but she scrambled to obey him. She moaned when he began to cup and knead her breasts, his fingertips pinching her nipples.

“Look at him,” Ari growled. He knew he was pushing her too hard, too far, but her desperate arousal drove his own. His erection strained against his pants, as if clawing to escape and get inside her.

Kane held Claire's gaze trapped in his.

“Please... touch me,” she whimpered.

“Claire?” Ari asked, not sure he'd heard her right. Surely she'd directed that at him, but she'd stared right at Kane when she'd said it. Of course Ari had told her to look at Kane.

Kane edged closer, moving to the end of the sofa next to her. His knee was mere inches from her own. If he made the slightest move closer, the fabric of his suit would caress her bare skin.

“Please,” she said again.

She hadn't shrank away when Kane got closer. She'd begged again. Arching toward him while Ari continued playing with her breasts.

“Call him Sir,” Ari said, still testing to see if she was actually asking for what it sounded like she was asking for.

“Please, Sir touch me,” she begged again, her body straining toward him.

“Ari?” Kane asked.

“Go ahead,” Ari said. Apparently his slut was still Kane's slut.

* * *

Claire felt possessed, driven by the exacting needs of the cream. Whatever Ari had rubbed between her legs demanded she be touched, and it didn't seem to care by whom. Did she? In this moment? No.

She could only be grateful for a catalyst so powerful it could set her free inside this room to experience the kinds of things she'd been too afraid to experience—too ashamed to experience. For once her past didn't hover over her, threatening to push her down a dark hole. Everything was light and safety and the throbbing in her pussy.

She'd asked Kane to touch her because she had to have a hand between her legs right the fuck now. And she didn't want Ari to stop the hypnotic way he was fondling her breasts. She wanted them both to touch her. She needed them both to touch her. It didn't matter how insane or dangerous this was. She only hoped she didn't break apart after it was over.

“Don't take your eyes off mine,” Kane said. “Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Sir,” Claire panted as her arousal climbed still higher.

She hadn't thought she could get any more excited. She felt as though she were rising higher and higher until she was at the top of a cliff. Did that mean she would fall over the edge and crash? She didn't know, but the longer this went on the less she was able to form coherent thoughts or chiding rationalizations for why this shouldn't happen. Why it was wrong. Why it might break her. She didn't care. She just needed them both to touch her. She'd worry about the consequences later.

Claire gasped when Kane’s hands were finally on her. He stroked her hip with one hand while his other moved down an achingly slow path between her legs, tracing every line, leaving no question that he was studying everything. His gaze may have been locked on hers, but he saw her with his fingertips, no doubt composing an image in his mind.

“Such a pretty little cunt,” he said, as if to confirm that he was able to form a picture through touch alone.

Ari's hands still stroked over her breasts. His mouth was at her throat, licking and kissing up along her jawline. “Good girl,” he growled in her ear, which only excited her more.

Kane pushed two fingers inside her. She arched and bucked her hips against him, wishing one of these men was fucking her. She needed more than this tease. She needed something larger and more unyielding inside her. She needed to be taken. Consumed.

“I will demand more from you tomorrow,” Kane warned.

These words should scare her, but it only made her want whatever might happen more. She didn't want to wait until the next day. She needed those demands now. Claire only hoped they used this cream again because she was afraid she couldn't let go of her fears without it.

Kane slowly withdrew his fingers from her and sucked them into his mouth, tasting her, his eyes never leaving hers. Then he rose from the sofa and walked away.

She whimpered. “Please, Sir...” Did he not like her or want her anymore? She'd seen the outline of his erection pressing through the pants of his expensive suit. Had she done something wrong?

She heard him opening the lid of the large wooden box she'd seen in the corner when she'd first come into the playroom. Before she could speculate about what he was getting from the box, her master's hand had left her breast to travel between her legs. He stroked her clit in slow soothing circles that calmed her mind even as it excited her body further.

She was so close, but he wasn't going hard enough or fast enough for her to come. And she needed to come.

“Please, Master...”

“Not yet, little one. We aren't ready for you to come yet,” Ari said.

Kane returned with something black and phallic. It didn't look like a vibrator or dildo because it had a thick, sturdy base like it was meant to sit on the floor and be straddled hands-free.

He leaned close and whispered in her ear. “I'll let you come with this toy vibrating inside you, if you let me watch you suck your master's cock.”

Claire could only whimper in reply.

“Kane...” Ari said, a warning.

“Come on, she's hot and ready. I want to watch her on her knees.”

Ari stroked her hair.

“Well?” Kane asked, turning his attention back to Claire. “How badly do you want to come? Will you give me what I want?”

“Y-yes, Sir, please... please...” She couldn't quite articulate what she was begging for beyond the pleasure that stood just outside her reach as both men gave her just enough to drive her to madness but not enough to give her the orgasm her body so desperately craved.

“Good girl,” Kane said. He placed the toy on the ground and helped Claire rise off Ari's lap.

When he turned her around to face her master, she saw his jeans were wet from the arousal that had dripped down her thighs. Ari's gaze never left hers as he unbuttoned and unzipped, freeing his cock from his pants.

She dropped to her knees on the soft white rug.

“Spread your legs,” Kane growled behind her.

She did as he asked.

“Wider,” he ordered.

Claire spread wider, and he slipped the free-standing toy on the floor between her legs, helping her to straddle it. She hissed as the thick phallus slipped easily inside her. She was so wet, there was no need for additional lube. The toy had just the right height for her to easily reach and suck Ari's cock from her position on the floor.

Then it was Ari who let out a hiss of air as she languidly licked and then took him into her mouth.

Kane stood behind Ari's chair where she could easily see him even from her position on the floor. He pressed a button on a small black remote, and vibrations came to life inside her. She moaned around her master's cock as she sucked him harder into her mouth, raising and lowering herself on the phallus that pulsed against her inner walls.

“Good girl, take him deeper. All the way down your throat. Let him fuck your mouth like a good slut.”

She trusted Ari would stop everything if she panicked. Still, they had gone from the promise of no touching and no commentary to the artist running the show. And her master didn't seem to mind.

Ari's fingers threaded through her hair, petting her as he shoved himself deeper inside her. She allowed him to fuck her mouth, and Kane, clearly pleased with this acceptance on her part, pushed another button driving the vibrations inside her pussy higher.

Claire expected to panic and try to escape. Or to cry. But the whimpers that fell from her mouth were desire, and she knew somehow that she was safe as Ari's fingertips gently caressed the side of her face even as his own pleasure approached.

Moments later he let out a sound very close to a growl and came.

“Swallow,” Kane ordered without missing a beat. He watched her and waited.

She didn't even think of disobeying that command even though the man giving the orders was still a stranger. When she'd obeyed him, Ari pulled out of her.

“Thank you, Master,” Claire said, her face flushing at saying such a thing after giving him a blow job in the other man's presence.

Kane only raised an eyebrow. But he quickly regained focus. He pressed another button, pushing the vibrator to the strongest speed.

“Fuck yourself on it,” Kane said, his voice going lower and darker.

She should fight this or protest or beg, but his darkness only drove her on, back into the embrace of long-forgotten fantasies that she'd pushed away for far too long.

Ari held his hands firmly over hers as she held onto his knees, bracing herself to raise and lower over the toy. It took only a few seconds of this for the pleasure to build to its peak inside her. She screamed out her orgasm, her nails digging into Ari's jeans.

But Kane didn't press the button to stop the toy.

“Please,” she whimpered, unable to take anymore.

The vibrations stopped. She collapsed forward, resting her head on Ari's lap as he petted her hair.

“Good girl,” he said.

But Kane wasn't finished with her. The vibrations started again on the lowest setting but it was still too much for her after just being wrung out.

“Please...” she begged. “Please... no more...”

“I want to watch you come again,” he said as if he'd been so mesmerized by the show the first time he needed an encore right away. “You need to come again.”

Her gaze went to Ari. His expression was intense, those ice blue eyes hungry despite the satisfaction he'd just received. He nodded. “Come again, little one.”

Ari took the tube of arousal cream from his pocket, his gaze never leaving hers. “I think you need more. Be a good girl and ask for more.”

Claire swallowed hard. “Please can I have more, Master?”

A dark smile spread over his face. “Yes, you may.” He spread a generous amount of the cream on her exposed clit, then he smoothed more around the lips of her pussy which were still clamped down around the phallus inside her. She felt so full from the penetration of the large toy.

Kane kept the vibrations on the lowest setting while she adjusted. It was the barest brush of relentless sensation inside her. Within minutes the combination of the cream and the low-level pulses had driven her need back to the point of desperation. Now the vibrations irritated her because they weren't enough. She needed them to be harder.

“Please Sir, let me come.”

“You said you were done,” Kane said.

“Please...” Tears streamed down her face. “Please please...”

“If I let you have this orgasm we're going to repeat this until you have three more after that. Do you accept these terms?”

She knew she couldn't have four more orgasms. It was too many. It would be far too much stimulation, but at the moment she needed to come so badly she couldn't think about that.

“Claire? Yes, or no? Four more or no more. Those are the choices.”

She was so aroused, the throbbing between her legs so unbearable she thought she might die if she didn't come. “Y-yes, Sir, four more.”

“Good girl,” he said.

Kane passed the remote to Ari, and sat on the ground behind her. He pulled her hair back and began to kiss her throat, and shoulder, his fingers playing over her breasts, pinching her nipples painfully. It was as though there were a connecting thread between her nipples and her cunt because when he gave her that small pain, it only drove the pleasure between her legs higher.

Ari turned the vibrations to the highest setting as Kane rubbed her clit. Her moans got louder and louder until the pleasure spiraled out of her in one long wave. She was so wet now she easily slid up and down the shaft of the phallus.

“Please... please, Master, no more,” she whimpered. Ari mercifully stopped the vibrations. She sighed, relieved, and laid her head again on his lap.

Kane ran his tongue over the shell of her ear. “You owe me three more. That was the price we agreed upon.”

She shook her head. “I can't. It's too much...”

“It's never too much,” he growled.

She looked to Ari. “Please...”

“You agreed to three more,” Ari said. He pressed the button again and it started on the lowest setting, the vibrations going on and on until her body began to recognize them as pleasure again.

They pulled three more orgasms from her, alternating their methods of teasing, using the speeds on the remote, petting and kissing and sucking and licking her flesh, driving her to the point of madness each time.

Kane had moved back to the sofa for the last two. Watching her. Making her hold his gaze as the two men took turns tormenting her pussy with the remote. Finally, the vibrations stopped. Kane picked her up, leaving the toy behind on the ground. He passed her to Ari who held her in his arms in the chair.

She curled against him, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Did you get what you needed?” Ari asked the other man.

“Yes. I'm very pleased. I can't wait to capture her on canvas.”

Did Kane do this to every woman he painted? Claire wasn't sure what it was he needed to see or experience in order to paint her, but whatever it was, she'd delivered it.

She watched as he rose from the sofa and moved closer to her. He brushed her hair away from her face. “You will be stunning,” he said.

Ari picked her up and carried her back to the spanking horse where his dress shirt lay.

“Are you able to stand?” he asked gently.

“Yes, Master. I think so.”

He put her down, and she braced herself against the spanking horse. Ari picked up the shirt she'd been wearing and carefully put it back on her, buttoning each button, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Are you sure you're okay?”

Claire nodded, not trusting her voice after such an intense experience. It was the most pleasure she'd experienced in her life, and she was still trying to process it.

“I need to talk to my friend about some private business. Go explore the house, and I'll join you in a bit. Okay?”

“Yes, Master.”

He stroked the side of her cheek and bent to press a kiss to her forehead.

14

Ari bit back the groan as he watched Claire leave the playroom. His white dress shirt hit the backs of her knees, but it was still sexy as hell even as it covered so much of her skin. He wanted to rip it off her again and make her stay, but he needed to talk to Kane before he started to get ideas in his head that could only bring her harm.

“So, you're not sharing her?” Kane said, his tone chiding. It was more a smartass statement than a question. “It would seem from what just happened that your slut is very much still my slut. So how is she different? Besides not being a brat? I mean... I get it. She's perfect. Maybe you aren't as into sharing someone you actually care about as I am.”

Were Ari's feelings for this girl that transparent? He'd been attracted from the first moment he'd seen her, but her sweet submission to his desires since their positions reversed had started to create something much deeper than lust. He needed to protect her. And he was angry that he hadn't been there to save her the first time.

“She has a... complicated situation. The cream lowered her inhibitions,” Ari said. “Otherwise, there's no way she would have...”

Kane had moved back to the center of the sofa, his arms stretched out over the back, smug and self-satisfied. “That was the point. She looked terrified, but I needed to see her come before I could paint her. You know how I operate. I wanted to paint her. You wanted the painting. That cream isn't magic. It only heightens desire that is already there. It removes the barriers and creates the physical response, but if she hadn't really wanted me, none of that would have happened. She wouldn't have begged me to touch her like that. I just wanted to make it easier on her.”

Ari wasn't sure what to make of that. Kane had always been a distant, cold motherfucker. Ari trusted him more-or-less, but he never would have expected this kind of sensitivity from the man. Though maybe he should have. He was an artist after all.

“Mission accomplished. But you aren't fucking her,” Ari said. “I don't think she could handle it... even with that cream. By the way, you need to get on the phone with Lindsay and get a crate of that stuff for me. I will pay whatever he wants. I've never seen an arousal cream that potent before. I didn't even have to touch her before she was acting like she was in heat.”

Kane's smile widened. “I know. Saskia loves it, too.” He turned serious then. “So, why is she different? Why can't she handle fucking me? You know she wants me.”

Ari rolled his eyes. “Shut up. I'm not saying you don't have your obvious charms. I just think it would be too much for her. It might... cause a bad reaction.”

An eyebrow raise was Kane's only reply. Ari couldn't stall any longer. Kane needed to know the back story on all this or he might do something to trigger her, and then nobody's painting dreams were coming true.

Ari sighed and rose from the chair. He unbuttoned his shirt and took it off, laying it across the spanking horse where a copy of the same shirt had been draped only minutes before. Only this one didn't smell like Claire.

Kane smirked at the clothing removal. “I didn't think you were into men. You know you've got to be the bottom because I'm never the bottom.”

Ari laughed. “Shut up, asshole. We're not having sex.”

“I keep telling you, you don't know what you're missing.”

“Do you want to know why I'm not sharing her or not?”

“Technically, you already shared her. I didn't just imagine my fingers exploring the inside of that tight little cunt.”

“You know what I mean... why you can't fuck her.”

Kane's expression turned curious. “Fuck yes, I want to know.”

Ari let out a deep breath, unsure of how to say this. Maybe it was a rip-the-bandaid-off-quick sort of situation. “I wasn't out camping for three weeks. I was kept prisoner in a cell. By Claire.”

Kane laughed.

“I'm not joking.”

It took a long moment for the smile to leave Kane's face, for him to realize Ari was serious. “But... she's so tiny. How on earth did she...?”

“She's smart. She figured it out. She got some unsuspecting help, and she has financial resources—probably nearly as much as you or I do. So it wasn't as hard as it seems on first glance.”

“Okay, but even with help, how did she... how were you incapacitated?”

“I was drunk at a bar, moping over Holly. She slipped something into my drink.”

Ari turned away from Kane, giving him a full view of the marks Claire had left on his back.

“Holy shit,” Kane breathed. “That girl did that?”

Ari turned back around and put his shirt on.

“She did,” he confirmed. “And I'd be proud of her if she'd done it to the man who deserved it.”

“Someone hurt her,” Kane said, the pieces finally falling in to place. “And she thought it was you. Fuck. How are you dealing with this?”

More uncharacteristic empathy. It was unsettling seeing this other side of Kane. Ari had gotten used to the cold bastard.

He shrugged. “Well, I'm keeping her as my slave, and never letting her go, so you tell me how well I'm handling it.” He said it almost nonchalantly as if this explained everything about his mental state. “And don't you dare judge me. I know it's wrong, even with what she did, but I don't care. That girl needs me. She can't survive out in the world. She was barely holding it together before our paths crossed. How long would it be before she found another man she thought was her captor and started this shit again? She might kill the next guy. I got lucky. She's dangerous. She's wild. She needs to be controlled.”

As much as Ari was sure Kane colored outside the lines with his own morals, he was also sure he wouldn't keep a woman as his literal slave with no way out. He waited for the inevitable judgment and disappointment from his friend. It didn't come.

“Do you want to know how Saskia and I met?”

Well, that was a subject change. Maybe Kane just couldn't process this. “Sure,” Ari said. At least he wasn't calling the cops. Not that he'd ever thought Kane was that noble.

“She conned me out of twelve million dollars. I hunted her ass down in Italy, told her she could choose between prison or being my slave, and I think it's clear which thing she chose. So, no judgment from me. I required far less provocation than you did. I'm afraid my pet might not still be breathing if she'd held me captive and beat me. Claire is lucky it was you and not me.”

“Shit. So that night in the club when I was trying to save her from you?”

“Your instincts were dead on,” Kane confirmed. “I took her out in public too soon. Try not to make the same mistake with your girl.”

As if he could risk taking Claire out in public.

“But that night she chose you. She wouldn't let me save her. She was nearly hysterical at the idea of being separated from you.”

Kane shrugged. “What can I say? I'm an irresistible motherfucker.”

“But if she wanted to leave now, you'd let her go, right?” No matter how much it seemed they had similar situations and were engaged in similar crimes, Ari would never let Claire go.

“Absolutely not,” Kane said. “It would kill me. I can never lose her. And someday when I'm gone, she'll have Marcus.”

There was a fifteen-year age difference between Kane and Saskia. It wasn't a problem now, but someday it would be. Of course Kane had already considered that. He always considered everything. He kept his life in neat compartmentalized boxes with a different identity attached to each box.

Ari was never sure exactly the nature of Kane's relationship with Marcus. The man worked for him in various capacities from errand boy to bodyguard, but he also seemed to be a friend, perhaps even a sometimes lover. Ari had never pried too far into their arrangement. But now it seemed there was something going on with all three of them.

“So how is your girl settling in? She seems to be doing well, all things considered,” Kane observed.

“It helps that I'm not as sadistic as you.”

Kane just chuckled at that.

Ari sighed. “I think she's struggling a bit. She knows how wrong this whole thing is. I think she's afraid if she trusts me I'll hurt her and break her more.”

“But she's very obedient. That's a plus.”

“Oh, she's a dream, but she's waiting for the other shoe to drop. She doesn't think I can see it, but her face is so expressive. She's still struggling with herself for not fighting me.”

Kane was silent for several minutes. Finally he said, “Maybe Claire could meet Saskia. You should come to her private show next week. I'm having it at my estate. She's got a whole new series of paintings. You might like one. Did you get the invitation I sent?”

“I haven't gone through the mail yet. I was kind of pre-occupied.”

“Well, come. And bring Claire.”

It wasn't the worst idea Kane had ever had.

* * *

Claire found a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen and poured herself a cup then stood next to the sliding glass door. A small gray biometric panel stood next to the glass now. It should make her feel trapped, but instead she felt safe, knowing that no one could get in or out without Ari's thumbprint.

She stared out over his endless property, watching the snow come down. She felt the heat flush over her chest as she thought about what had just happened in the playroom with Ari and the artist. Even now the place between her legs heated and came awake again at just the thought of it.

It had been all her fantasies from before the world came apart. Even as she'd arched into the hands of both men, straining toward them as their mouths devoured her, seeking more and more contact, the fear had lingered in the back of her mind. What if she had a flashback?

Not a memory. The awful memories sometimes came and drifted by like a macabre horror film. Those were bad enough. But flashbacks were different. When that happened, she actually went there as though her body and mind were both transported out of the here and now, back into that basement. She felt things, and she couldn't find her way back out. It was like a nightmare you knew you were having but couldn't force yourself to wake up from. When it happened, it was like she'd never escaped. Like she was still there.

But today there was no flashback. In fact, though she still got nightmares, the flashbacks hadn't happened once since she'd been with Ari. It was as though they were afraid to surface in his presence, as if he had the power to destroy them forever.

The experience in the playroom with these two men had been nothing like what she'd experienced before. She felt like it should trigger something. After all, how much free will did she have here? Wasn't it the same? She was at Ari's absolute mercy. It was only his kindness that kept her safe. A kindness she still couldn't understand.

She'd thought it would be just like the basement. Or worse. After all, the guy in the basement had just been crazy. Ari had a legitimate grievance. But this thing with him couldn't be more different. It felt shameful to want him to touch her because it wasn't as though he were her boyfriend.

He hadn't asked her out on a date or wined and dined her. The way they'd met was far too dark for her to feel these light airy feelings whenever he was near, those butterfly stomach flips when his gaze was on her. His arctic gaze became warmer and warmer when he looked at her now. And it melted all the things that had kept her libido frozen safely in ice.

As bad as she thought it might be to want him, it felt a thousand times more wrong to love him. It had been so long since she'd loved someone that she didn't know if she was remembering it right. Maybe she didn't know how to feel real love anymore. And maybe she didn't know what it felt like to have love directed at her. This thing with Ari was twisted and wrong. All these soft feelings she found herself having couldn't be real.

She couldn't be developing actual emotional attachment to this man. Could she? Maybe it was Stockholm syndrome. But she hadn't felt this way in the basement. Whatever captive/captor attachment she'd formed for survival in that basement was very different from the way she felt with Ari.

She heard the two men talking as they moved down the hallway toward the kitchen. She felt frozen like prey standing in the light coming from the window. She should run and hide back in Ari's room, but she stood there, drinking her coffee, staring out the window.

Kane came up behind her. She jumped when he touched the middle of her back, but he didn't make a big deal of it. “Claire, I need you to get a good night's sleep tonight. You have a long day ahead tomorrow. We'll start work at nine a.m.”

“Yes, Sir.” The title fell from her lips without her conscious thought. She spun quickly to find Ari standing beside the kitchen island watching her. Was that okay? Was she supposed to call Kane that outside of the playroom? But he only nodded his approval.

15

It was eight-thirty the next morning when Claire wandered into the kitchen wearing a terrycloth bathrobe.

Ari stood beside the table, setting up for breakfast. Three coffee mugs, three forks, three plates. He didn't look up from pouring the coffee when he spoke.

“Good, you're up. Kane will be joining us for breakfast in a few minutes. He's setting up his supplies.”

“I thought he was coming at nine?”

Ari poured the last coffee just as the kitchen timer went off. He took the coffee pot back to its spot on the counter and grabbed some oven mitts to take a breakfast casserole out of the oven. He placed the perfectly browned casserole on a trivet in the center of the kitchen table, then retrieved a serving spoon from the drawer.

This man should have his own cooking show.

“He said we start work at nine. Not that he would be here at nine. I was about to come get you. Have you showered yet?”

“Yes, Master,” she said, feeling suddenly shy.

“Did you come?”

“N-not in the shower, but yes.”

“Were you loud like I taught you?”

“Yes, Master.” Claire felt the heat rising and knew he could see the telltale pink in her cheeks.

“Good girl. Sit.”

Claire sat at the table as Ari spooned out breakfast casserole onto all their plates. She could detect eggs, cheese, sausage, onions, and mushrooms.

“I smell something delicious,” Kane said wearing jeans and a black T-shirt with paint stains on it. He didn't have shoes on. He'd made himself right at home this morning.

Kane winked at Claire as he sat across from her, and she was certain she blushed again. She knew he was talking about the food, but the way he looked at her when he said it made it seem as though he might also mean something else.

It felt strange seeing him after what had happened the previous day. But even more strange was the fact that this man didn't scare her. He was very intense, but he seemed to respect Ari. That fact alone made her feel safe near him.

Ari sat at the head of the table. “Did you put down drop cloths?” he asked, before taking a big bite of the casserole.

Kane rolled his eyes. “Of course I put down drop cloths. I wouldn't dream of getting paint on your playroom floor. Do you think I'm a barbarian?”

“A little bit, yeah,” Ari shot back, but there was no venom in it.

“Careful. You'll scare the poor girl,” Kane said, his eyes never leaving Claire's as he took a bite of the casserole. Claire had to bite back a moan when she finally tasted her own breakfast.

“Holy shit, this is amazing.”

Artisan, architect, captor, chef. So many ways to describe this man she was already half in love with even as she knew how foolish and wrong such feelings were.

Ari chuckled. Then the two men started discussing the painting. Claire quietly ate and let them talk, not understanding half the artist jargon that was bandied between them.

“Come here,” Kane said to Claire when they'd finished eating. Ari stood and began to clear the table. Claire looked to him—a question. Ari nodded in response.

She moved around the table to Kane and sat when he patted his lap, her breath coming faster now. Kane gathered her long blonde hair in his hands and piled it on top of her head, pulling a few loose wisps down to frame her face.

“Do you have a hair clip?” he asked Ari. “I think I want her hair up like this when I paint her.”

“I'm sure Holly left something. I'll go check.”

When Ari had gone, Kane's free hand began to travel under the robe, trailing up along her thigh. Claire jerked away. He removed his hand and let her hair fall freely around her face. When she chanced a glance at him, he didn't appear angry or offended. He instead seemed perplexed, a question in his gaze.

“Are you upset about what happened with the three of us yesterday?”

“No, Sir,” she said.

He seemed impressed she'd remembered to call him Sir. Or maybe that she'd chosen to do it without prompting.

“I can tell he's very happy with you,” Kane said. “Anyone would be very happy with you.”

“Really?”

He nodded. Claire tried to find the lie. Was he softening her up somehow? Was it a line? But his words seemed nothing but sincere.

“Do you not want me to touch you or are you afraid he doesn't want me to touch you?” Kane asked.

“I-I'm not sure.” It was the truth. She was afraid Ari would be bothered if she just let his friend touch her without him there. It felt somehow like cheating. Even though she was his property, not his girlfriend. So why the fuck should she care about that? And she shouldn't want this man to touch her at all, whether Ari was there or not. Her reactions to almost everything since coming here violated all the things she thought she should want. But her body wasn't prepared to listen to any of the reasons why she should recoil or run.

If it weren't for her past... if it weren't for the basement... wouldn't she want these things? Hadn't she fantasized about these things? Night after night after night, these pathologically repetitive fantasies had always been there, the background track to her private pleasure. If not for the basement... wouldn't she have jumped on this? So why shouldn't she now? Why should she let that monster take just one more thing from her?

Kane pulled a familiar white tube from his pocket and placed it on the table. His voice went low and rough, “Do you need something to drop your inhibitions a little?”

Claire bit her lip, remembering the potent effects of the cream and how she'd behaved like an insatiable slut the previous day under its influence. That cream had given her the permission to feel all the things she needed to feel, its demands so much louder than her mind's constant chattering about how wrong everything was.

She wanted to feel those things again. So badly. She wanted that blissful sexual oblivion that left no room in her mind for talking herself out of the pleasures she needed.

Without conscious thought, she pulled back the robe, letting her legs fall open. “Yes, Sir.”

He squeezed a generous amount onto his fingers and spread it over her sex which was already becoming aroused just from anticipation of what the cream could do. She gasped as his fingers pushed inside her.

“Starting without me?”

Claire looked up to find Ari standing next to the kitchen island, a transparent blue hair clip in his hand.

“Master, I'm sorry,” she said.

She tried to bring her legs together and pull the robe closed, but Kane held her still. He finally pulled his hand away slowly, deliberately—the opposite of someone caught with his hands in the cookie jar. He didn't care that they were caught.

“Did you want him to touch you?” Ari asked.

Claire looked down. She couldn't lie with Kane sitting right here to call her on it. “Yes, Master,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“Then you have nothing to apologize for. As long as you're okay, Kane has carte blanche, as I do with his pet. Kane and I share... everything.”

“Not everything,” Kane said. “He won't let me fuck him.”

Claire gasped, but Kane only chuckled. She looked up to find Ari rolling his eyes.

“I'm pretty sure Marcus would object. He doesn't seem the type who wants to share with other men.”

Kane just smiled. “Are we ready then?” He nudged Claire, and she got off his lap, pulling the bathrobe around her, going shy again. She was grateful that wouldn't be a problem much longer. If yesterday was any indication, in a few minutes she wouldn't care what anybody thought about anything, only that they were touching her and didn't stop.

“Go to the playroom, Claire, and wait for us. We should be there before the cream kicks in, but if not, don't touch yourself until we arrive,” Ari said.

Claire nodded and left the kitchen, grateful to be allowed a short reprieve from the two of them to collect herself.

The playroom had been rearranged. Bondage furniture had been moved along one wall, allowing a large open space near the window where the bright morning light shone in. One of the large fluffy rugs had been rolled up and moved next to the furniture. A plastic drop cloth was laid out over a large section of hardwood the rug had previously covered. And on top of that was an easel that held a large canvas. There was a chair and paints and brushes and a palette—all the normal things one would expect an artist to have. A small CD player sat on the floor, plugged into an outlet nearby.

The door opened, and the two men walked in. Ari sat on the sofa at the back of the room. He laid the hair clip on the leather beside him.

Kane took a step closer to her. She took a step back.

“Claire,” he said gently. “I'm not going to hurt you.”

“If you need him to stop anything he's doing, say Red,” Ari said. “Do you understand?”

“Y-yes, Master.” Claire let out a breath. He was giving her a safeword to use with his friend. She might not have ever explored her fantasies outside her mind before Ari, but there was this magical invention called the internet, through which she'd learned all sorts of things over the years.

Lots of people acting out their kinks used weird ridiculous things for safewords like blueberry scone or firetruck. It had to be something you wouldn't otherwise yell out during sex. It couldn't be no, please no, because sometimes in play, no didn't mean no. So it had to be something stupid and unsexy that would break the mood. Red, Green, Yellow was a standard system a lot of people used.

Kane took another step toward her, and this time she didn't retreat. He held her gaze as he untied the belt on the bathrobe and slid the terrycloth off her shoulders. It hit the floor in a whoosh.

Then he closed his eyes and started to touch her, his hands memorizing each curve, and not just the naughty ones—the day-to-day G-rated ones as well. The curve at the side of her nose, the gentle curve inside her elbow. The flare of her hip. She closed her eyes, taken under by this spell until what had been merely hypnotic became cruel teasing.

“Please, Sir,” she whimpered, thrusting her hips obscenely toward him.

Kane only chuckled. “I see our special cream has kicked in. Ari,” he called over his shoulder. “Have you started training her ass yet?”

This question caused Claire to open her eyes, though the heightening arousal between her legs softened any alarm that phrase might have normally caused.

“Not, yet,” Ari replied.

“Bring me some lube.”

She expected Ari to say no, but he got up and went to the large wooden box in the corner. He brought a tube of lube over and handed it to Kane. Claire pleaded with him with her eyes. But Ari's expression was stern.

“Use your safeword if you need it. Otherwise, enjoy the ride.” With that, he went back across the room and sat on the sofa to watch.

“And toys?” Kane asked, exasperated.

“Am I your butler?”

“I like to think of you as my art assistant today.”

Ari rolled his eyes but went back to the box again. When he returned he had two handfuls of toys—glass and metal, all sleek and smooth in a range of thickness. He laid them across a bondage bed a few feet from where Claire and Kane stood.

Claire swallowed hard as she looked at them.

Ari started to go back to the couch but Kane reached out and grabbed his arm. “Don't go. I need your assistance. Put your fingers in her pussy and stroke her... slowly enough that she can't get off. I want her desperate and begging.”

Ari held her gaze as he moved closer and started to follow Kane's instruction. A moment later, Kane was behind her, pushing a cold lubed toy into her ass. She bit back a moan, and he slowly pushed until her muscles stopped resisting him.

“Have you ever had your ass played with?” he asked, leaning close to her ear.

“N-no, Sir,” she said. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to process the sensation of the double penetration, Ari's fingers inside her pussy and Kane slowly fucking her ass with the hard lubed toy.

“Please,” she whimpered, squirming between them, trying to find an angle or speed that could get her off, the arousal cream only pushing her further.

“She's such a filthy whore,” Kane remarked.

But he said it like it was the highest praise, and she took it that way, another moan escaping her mouth as he began to squeeze her nipples into hardened painful points.

This went on for a long time, Ari seeming to know exactly how to keep her perched on the edge of pleasure.

“Okay, stop,” Kane said.

Ari withdrew his fingers. Kane put more of the arousal cream between her legs.

“No, please... no more... I have to come... please I need to.”

Kane smacked her hard on the ass, and she yelped. She was sure he'd left behind a bright red hand print as evidence of his displeasure.

“Kiss her until her lips are red and raw,” Kane growled.

Ari grabbed her and kissed her hard. It was a rough, dominating kiss as if he were punishing her because he couldn't fuck her right now. Claire reached out and stroked his hardened cock through his jeans and he groaned against her, biting her lip hard. He pulled away and licked her bottom lip, no doubt tasting blood.

Kane came back with coils of black rope and started to bind her. She almost panicked, until she realized he wasn't binding her to anything, nor was he binding her hands or her feet together. Instead he tied intricate patterns of rope across and around her torso, winding around her legs, between her breasts, creating something that seemed more like an erotic piece of clothing than bondage.

Kane ordered her to straddle the narrow bench of a nearby spanking horse that she realized now had been positioned for him to get a good view from behind the easel.

When she was where he wanted her, he tied a large round knot that sat right against her clit. She whimpered and tried to move her body in such a way so that she could grind her swollen bud against the rope. She let out a moan of relief at the friction and the hope that this might actually bring her release.

Kane smacked her thigh. Hard. “No! You will not come until I'm finished painting you. Say it.”

She whimpered. “I won't come until you finish painting me, Sir.”

“Good.”

He crossed to the sofa and retrieved the hair clip. When he returned, he piled her hair on top of her head and secured it loosely with the clip.

“There. Just like that. Don't move, Claire.” Kane pushed the power button on the CD player. Slow, dark cello music started to play. Without another word, he sat behind the easel and began to paint.

Hours passed like this. Each time the arousal cream started to wear off, Kane would motion to Ari, and he would smooth more of it between her legs. She tried moving against the large knot pressed against her clit, but whenever she did, Kane gave her a hard look that stilled her, even as the cream drove her more and more crazy. Nobody spoke. Not Kane, not Ari, and not Claire, no matter how much she wanted to beg them to let her come. She didn't. Kane was in flow, his mood too intense. And Ari wasn't much better at the moment, sitting on the edge of the sofa, his knuckles gone white from gripping the leather as his gaze moved back and forth between the work in progress and Claire.

Finally Kane cleaned out the brush he was using, rose from the chair, took a few steps back, and regarded the canvas for a moment. He looked at her, made a couple of changes, and stepped back again. When he was satisfied with the work, he began to pack up his things.

“I'll pick up the easel in a few days when the painting is dry enough to hang,” he said.

Kane approached Claire. Only now did she dare to grind her body against the ropes he'd tied. “You'll chafe if you aren't careful,” he said.

He leaned in close and kissed her on the mouth. It was a long, deep lingering kiss, that had her straining harder against the knot over her clit.

“Please, please,” she whimpered against his mouth.

Kane chuckled and stepped back, ignoring her obvious need. “You make a stunning painting. I'm very pleased. I hope to see you at Saskia's show next week.”

Ari followed him out into the hallway, their voices turning to low murmurs just outside the door. Ari returned minutes later carrying a large knife. When she saw it, her breath went shallow, her arousal fading as quickly as it had come on. She tried to push away the images that clawed at her from the back of her mind but they just wouldn't go. The fear began to flood her.

“M-Master, please... what are you doing?”

He lowered the knife and set it on one of the pieces of bondage furniture. “You know I wouldn't hurt you, little one. I'm going to cut the ropes, so I can get you out of them. I don't have the patience or the skill to untie all of Kane's fancy knot work, and I need to be inside you now. Okay?”

Claire nodded, not trusting her voice. Her mouth went dry as she watched Ari strip out of his white shirt and jeans until he stood naked, the sunlight playing over each perfectly defined muscle.

“Close your eyes. If you don't see the knife, it'll be easier.”

She closed her eyes. She couldn't argue with his logic, and she did know that he wouldn't hurt her. She wasn't sure at what point exactly in their short twisted relationship she'd know this without doubt, but she knew it.

“Good girl.”

Claire heard the ropes being cut in different places. Then Ari said, “You can open them now.”

She opened her eyes as he carefully peeled the ropes off her body. He removed the hair clip, and tossed it aside. Her hair tumbled down, framing her face. He scooped her up and carried her to the bondage bed. But he didn't tie her up.

This time when he fucked her he took her gently and carefully, sliding his hard length so slowly in and out of her the pleasure was almost painful.

In another context it would have been that boring normal sweet fucking that she couldn't get off to, but the total power he held somehow shifted the experience. He wasn't asking Is this okay? How is this? Can I touch you there? Do you like that? What do you want? Or any of a million other maddening questions that men liked to ask now to seem enlightened to the needs of women when all Claire needed was a good hard fuck from a man who knew how to light up every nerve ending.

He didn't ask her anything. He touched her like he knew what he was doing with her and to her, each touch careful but sure, precise. It was a sort of methodical lovemaking that stole her breath from her with each slow demanding thrust.

He wrapped a hand around her throat, holding her, capturing her gaze in his, taking her body like he knew it was his to take. Each thrust said I own this. This is mine. Her body opened to him and said yes.

“Do you need to come, little one?” he asked in response to the growing volume of what had started as soft stuttering whimpers.

“Yes, Master.” He knew she did. He'd watched her suffer with need for hours.

“Be a good girl and come for me, then.” He took her harder, his hand leaving her throat only to be replaced by his devouring mouth. Those two shifts were all it took. She bucked against him and came, screaming out her orgasm. Ari swallowed her scream with his kiss, and emptied himself inside her.

Afterward, he held her quietly for long minutes, stroking her hair. Finally he got up.

“I'm going to make us some lunch. Clean up and join me.”

When he'd left her alone, Claire lay there for a few more minutes. She had to will herself to move. She got out of the bed and went over to the easel. No one had shown her the painting yet, and she was curious to see if Kane was as good of an artist as his arrogance seemed to announce.

What she saw on the canvas drew a sharp gasp from her. It wasn't the lewd pose. It wasn't the sultry red lips swollen from hard kisses. It wasn't the nudity. And it wasn't all the emotion he'd somehow captured and pulled from her soul to put on the canvas for just anyone to see. A Q in the lower right-hand corner of the painting seemed to laugh at her with its mocking scrawl. But she didn't need the clue. The work spoke for itself. It wasn't possible. She had to be wrong.

This painting couldn't exist. The artist was dead.

16

It had been a week since the painting of Claire had been hung over the fireplace in their bedroom. Ari paced the hall, dressed in a tux. He tugged at the bow tie. He fucking hated formal events. He stared down at the invitation in his hand. It had been in the stack of unopened mail just like Kane had said it would be. He ran his fingertip absently over the raised black lettering on crisp off-white Crane card stock. He turned the invitation over to see the indentation on the back. Engraved. Kane always used the best stationery—especially when it came to Saskia's art shows.

It wasn't just about the kink with those two. It was about art: the unbridled passion and obsession of it. Kane had taken her on as his protégé and molded and mentored her and had seen to it that her art found an audience. It was a hungry audience, as dark and sexually twisted as Kane and Saskia.

Ari wondered if it was too soon to take Claire out in public. There wasn't even a hint of defiance in her. They were a perfectly matched pair of complementary opposites, joined together by fate. He'd started to believe this so strongly that it had finally caused the lingering self-recrimination to go silent. After all, if this thing between them, however twisted, was meant to be, why fight it? Why beat himself up over taking this woman who was obviously so deeply alone and needed everything he could give her.

Still, the easy way between them, the routine, the orders, the obedience, the pleasure, was that enough to take her off the property? Could he take that risk with her now? Or ever? Realistically he knew it would be cruel to never take her anywhere, to keep her locked up in this prison. And besides, he wanted to show her off.

The moment Kane had left the painting with him, Ari had shut himself in his office and ordered a dress for Claire online. He'd made a note of all her sizes when he'd first brought her to his home and undressed her.

While he was at it, he'd gone ahead and bought other things for her: shoes, winter boots, jackets, coats—both formal and casual, jeans, shirts, sweaters, casual dresses. He'd had everything shipped rush delivery.

At this moment, if she was following his orders, she was putting the evening gown on right now. As if on cue, she stepped out into the hallway.

“You look beautiful,” he said, trying not to gape at her like some lovesick fool. Correction. Ari fucking loved formal events.

Claire wore a floor-length teal evening gown that brought out the brilliant green of her eyes. It was off-the-shoulder with a plunging neckline and a high slit up one side that would reveal plenty of thigh and allow him easy access. The only jewelry she wore was the gold collar around her throat.

“Master, are you really taking me out?” She looked hopeful, but wary, as if this were some prank and at the last moment, Ari would rip it away.

“We're going to Kane's estate.” He could see the pulse leap in her throat when he revealed their location. Nervous? Afraid? “We're attending his pet's art show in his private gallery.”

Even though Ari had commissioned the painting, he was in the market for more. He'd seen some of Saskia's work, and was eager to purchase a piece to add to his collection. Her paintings always went fast when she had a collection ready to sell.

“Come with me.” Ari led her down the hallway toward another wing of the house he generally kept locked. He pressed his thumb against the biometric keypad, and the door slid open. “It's okay,” he said at the wary expression on Claire's face.

In the time she'd been with him, she'd never asked about the locked wing. Maybe she'd never noticed it or ventured that far through the estate. Or maybe she'd been afraid to know what he kept behind such security.

She gasped as she took in the walls and walls and rooms and rooms of paintings he'd collected over the years. He needed her to know the way he felt about art before taking her to a show. He hoped she would appreciate it as much as he did.

He watched as she slowly moved through his collection, her mouth frozen on a gasp. Multiple times she reached out as if she would touch a piece, but each time she jerked her hand back before he could say anything to stop her.

“Is this real?” Claire asked, pointing at the Monet.

“It's real. I have one of the few pieces in private collector hands. I also own a Van Gogh.”

She seemed impressed. She moved on to a section of contemporary art and stopped in front of a Quill nude.

“This looks like the painting you had made of me,” she said finally.

“It's the same artist. I bought that one from another collector, but I wanted one of my pet.”

She blushed.

He would never get tired of seeing her blush. It was such an innocent gesture in the middle of all their debauchery.

“We should go. It's a long drive. We'll be late.”

* * *

Claire felt giddy with more excitement than nerves when they arrived at Kane's estate. She wasn't surprised Ari's interest in art went beyond his friends' paintings, but she had been surprised by the massive amount of art he'd acquired. And its quality. It was an enviable collection. Some of the pieces he had were coveted by museums around the world.

She'd played dumb with Ari when she'd seen the nude, but she'd known. Quill's work had grown a great deal since the piece in Ari's private art gallery—though she wasn't sure the man was capable of making bad art.

Kane had signed the painting of Claire with a Q in the lower right-hand corner, which was odd, because he'd normally signed his work with his full name—or a closer scrawled semblance of it anyway. He had to know he couldn't get away with selling this work to the public now. Joseph Quill was dead. Or at least the news had said he was. A plane crash over the Atlantic.

His work had sold for high prices before his far-too-young-and-tragic death had sent them into the stratosphere. Had he faked his death? Well obviously, since he was alive and well now. It was possible Kane could just be an obsessive fan of Quill, mimicking his style, but if he was, he was better than the original artist. And that seemed unlikely.

Claire wondered if Kane could be charged with fraud? After all, his death had caused his paintings to go into very high demand overnight. Suddenly everyone in the art world had been nostalgic for Quill nudes. She still couldn't believe he'd painted her while she'd been oblivious to his true identity—at least she had been until she'd seen the finished product.

And now she found herself nervous over the prospect of seeing him again because not only had Quill painted her, but he'd touched her. When Claire had studied Quill's work, she'd developed a bit of a crush on him in the way one might have a crush on a long dead classic literary figure. She'd never seen so much as a picture of him but somehow she felt that a man who painted like that had to be hot.

The living version did not disappoint. Still, as stimulating and attractive as he was, no one compared to Ari for her. If Kane and his pet were bound by art, Claire and Ari were bound by secrets and captivity. They were bound by the things they'd done to each other both dark and painful, and beautiful.

Ari parked around the back of Kane's property and helped her out of the car. He led her through a large, well-lit elaborate garden, through pathways of entangled rose bushes and sculpture art, all in classical styles. There was not a single modern harsh geometric metal art installation to be found. Ari had obviously been here many times before to know his way so well.

The garden opened out at a large building with columns and climbing vines.

They were greeted by a very good-looking bald guy at the door. He looked like a bodyguard or a bouncer.

“Marcus,” Ari said, nodding.

Claire tried to hide the reaction she was sure must have flitted across her face at the revelation of the man's identity.

Marcus gave her an assessing look. “I see you got rid of Holly,” he said, his eyes not leaving Claire.

“Actually, she left. She got a modeling contract overseas,” Ari said. “This is Claire.”

“Is she a brat like the last one?” Marcus asked.

Apparently Holly had a reputation with these people.

“No,” Ari said simply, “she isn't.”

“Good. You deserve to be with someone who can appreciate you.”

She felt Ari tense beside her at that statement. She grabbed and squeezed his hand, and the tension seemed to deflate out of him.

“You're a little late,” Marcus said. “Some of the art has already sold. If you want something, I'd grab it fast. The alcohol and money are flowing. And Saskia's work has only gotten better since you last saw it.”

Ari nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

They were about to go in, when Marcus put a hand up, blocking their way. “Wait. I almost forgot.” He turned and picked up some papers from a table behind him. He handed one to Claire and one to Ari. Each bundle was 3 sheets of paper stapled together. He gave each of them a pen.

“You can't go in unless you sign. We know we can trust you but it's protocol, you know that.”

Ari sighed. “Kane and his NDAs.” He skimmed it, initialed a few things, and then signed the last page, printing his name underneath on the indicated line. “Claire, sign,” he said. There was no room for argument.

She initialed on her pages in the same places Ari had initialed, and then signed the last page, likewise printing her name on the bottom.

Marcus took the papers from the two of them and put them in a second pile on the table behind him.

“And cell phones,” he said, indicating a basket behind them filled with phones.

Ari took his phone out of his pocket and put it in the basket. “Claire doesn't have a phone,” Ari said.

Marcus looked her up and down and smiled. “Where would she possibly put it?” He looked back to Ari. “Okay, you can go in. Have fun, kids.”

The fact that they'd had to sign non-disclosure agreements to get in the door, even though they were invited guests, made Claire suddenly nervous again. Nobody had to sign an NDA to go to an art show or buy art. So what else was about to happen in this building? Ari squeezed her hand and guided her inside.

When they stepped into the outer lobby, she whispered, “Is everyone here...”

“Kinky?” he supplied.

Claire nodded.

“Probably seventy-five percent of them. The rest are tourists, but Kane knows and trusts them to have invited them.”

“Tourists?” Claire asked.

“People who like to brush up against the darkness but for whatever reason can't bring themselves to really go there. It gives them a little thrill but they don't need it.”

Even though he didn't say it, Claire could feel the “like us” at the end of his statement. Was that true? She couldn't speak for Ari's needs, but did Claire need this?

The few men she'd been with before hadn't been kinky. The fantasies had existed as mere theory inside her head—until Ari. She hadn't been able to get off with those few men she'd dated years ago in college, but she'd thought it was just her. Didn't a lot of women fake it? Didn't a lot of women have trouble with orgasm with a partner? She was sure she'd read that somewhere.

She'd told herself that maybe in a long term relationship it would get better. Maybe they'd introduce toys. Maybe they'd figure it out. But she just hadn't had the opportunity to find out. With Ari, there hadn't been a single time he'd touched or fucked her that her body hadn't responded like some starved creature in the desert, arching toward him, moaning and writhing, and yes, coming. Not a single moan or whimper had been artifice with him.

So did she need this? Yes, she probably did. And how the fuck would she have ever trusted a man again after the basement? How would she have trusted a man for a sweet vanilla fuck let alone the absolute power Ari wielded over her? She would have died alone in that apartment if this fucked-up thing hadn't happened between them. No one else would ever understand, but Ari had saved her. Claire took a long, steadying breath, willing herself not to cry.

Instead, she turned to Ari and whispered, “W-what do I call you in here?”

The subject hadn't come up in the car. They'd spent the hour-long drive discussing his art collection—Ari obviously surprised that she knew art as more than just a tourist—but they hadn't discussed this most basic issue. She'd assumed she would call him by his name, but now she wasn't sure.

“Master, of course,” he said. “There will be other people here with pets using the same titles. You'll blend. And you won't be the only woman wearing a collar tonight.”

Claire wasn't sure how much she would blend, but she nodded and allowed him to lead her through the doors into the art show.

The space they entered was a huge, incredible art gallery, with a high ceiling and a domed skylight in the center of the room. The walls were white—to showcase the art. Imposing columns stood around the circular room which looked as if they were holding the gallery up and supporting it.

The art hung on the walls, protected inside glass cases which were obviously fireproof, given all the candelabras standing at what might otherwise be a little too close to the art. At the moment, though, the candles weren't lit.

There were a lot more people in the space than she'd expected—maybe fifty. Or maybe it felt like too many because of the NDA and the suspicion that art wasn't the only thing that would be passing from one person's hands to another tonight. She smoothed down the beautiful teal dress Ari had given her and stayed close to him.

Claire's eyes immediately found Kane's. He was dressed sharply in a tux, looking as suave as Ari at the moment. She quickly looked away from him. The only thing she could think when she looked at him now was Joseph Quill had painted her. She was one of Quill's nudes.

Claire was pretty sure every woman under the age of fifty—and maybe some older—who knew contemporary art had fantasized about being the subject of a Quill nude. She'd always thought the women in his paintings looked well-fucked. And now she knew why, having been up-close-and-personal with the artist's illicit process.

The place between her legs flared to life at thoughts of the dirty debauchery she'd somehow become a part of every time she'd looked at one of those paintings. There had been secrets that had been shared with her, encoded in the expressions on those women's faces. And now that she was one of those women, she had the decoder ring. She knew exactly what those women had felt as they'd sat perfectly still while Quill painted them.

Ari was stopped by a handsome man going gray at his temples. “Ari?”

“Yes?” he replied, guarded.

The man chuckled. “Our host said to look for the towering viking,” he said in a cultured British accent.

“I get that a lot,” Ari said.

“I'm Lindsay. Kane tells me you'd like some of that cream. I order it wholesale by the crate. I'm afraid I can't share my supplier, but I can get you a crate if you'd like. It should last you and your lovely pet quite a while.” His gaze cut appreciatively to Claire, and she felt the blush overtaking her again. But she wasn't afraid of him. None of the men here had the same creepy terrible feel of those men in that basement.

Claire glanced away and noticed a dark-haired man speaking to a blonde woman wearing a glittering back collar and a sleek black floor length gown that also glittered with rhinestones.

“Kiska,” he said in a thick Russian accent, “Would you like one of these paintings for our room at the house? Or perhaps more? I will buy you whatever you like.”

“Yes, Master,” the blonde said.

“Go. Choose something.”

The woman noticed Claire watching her and smiled, then went to look at the paintings.

“Claire,” Ari said, calling her attention back to him.

The words, “Yes, Master?” tumbled out of her mouth without her thinking about it, and she was oddly grateful that few seemed to notice this title being thrown around.

“Let's go look at the art before it sells out.” He took her hand and guided her toward the paintings.

In the background she heard various endearments like pet, kitten and my little slut, and responses of Sir and Master, floating on the air around them.

Many women wore collars. They weren't dog collars. They were elegant jewelry like hers. Some were gold, some a silver-white metal. Some had jewels, some were more simple. Claire could immediately spot the tourists, as Ari had called them. They'd huddled amongst themselves toward the back of the gallery, eating hors d'oeuvres off passing trays, whispering and staring open-mouthed at the art—what they could see of it from that distance anyway. They reacted whenever a woman said the word Master, as though it were shocking and dirty—even as it clearly excited them.

“Start over there.”

Both Claire and Ari spun at Kane's voice.

“There are twenty-five paintings in the collection. They tell a story. So you should view them in order before the story gets broken up by buyers.”

“Like kittens at the pound,” a woman beside him said. The artist.

Saskia had long dark hair and eyes the color of rich melted chocolate. She wore a platinum collar with black diamonds, long black opera gloves, and a floor-length red evening gown with thin spaghetti straps and a high slit up one side. In fact, as Claire looked around, she noticed every woman wearing a collar seemed to also be wearing an evening gown with a high slit up the side. Had Kane explicitly requested extreme side-slits in the evening gowns or had the men in attendance just wanted to be able to touch their pets in any way they wanted at any time without clothing getting in the way? It seemed too planned to be coincidental.

Had Kane demanded Ari buy Claire a gown like this, or did he already know the dress-code from previous visits?

“I'm Saskia,” the artist said, “Kane's pet. You must be Claire.”

Claire smiled awkwardly at the woman, feeling suddenly guilty about the things she'd done with Kane. Did Saskia know he touched other women? Was he cheating on her? Did they even look at it that way? Claire had no idea. She'd had a hard time thinking through that sort of complex calculus while dealing with the potent effects of the cream.

But the my slut is your slut frat-boy mantra between Ari and Kane had to be known by her. Which meant... Ari had been with her as well.

“My pet is gaining quite a following in certain circles of the art world,” Kane said, sounding proud. His hand rested possessively against her lower back. “We had a waiting list for the entire six months it took her to complete the collection. I drove her the whole time like a relentless bastard, but the results speak for themselves.”

Given her brief experiences with him, Claire could just imagine the depravity he'd introduced into Saskia's creative process.

Ari led Claire to the spot Kane had indicated and they started to work their way through the series, looking at each painting in turn. They were each titled simply and enigmatically: Chapter One, Chapter Two, and so on—as if Saskia had written a book with pigments rather than words.

As they moved around the gallery, Claire could see a story unfolding. Each painting had a woman with dark hair. Saskia. All the images were kinky, each a tableau of dominance and submission. A shadowy male figure was in each image with the woman.

In the beginning he seemed undefined, blurred. He felt distant and cold and cruel. Terrifying. Claire could feel the woman's fear and disgust toward him shining out from her eyes. In some of the paintings there were other people present. Sometimes someone else was fucking the woman while the cruel distant stranger looked on.

But at some point things started to shift. Instead of pulling away from him, she moved toward him. He became more defined in each painting, less blurred around the edges, less shadowy. Light started to come in and by the last painting, Epilogue, one could see it was definitely Kane. In that last painting, rather than overt dirty kinky images, rather than power and surrender, the two of them were cuddled together in a bed.

Claire gasped when they stopped in front of one of the paintings in the series to get a closer look. Chapter Seventeen. There was Kane, Saskia, and... Ari. There was no mistaking his tall broad frame, the hair, or those arctic blue eyes that could both freeze you and melt you in a single glance.

“I want this one,” Ari said to no one in particular.

Claire took a closer look at the price. Each painting was selling at a hundred thousand dollars. And they were selling. It wasn't vanity pricing meant to stroke an ego but not fill a bank account. People were happily paying the price. Over half of the paintings already had red sold stickers on the title cards affixed to the wall beside them.

Kane appeared suddenly behind them. “I knew you'd pick that one,” he said. “Fond memories?”

“I can't believe you'd let her paint all this... as private as you are,” Ari said under his breath.

Kane shrugged. “I won't stand in the way of her art. She's brilliant. She can paint what she likes. Anyway, only the last painting in the series clearly shows it's me, and that one isn't for sale. I'm keeping it.” He pulled a roll of round red stickers out of his jacket pocket and marked Ari's painting as sold. “Marcus is handling the money, so you should go pay him. I'll keep Claire company.”

Ari looked back and forth between Claire and Kane. “Will you be okay, little one?”

“Yes, Master,” Claire said. Even though she wasn't sure how she felt about being left alone with an artist she'd once had sexual fantasies about.

Ari hesitated but finally nodded and went off in search of Marcus.

She'd thought all the women at this party were free agents who had some kink they'd woken up to and that they'd each gone in search of a man to scratch that itch, but these paintings spoke of something darker. And she wondered suddenly if Saskia was a slave in the way that Claire was a slave. A prisoner. Though she surely didn't seem like one. Then again, Claire knew nothing about her screamed, help me, a psycho is holding me hostage. Not with the way she'd clung so close to Ari since they'd arrived.

Ari had been consistently kind to her. Saskia obviously hadn't seen her own situation with Kane in the same way. Claire glanced across the room to find the artist mingling and speaking with the guests about her work.

“I need to speak with you. Now,” Kane hissed.

Claire turned suddenly back to the intimidating artist. “I... uh... okay.”

Kane arched a brow. “Are we forgetting our manners, Claire?”

“S-Sir,” she stammered.

“Good girl.” He led her out of the gallery and to a glassed-in room that looked like a conservatory but which obviously served as an art studio. The room was spacious. Was this where he and Saskia painted?

“You must have amazing ventilation in here. I can't even smell the turpentine,” Claire blathered nervously.

“We don't use turps. We use a natural method utilizing linseed and walnut oils mostly. But you know I don't use them because I didn't use them when I painted you.”

“Oh, right,” Claire said, flustered.

He'd somehow backed her against one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. Claire could feel the panic moving in. And then all at once, the flashback hit her. The smells and sounds of the basement. That drip, drip, drip of the leaky pipe in the corner that drew out the mice in the night when everything else was quiet.

“Please... please...” she begged, her arms going up defensively. She felt herself starting to hyperventilate, curling in on herself, shrinking to the ground, becoming very very small. Small enough to disappear if she squeezed her eyes shut and concentrated hard enough.

“Claire!”

She heard Kane's voice only distantly. She couldn't find her way back out. The only thing she could feel was the terror.

Then suddenly Kane wasn't there, it was the man in the basement. “No!” she shrieked, cringing from the man.

No... she looked again. It was Ari.

“What in the fuck did you do to her?” he demanded.

“I just wanted to talk. I didn't mean to trigger anything.”

Ari knelt in front of her now, stroking her cheek, then petting her hair, whispering soothing words to her. After several minutes, the worst of the panic receded. She could see she was in the art studio with Kane and Ari. She looked down at her hands, willing the tremors to stop. Someone left the room in a rush. She thought it was Kane.

A few minutes later he was back, handing something to Ari, then Ari was trying to get her to drink.

“It's just water, little one. Drink. It'll help you calm down.” He stroked her hair while she drank the water, then Claire shakily put the lid back on and handed the bottle back to Ari. He sat next to her and pulled her into his arms.

“Shhhh. Everything is okay. You're safe. I should take her home.” He said that last part to Kane.

“No! I don't want to go home,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

Claire nodded. Although she'd been nervous about what might happen here, she wanted to find out. It was the first time she'd been able to be out anywhere in years and feel safe. Until this moment, anyway.

Ari turned back to Kane. “Now tell me what the fuck you were doing?” he said, his voice a low growl.

“I needed to ask her something.”

“Then ask.”

Claire looked up at Kane. He seemed apologetic. He was obviously used to dealing with people who were less damaged—people who could take his intimidating presence without crumbling apart at his feet.

“I need to speak with her alone,” Kane said, his intense gaze never leaving hers.

“Over my dead body,” Ari said, still pissed off. “You remember how you felt when I tried to rescue Saskia out of that club and get her away from you? Multiply that by a hundred and you are close to understanding how I feel right now.”

“Master, please. It's not his fault I had a flashback. Anything could set one off under the right circumstances. Normal things. It was an innocent mistake.”

“Him backing you against the glass wasn't an innocent mistake. It was a clear intimidation tactic. Even without your history, he had no right to do that. You aren't his.”

“I thought we had a sort of timeshare arrangement,” Kane quipped.

“Shut up,” Ari gritted out.

Kane raised his hands in surrender.

Ari untangled himself from her and stood. He looked back and forth between Claire and Kane as though not trusting his instincts about leaving her alone with Kane a few minutes ago proved exactly why he shouldn't ignore them again in this moment.

“Will you be okay if I stand just outside the door?” Ari asked.

Claire nodded.

“Fine,” he finally said. He turned his full focus on Kane. “But if I get even the slightest hint that you're bullying her, this night is not going to end on good terms between us.”

“Understood,” Kane said. “But you have to know I would never hurt your girl.”

“Do I?” Ari challenged, his stare glacial.

“I would protect her just as you would Saskia. You know that. I got carried away. I pulled the scary dominant shit on her, forgetting she doesn't know me well enough for that. Okay?”

“You never pull the scary dominant shit on her. I don't care how well she knows you. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

Ari nodded and left the room, but he clearly wasn't happy about it.

When they were alone again, Kane extended a hand and helped her off the floor. Then he took a few steps back to give her space.

“Well? Spill it. Why did you look at me like you'd seen a ghost when you saw me tonight? What do you know that you shouldn't know? More importantly, how in the fuck do you know it?”

Claire took a deep breath. “What if I tell you something you don't want to hear? What happens?”

“I'm not going to hurt you if that's what you're asking. But I need to know.”

She sighed. “I know you're Joseph Quill.”

The resigned look on his face said he'd known that before the words had come out of her mouth. “And how do you know this?”

“Before... things happened... I wanted to work in art restoration. As part of my studies, I took a lot of art history classes as well as a survey on famous contemporary and recently deceased artists even though I wouldn't need to know that kind of thing specifically for what I wanted to do. It was interesting, and I was into everything about art except actually making it myself.

There was a heavy focus on your work. So I recognized it when I saw the painting you did of me. Though I wasn't a hundred percent sure you were him because I hadn't seen your work in so many years. At least I wasn't sure until I saw Ari's art collection tonight before we came here. He's got a Quill nude in his private gallery.”

Kane raised a brow. “He does? He never told me that. The last I checked all of the work was in the hands of private collectors unwilling part with them.”

“It's one of the earlier pieces. The only girl you were known to have painted multiple times.”

Kane laughed suddenly. “Motherfucker. I'd wondered where that painting got off to. There is only one piece of that girl in private hands. I was planning to steal it from the previous owner. I'd tried to buy it first, but they wouldn't sell. They must have decided to sell after all. I guess they chose another buyer. They probably didn't appreciate the way I'd talked to them.”

“I'm sure Ari would sell it to you if he knew how much it meant to you.”

Kane laughed again. “Right now he wouldn't sell me a pint of blood if I was bleeding out. But it doesn't matter. I'm happy for him to have it. I don't need it anymore. I've moved on.”

“Can I ask you something?” Claire asked.

“Sure.”

“Why did you fake your death? You didn't need to be dead to sell art for millions of dollars. You were well on your way, alive.”

Kane shook his head. “I didn't fake it. I was running a tech start-up, and I couldn't afford any scandals. The kind of art I do would have qualified as a scandal. My art was taking off at the same time as the startup. I wasn't sure which horse to bet on, so I bet on both. I got someone to pose as Joseph Quill for public appearances. He was the one who died in the crash. I'm mainly doing kinky art installations as Jacob Hunter now, but I still do my nudes for people I know I can trust. Though I still make them sign NDAs. You can't be too careful.”

It was one thing to know he was Quill. It was yet another for him to confirm it.

“I was a huge fan of your art,” she said quietly, feeling a bit starstruck even after everything.

“Was? Claire, you wound me.”

“Am,” she clarified. “I still can't believe Joseph Quill painted me.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, Saskia is a fan girl, too. And for the record, that girl in the painting you saw... she's not the only one I've painted multiple times. She's the only one I've painted multiple times that ever went up for sale. Saskia is part of my private collection.”

The way he said it made it clear he meant more than all the paintings he must have done of her. He meant she, literally, the woman, was somehow a creation of his, and a piece of art he would never part with.

“You can't tell anyone what you know,” he said. “It could cause a lot of problems for me.”

“I assumed as much. And I would never... I swear your secret's safe with me.”

He stared at her for a long time, then finally nodded. “I believe you. Come. Let's go back out. It's about to get a lot more interesting out there.”

Ari was waiting for her when she stepped into the hallway. His eyes met hers, a question in his gaze. She nodded and he held out a hand to her. She took it and allowed him to pull her into his arms. That was when Saskia rushed up, flushed with excitement.

“Guess what, Master?”

“You sold them all?” Kane asked.

“Yes! A man named Logan bought the last six!”

“You know what that means, that he bought six?”

Saskia blushed. It was the first time Claire had seen the woman anything other than poised and composed. She looked at the ground. “Yes, Master.”

He put his hand under her chin and raised it so her eyes met his. “I can show mercy. You've been such a good girl, I can change the rules for you. You haven't met Logan after all.”

She shook her head. “N-no. It's okay.”

“Oh. I see. You're attracted to him,” Kane said. But there was no anger in his tone. Just indulgent amusement.

“Yes,” she said, in a sort of breathless way, a flush rising in her cheeks.

He nodded. “Good girl. You know how much I like what a dirty little whore you are.”

Saskia had gone from confident and imposing to shy in a matter of moments under whatever dark power Kane exerted over her.

Claire had no idea what any of this meant. It was as though they were speaking in code. And though Ari could have led her away back to the party, he seemed to want to stay right where he was.

“You know, at this rate, your debt will be paid off within another year,” Kane said.

Saskia's face fell. “And then would you let me go?”

Kane laughed. “I will never let you go. But once you pay off your debt, I will let you keep your earnings.”

Relief came over the other woman's face. Claire was busy putting the pieces together even more sure now that Saskia was somehow Kane's real, actual slave—someone who couldn't leave, but who didn't seem to be making any great effort to try. Kind of like Claire.

Kane clearly wasn't worried about saying any of this openly in front of Ari and Claire. But then it was all mutually assured destruction at this point, wasn't it? It was just another layer in Ari and Kane's strange bond.

“And are you going to stop selling me to your friends?” Saskia asked, still seemingly unconcerned with Claire and Ari's proximity to the conversation.

Claire tensed at that.

“Definitely not. You know how I enjoy watching other men fuck you for my amusement.”

Saskia's blush went deeper, accompanied by a small smile this time. Claire released the breath she'd been holding. If Saskia was into it, Claire wouldn't judge her. And the fact that the other woman was engaging in sex acts with multiple men made Claire feel less terrible about the fact that Kane had touched her. Saskia wasn't expected to be faithful while Kane fucked around behind her back. Somehow this was all even. Fair.

Kane pulled Saskia into an embrace and pressed a kiss against her throat above her collar. “Are you ready, pet?”

“Yes, Master.”

Kane turned then, for the first time acknowledging Ari and Claire since they got to the hallway. “Let's go, then. Time to learn why everybody signed NDAs.”

In the main gallery, Marcus was lighting the dozens and dozens of candles around the perimeter of the giant room. Claire looked up, relieved to find a sprinkler system in the ceiling.

Marcus wasn't wearing a shirt, and Claire couldn't be sure if it was his lack of shirt in an otherwise formal environment or the lighting of the candles which had caused the room to go quieter and talk to turn to whispers. Marcus had a black dragon tattoo on his back that wrapped around one side of his torso.

Ari took Claire's hand and pulled her back to the middle of the room with the rest of the guests, as Kane and Saskia went to the area of the gallery Claire thought of as “the front” because of the way the paintings were displayed.

Kane's fingertips trailed over the dragon as he passed the other man, eliciting a small shiver. Marcus paused in his candle lighting when Saskia was within reach of him. He gripped the back of her neck possessively, pulling her in for a hungry kiss. She melted against him, unconcerned with the crowd of people now watching the front of the gallery with rapt attention. He whispered something in her ear. She nodded. Then he nodded. He and Kane exchanged a glance. It was all very cryptic.

Marcus went back to lighting the candles. When all of them were lit, he disappeared for a moment into the hallway, and the lights went out. In the lower light, Claire noticed she and Ari stood in a circle of illumination. She looked up to see the two of them were just under the skylight, the full moon shining down on them.

Her attention was called back to the front by a spoon tapping against a glass. “May I have your attention,” Kane said. He stood in front of a table with a large crystal bowl on it.

The room fell silent. Anticipation hung on the air, concentrated most heavily with the tourists in the back. They stood closer together as if they were about to spend the night in a haunted house and were now having doubts about it. Too late now. The ink was dry on the NDA's.

“I'm Jacob Hunter,” Kane said. “Saskia and I are so pleased to have you here. All twenty-four pieces that were for sale have now sold. Congratulations to all who acquired the art they wanted. I heard rumors there was some fighting over a couple of them.”

A smattering of polite laughter from the group.

Kane continued, “You all signed non-disclosure agreements before being allowed inside. As you know, that wasn't because of anything forbidden in Saskia's art, but something forbidden in my own. I have my own piece to share with you. Let's get started. If you purchased one of my lovely pet's paintings tonight, please raise your hand.”

Ari and about ten other people—three women, the rest men—raised their hands. Several must have bought more than one painting. Marcus moved through the candlelit room and handed a white envelope to each buyer.

“Please read your cards,” Kane said.

Ari opened the envelope and pulled out the card. The engraved black ink was legible under the moonlight coming in from above them, but other buyers took their cards closer to one of the many lighted candelabras to read. Ari held his card so that Claire could see it, too.

Thank you for purchasing an original Saskia Roth. You will be allowed to touch, fondle, lick, suck, and fuck the art entitled Gift with Purchase for a period of five minutes for each piece you purchased. Enjoy.

Claire's eyes widened. “What art is someone going to want to do that to?” she whispered.

“Saskia is the art,” Ari said.

“Oh.” Suddenly the implications of the stranger who had bought six paintings became clear. He would get thirty minutes to do whatever he wanted with Saskia, in front of the entire gallery of people. She looked around at the guests with cards, wondering which one of them was Logan. Some of the buyers had raised an eyebrow upon reading the card. Some had lascivious smiles on their faces. Some seemed to be trying to figure out just what they could do in the time allotted to them.

Ari turned to Claire, watching her, no doubt waiting for a reaction.

“What are you going to do with her?” she whispered.

Ari leaned in close to her ear. “I'm going to fuck her, gently, slowly, but I'm not going to finish. When the timer rings, I'm coming for you. I'm going to finish inside you right here in this gallery.”

Claire was suddenly so turned on she couldn't think. Wasn't she supposed to be jealous? Cry? Be angry? But all she felt was the steady throbbing pulse of growing arousal between her legs.

“I want you to watch me with her,” he continued, practically growling the words in her ear.

“Yes, Master,” she whimpered in response.

“Good girl.”

Kane spoke again. “When you've read your card, please put it back inside the envelope, and don't share it with the others around you. When your name is called, you will turn in your card. Marcus will set the timer based upon the number of paintings you purchased. You may decline your time if you don't wish to participate, but you cannot sell or trade it to anyone.

Those of you who did not purchase a painting are welcome to engage in whatever lewd acts you wish amongst yourselves. We have party favors for everyone. Please feel free to take one.” Kane pulled a familiar white tube out of the crystal bowl behind him. “Ladies, I promise you, it's like nothing you've ever experienced.”

A tall good-looking man with hawkish features carried a chair and cello across the front of the room. He placed the chair near Kane and sat.

“Nolan, play something dark. Give us some music to fuck to.”

“You know I bought a painting,” Nolan said.

“We'll give you a five-minute break,” Kane replied smoothly.

The man just chuckled and began to play slow sensual strains.

Marcus rolled what looked like a sturdy leather table into the room and positioned it at the front close to Nolan. As it had rolled past them, Claire glimpsed a placard that read: “Gift with Purchase by Jacob Hunter”.

“Saskia, come here,” Kane said.

The woman joined him.

“Turn,” he commanded.

She turned away from him, and Kane slowly began to unzip the long red evening gown. Saskia looked flushed with excitement even in the candlelight. He pushed the thin spaghetti straps off her shoulders, then pushed the gown first down to her waist, then over her hips.

Appreciative whistles sounded from the audience.

An imperial-sounding male voice said, “Leave the gloves on.”

“Of course, Phillip. She wore them for you,” Kane said.

Chuckles rose from the group.

The red gown pooled at her feet. “Step out,” Kane ordered.

He took her hand and helped her out.

“Good girl. Now turn, slowly, let them all take a good look.”

Saskia turned slowly all the way around to the sound of whistles and cat calls rising over the cello music. Kane took one of the white tubes of arousal cream out of the crystal bowl and returned to her. He spread the cream between her legs. The room went silent as they watched, mesmerized by the way she arched her body into his hand as he stroked her.

When he was finished, she got on top of the padded leather table and crawled to the center of it, facing the audience on her knees, legs spread wide.

“Appetizing, don't you think?” Kane said, a smile curving his lips.

Marcus read off a notepad: “Anton Volokov.”

The Russian and his blonde pet went up to the table and turned in their card. The buyer whispered something to Marcus. Marcus relayed whatever was said to Kane. Kane nodded. The Russian led the blonde woman over to the table where Saskia knelt, waiting, her breathing changing, her nipples hardening.

Marcus set the timer for ten minutes. The light ticking sound disappeared behind the strains of the cello. Claire couldn't take her eyes off them. The blonde woman began to kiss Saskia while Anton started to fondle her breasts and stroke between her legs.

Claire looked around the room to find one-by-one men were taking the white tubes out of the crystal bowl and returning to their pets. At first hands slipped under the high-slits in the women's evening gowns to grope and finger, then to apply the cream.

The buzzer sounded and Anton and his pet stopped touching Saskia, leaving her whimpering and begging them not to stop. The cream had obviously kicked in, and the Russian had known exactly how to touch her to keep her from coming.

“Sorry,” the Russian said, “Be a good girl. Rules are rules. The next one will satisfy you, I'm sure.”

Ari took Claire's hand and led her away from the group over to a buffet table in the back. “Eat something,” he said. “It'll help settle your nerves.”

Was it that obvious?

The two of them ate from the buffet as Marcus moved through two more names on the list.

“Are you okay?” Ari asked.

“Yes, Master.”

Moans and whimpers began to sound around the room as the arousal cream took effect. Tuxedos and dresses started to come off. Soon there were couples and groups fucking around the room on the gallery floor like animals in heat, having lost even the pretense of respectability or formal etiquette. Gone was the polite laughter and all that was left was guttural moans as fingernails dug into backs and hands slapped hard across exposed ass cheeks.

“Aric Dalgaard,” Marcus said.

“Aric?” Claire said, confused when Ari took her hand.

“My kid sister couldn't pronounce her consonants on the end of words. She kept calling me Ari. The family thought it was cute. It stuck.”

It was cute. It was kind of charming that this large adult male had edited his entire identity to accommodate a small child's speech impediment.

Ari guided her to the front, leaving her just a few short feet from the leather table Saskia panted on, waiting to be touched or fondled or fucked again. He gave Marcus his card and began to undress. He took a one-hundred dollar bill out of his pocket and left the clothes in a pile on the floor.

“Hey, Doll,” he said gently when he approached Saskia. “Are you doing okay?”

As if he needed to ask. The woman's eyes were glazed with lust. But Claire found she liked that he did ask. That he cared about Saskia's comfort and mental state. It made Claire trust him more.

“Yes, Sir,” Saskia said, licking her lips.

He tossed the hundred-dollar bill at her. “Buy yourself something pretty.”

She pouted. “You paid ten thousand last time. Now I'm just worth a hundred?”

Ari laughed. “I paid a hundred thousand this time. The hundred is just a tip because you're so cute.”

Marcus started the timer. Ari climbed on the table with her and flipped her over onto her hands and knees. A moment later he was inside her, slowly fucking her, cupping and stroking her breasts.

Claire was captivated. Nothing she thought she should feel with Ari had manifested. When she'd kept him prisoner she hadn't felt the relief she expected. When he took her captive and began to train her body to his own desires, she didn't feel the revulsion or terror she expected, and in this moment she didn't feel the expected jealousy.

Instead, watching him fuck Saskia, she felt aroused. It was the most erotic thing she'd ever watched. Seeing Ari from an angle she could never see him when he was inside her, watching the sleek animal way he moved, his body gliding with ease inside another.

She felt a hand in hers, pulling her back to the circle of moonlight. It was Kane, she realized suddenly, as he stood behind her, leaning in, kissing the side of her neck. His fingers strayed under the slit in her dress, between her legs.

Claire moaned and sagged against him as he pressed two fingers inside her.

“Already so wet,” Kane growled in her ear. “Does it excite you to watch him fucking my pet?”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, her hips thrusting against his fingers.

“Good. I'm so glad Ari has a pet I like now. The four of us are going to fuck together many times in the future. You can count on it. He's going to be inside you. I'm going to be inside you. He's going to be inside her. I'm going to be inside her. And we'll both watch you and Saskia together.”

“Yes, Sir,” Claire gasped.

“I'm not using the cream on you tonight. You're going to own the fact that you want this. You're going to come without anything dropping your inhibitions.”

Kane unzipped her dress, and pushed the gown down over her hips and to the floor, much like he had with Saskia. “Turn,” he whispered in her ear.

Claire turned to face him, her heart thundering in her chest. This should terrify her. But in this moment there was no fear, no flashbacks, nothing but the smell of sex and the desire that kept climbing higher and higher.

His gaze roved hungrily over her, then his hands followed behind, trailing over every inch of her as if he planned to paint her again right here, right now. But instead he bent down, taking one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking until he wrenched a whimper from her.

“Please,” she begged.

Instead of giving her the pleasure she needed, he turned her back around to face Ari and Saskia and held her in place. “Watch them,” he said in her ear. “Watch your master fuck my dirty little whore.”

He rubbed her clit with the fingers of one hand, while the other stroked between her ass cheeks, one finger pressing inside. Claire let out a gasp as his finger slid in and out of her ass. She rocked back against him.

Her eyes met Saskia's as the other woman writhed beneath Ari.

17

Ari bit back a groan as Saskia's cunt gripped his cock. He felt her come as she shuddered beneath him. “Yes, Doll. Good girl. Come for me.” He stroked her clit to help her along without allowing himself to join her.

The buzzer sounded. Ari kissed Saskia's shoulder and pulled out of her.

He was painfully hard, his dick protesting against being taken from such a warm, welcoming cave before he'd found his own release, but he wanted that release to happen inside Claire. He turned to see Kane fingering his pet. Her eyes were glazed with lust as she watched Ari stalk her. When he reached her, he wrenched her roughly from Kane's arms.

“On your hands and knees, now!” he commanded.

She scrambled to obey him. Relief flooded him as he thrust into her dripping pussy. “No jealousy, little one?”

“No, Master,” she whimpered, fucking him as much as he was fucking her.

“Good girl.” He couldn't hold on long, not long enough for her to come with him. After being inside Saskia, it only took a few hard thrusts then he was spilling inside her.

When he finished, he pulled out and sat in the circle of moonlight. He took her into his arms. She still trembled from need.

“Please, Master... please please...”

“You're going to leave her in this condition?” Kane asked.

“No. You're going to finish her. You're going to fuck her, here in the middle of the gallery with all these people while I watch you do it. You're going to rub her swollen clit and make her come while you pound into her.”

Ari had just lost his fucking mind. He knew it. He'd had all these noble plans. He wasn't going to share her with Kane. He was going to grow up and put aside my slut is your slut. For Claire's sake. But he'd forgotten how much he loved being inside of Saskia while Kane watched and how much he loved watching Kane fuck whoever he'd happened to be with.

He hadn't been sure he'd be so thrilled about it if it was a woman he loved, but right now, he wanted to share this woman with Kane so obviously it didn't matter.

Kane smiled. “Yeah. You're not sharing her. Message received.”

“Only with you, asshole,” Ari replied.

He stroked Claire's hair. She was still trying to find a way to grind against him. Still desperate to get off. “Do you want Kane inside you? Will you let him fuck you so I can watch you come?”

“Yes, Master... please...” She was so desperate now she would say anything to come.

Ari handed her off to Kane and watched as his friend laid her gently on her back on the floor and slowly started to undress. Everyone else in the gallery but Marcus was fully nude now, fucking with abandon. Even the tourists had given in to the animal instinct.

Kane covered her body with his, cradling her into himself. It was the sweetest Ari had ever seen Kane be with anyone, as if he were still apologizing for the intimidation tactics in the studio and reassuring Ari he could be trusted with her, that this thing they were starting wasn't a mistake.

Kane kissed her and she whimpered against his mouth, grinding her body against him, straining for his cock. Finally he pushed himself inside her and began to move.

“Fuck, she's exquisite,” Kane said as if he were sampling a new smooth whiskey.

After he'd had enough slow fucking, he pulled out of her and flipped her to her hands and knees and took her from behind, his hand moving to the front to rub her clit at the same feverish pace he was fucking her.

“Come for me,” he growled in her ear. She bucked wildly against him and soon after, screamed out the release that had been building in her for so long. She slumped boneless, her cheek against the floor as he fucked her until he came, filling her with his own release.

Kane pulled out of her and the three of them laid back against the cool floor.

“I knew you'd see things my way,” Kane said finally.

“Shut up,” Ari said.

Kane just laughed.

The buzzer went off again, and Marcus called another name. “Logan Blair.”

Kane sat up, suddenly alert. He stood and started to dress.

“What is it?” Ari asked. But he knew. He just wanted to hear the bastard say it. He just wanted to hear it out loud, that Kane had a soft feeling for someone inside that hard exterior he'd erected for the rest of the world.

“She's never been with Logan. Never even met him. I need to watch and make sure she's okay.”

Ari nodded. “After that, we need to talk.”

Kane finished dressing and moved closer to the leather table to watch. Ari got dressed as well, then helped Claire back into her evening gown. He held her in his arms for a while, slow dancing with her to the cello music, the wild orgy still carrying on around them at the edges of their vision.

As he spun Claire around the floor, he kept an eye on Saskia as well. But Logan was slow, and gentle, careful. He didn't treat her like a whore. He treated her like it was her first time with soft kisses and caresses, and Saskia was practically eating out of his hand.

Ari's gaze shifted over to Marcus who also watched intently. If someone actually hurt Saskia, at least three men, and possibly more would be descending on him like rabid beasts. Ari knew there were other men here with a special fondness for her. Phillip and Nolan among them.

Kane seemed to be thinking the same thing he was thinking because he finally turned and said. “I think she's fine with Logan. I was sure she would be, but he's new to her.”

Ari stopped dancing with Claire. “Give us a minute,” he said to Kane.

“Sure.”

Ari led Claire up to the front where Marcus was.

“Kneel beside him,” Ari said.

She looked uncertain, as if he were just randomly passing her to someone else. “It's okay, no men but Kane and I will ever touch you.”

She knelt beside Marcus who had taken his gaze from Saskia for a moment.

“Keep an eye on her for me for a few minutes? And don't let anyone touch her.”

“Of course,” Marcus said. “I'll keep her safe.”

“Thank you.”

Ari looked up to find Kane waiting. The two men left the gallery and went back to the quiet of the studio.

“Were you still planning to brand Saskia?” Ari asked as soon as the door closed.

Kane looked surprised. He obviously hadn't expected this to be the topic of conversation.

“Yes,” Kane said, “Why?”

“Does she know yet?”

“No. Again, why?”

“I thought we could do it together. Have a party. You brand Saskia, I'll brand Claire.”

Kane's eyes widened. “You're branding Claire? Don't you think that's a little much, considering...”

Ari began to pace. This whole night had unsettled him in ways he hadn't expected. Claire had gotten inside him. He needed to lay a permanent mark on her. He needed... well, he probably needed a therapist if he were being honest with himself.

He'd never felt so out-of-control as he did tonight. Never had he felt so consumed by a wildness he couldn't explain or define. The absolute need to put a claim upon a woman that was permanent, physical, visible, that would mark her flesh for the rest of her life.

“Let me ask you something,” Ari said, still pacing. “Why are you branding Saskia?”

“Because she's mine. And I think it will make her feel secure. I took a long time to let her in. You saw that terrified deer-in-headlights look she got when I mentioned her paying her debt off within a year. Like I was just going to get rid of her after that. As if this thing with her ever had anything to do with money. As if I cared about the fucking money. Money was an excuse to take what I'd wanted from the first day I laid eyes on her. I just needed a justification.”

Ari could relate. Claire keeping him in that cell was a justification, but the cell didn't matter. If he'd met her in some other way he wouldn't have had the reason to take her, and he probably wouldn't have done it. But he would have wanted to. It would have haunted his dreams for months.

“Okay, well that's basically the same reason I want to brand Claire. So let's do it together. Let's make it a formal thing.”

Kane smiled. “Okay, I'm in. Who are we inviting to this ceremony?”

18

Ari paced the hallway wearing a pair of faded jeans and nothing else. Saskia, Kane, and Marcus would be arriving in fifteen minutes. And Kane was nothing if not punctual. Usually he was irritatingly early.

Ari had presented his blueprints for the private kink club earlier in the week. The plans were enthusiastically accepted with no changes requested, and a healthy sum had been wired to his bank account. He'd gotten another design offer almost immediately—a referral. But the work didn't start for another month—not that he needed any of the work by this point. Like many of his socio-economic class, he worked because he liked it, not because he needed it. Still, the break was nice.

The only thing he had to worry about right now was tonight. After much discussion, Ari and Kane had decided against a party with guests. It was one thing to make Saskia the kinky sexual centerpiece of a large crowd. She was used to it and got off on it. It was quite another to do it to Claire. Claire had a different history that didn't exactly lend itself to giant amounts of public sex.

Ari had reasoned that she'd been okay at the art show. But all eyes had not been on her. It was Kane of all people in the end who had suggested it should be a private affair with the four of them. If the man wasn't careful, people might think he had a heart in there.

But then even that had been compromised when Marcus had strongly vetoed the arrangement. He didn't want to be left out. While his thing with Kane and Saskia was a different thing than Ari's friendship with Kane and their commitment to my slut is your slut, Marcus wanted to be included in something as important as a branding. He wanted to watch. Ari hadn't objected, and neither had Kane.

So it was to be the five of them. And somehow Ari felt as though he were involved in some weird initiation ritual. He really had always thought this thing with Kane was temporary. It had started as a joke, a lark.

But then the one-time ice breaker joke became a long-standing inside joke. And at some point, both of them had stopped laughing. At some point both of them had started to take having sexual access to whoever the other was with as some sort of fucked-up sacred right. And though Ari wasn't attracted to men and was sure he would never fuck Kane, he'd fucked with Kane for years now.

The two of them had enjoyed many women together. And now both of them had a woman they wouldn't release even if she wanted out. That's how far both of them had lost their minds and moral reasoning faculties. Kane had his thing with Saskia. Ari had his thing with Claire. But there was also this potential for this other thing with all of them. And apparently Marcus watching—at least for tonight.

The doorbell rang. Ari went to the front door, nervous energy still buzzing off him. He pressed his thumb against the keypad, and the locks slid back. He opened the door and Kane, Saskia, and Marcus walked in. All of them were dressed casually in jeans and T-shirts, a high contrast from the last time he'd seen them.

“Is everything ready?” Kane asked.

“It's all set up in the dungeon. The branding irons are heating. Once it reaches the right temperature, it should hold steady, but there's a digital read-out to be sure.”

“Where's Claire?” Kane asked.

“She's in my room.”

“Does she understand what tonight is about? Is she all right?”

Ari wasn't entirely sure what the answer to either of those questions was.

“I could talk to her,” Saskia offered.

Ari nodded. That seemed like a good idea.

* * *

Claire paced back and forth in front of the fireplace in Ari's room. Every few minutes she looked up at the painting Kane had done of her as if looking at that painting was going to make any of this better. Ari had explained things carefully and patiently to her. She was Ari's, but sometimes he wanted to share her with Kane. And sometimes he wanted her to play with Saskia.

How was she supposed to respond to that? Anything but “Yes, Master” would displease him. But didn't “Yes, Master” make her the biggest slut in the world? Especially since it was no tormented hardship to say yes to that.

Her fantasies had somehow become real and the real version was even better than all the things she'd imagined. So when would she wake up? When would something terrible happen to break it all apart? She felt like something horrible loomed just ahead to mess everything up. She'd been convinced for years that happiness just wasn't a thing that she'd been allotted in life. Happiness was for other people.

She jumped at the knock on the door.

“Hey, it's Saskia. Can I come in?”

She let out the breath she found herself holding. “Of course.”

The door opened and the dark-haired artist walked in, except she sort of glided when she moved. Even in jeans, a T-shirt, and wedge sandals, there was something unbearably sophisticated about her. Maybe it was her long exposure to an artist like Quill.

She smiled as she looked around. “I've always loved this room.” Then she spotted the painting over the fireplace. “Oh! He painted you. Did you get the full artist-process treatment?”

Claire felt herself blush.

Saskia laughed. “That's a yes. Quill is... intense.”

“You call him Quill?”

“No, I call him Master, or it's my ass,” Saskia said with a wink. “But yeah, I think of him that way. And he told me you knew about the art thing, so I can say it in front of you. Are you okay? About what's happening tonight?”

“Are you?” Claire asked.

Saskia smiled. It was an easy smile. A conspiratorial smile. Claire hadn't really gotten to talk to Saskia at her art show, but she already liked this woman. “Yes. I'm good with it. Excited. I think this will be good.”

“What about the branding part?” Claire asked, holding back the shudder. Ari had explained it all to her and had reassured her it wasn't the horror show she imagined, but that was easy for him to say. He wasn't the one getting branded.

“It won't hurt like you're thinking,” Saskia said. “I mean it'll hurt, and you'll be really sore while it heals, but it's not going to feel like a burn. With strike branding, the iron gets heated at a very high temperature. It burns off your nerve endings fast. So... it won't feel like a burn. It's not torture. It's a huge endorphin rush. And then if you take care of it properly, you'll have Ari's initial on your hip, forever. And I'll have Quill's. He's signing me with a Q,” she said sounding almost giddy.

“Have you been branded before?”

“No, but I've seen it done. Trust me. It will be okay. The part you need to be concerned about is the healing process. That's when most things go wrong if you don't take care of it properly. But we will.”

She sounded so reasonable. And Claire knew she was crazy for thinking it, but she was sure Ari would never intentionally harm her.

Kane's pet looked around at the room again. “You know Ari designed this house, right? If you ask me, he's just as great an artist as Quill. It's probably why they're friends. They get each other, I think.”

“Really? He designed all this?”

Saskia nodded. “He didn't tell you?”

“No.”

“I guess he wouldn't. How would he fit that into a conversation? 'By the way, I designed this glorious place myself.' He's kind of modest about his accomplishments.”

Perhaps she should have figured it out. He was an architect after all. And that beautiful table he'd made. It seemed so obvious now that no one but Ari could have designed this beautiful house.

There was another knock. Marcus poked his head in. “Hey love, are you two ready to do this?”

Saskia turned to Claire, a question in her gaze. Claire nodded.

“Yes, Sir,” Saskia said.

Claire was surprised when Saskia grabbed her hand and led her out of the room. The two of them walked in front with the men behind them, their hands clasped tightly together. In the dungeon all the lights along the wall had been turned on.

Claire scanned the room. A large bed had been pulled out closer to the center of the room. Near that was a St. Andrew's Cross which had a couple of white bathrobes draped over the center of the X. In one corner stood a large cylinder with two iron rods sticking out of it.

Claire shivered—an ironic reaction to that much heat. In the very center of the room, under a couple of small spotlights recessed into the ceiling were two spanking horses positioned side-by-side only a few feet apart. Marcus sat in a chair near the bed.

“Ladies, time to undress,” Ari said, already peeling off his jeans and tossing them to the floor.

Claire caught Saskia giving him an appreciative once over. She winked, and Ari laughed. The others removed their T-shirts and jeans and shoes without another word. Nobody had worn underwear. And neither Saskia nor Claire had worn a bra.

“Girls, kneel on the bed facing each other. We want you to kiss and touch. Get to know one another,” Kane said.

Claire looked to Ari, and he just nodded. He and Kane had obviously planned every element of the night. The arousal slowly began to take over her nerves as she realized that the first thing both of their masters wanted was to watch them make out.

“Men are so predictable,” Saskia said, echoing Claire's thoughts.

“Watch that sassy mouth,” Kane said.

A small flash of fear crossed Saskia's face. “Yes, Master.”

Claire felt awkward and strange. She'd never done anything with another woman before. But Saskia obviously had. The other woman pulled her up on the bed with her without any hesitation. They knelt in the center, and a moment later Saskia's soft warm mouth was on Claire's.

She let out a gasp of surprise at how different and yet the same it was. Saskia kissed across her cheek and licked the shell of her ear, eliciting another shiver.

“Let's give them a good show,” Saskia whispered. “Ari loves this.”

Claire's gaze shifted to Ari's intense blue eyes. Then she panned down to his already hardened cock. She glanced over to find Kane in a similar state of intensity and arousal. And Marcus, sitting, watching. He'd already unbuttoned his pants, freeing his cock.

Saskia pulled Claire's focus back to her, her tongue pushing its way inside Claire's mouth. Saskia's hands began to stroke Claire's breasts, and she tentatively reached out to touch the other woman's ass.

Their kisses and fondling became more heated until they forgot the men watching them. All at once Claire wasn't putting on a show. She was intensely engaged in making out with Saskia.

“I think they like each other,” Kane said. “We could just leave them alone. They don't need us.”

Saskia giggled against Claire's mouth. But then the two men were on the bed behind them. Ari pulled her mouth from Saskia's while Kane pulled Saskia from Claire. Soft feminine kisses were replaced with hard, demanding masculine kisses. Whereas Saskia's mouth had been an invitation, Ari's was a demand.

Claire jumped when she felt a hand between her legs. Fingers coated with arousal cream rubbed over her folds and into her clit, then dipped inside her pussy. But both of Ari's hands were occupied: one hand at the back of her neck holding her in place for his kiss and the other cupping her breast. It was Kane applying the cream.

Ari broke his kiss with Claire and pulled Saskia away from the others. He took the tube from Kane and began to spread the cream on Saskia. Claire watched as the other woman fell back into Ari's arms, spreading her legs wide, open, uninhibited, moaning with pleasure as Ari's fingers slipped inside her pussy.

“Are you ready to be fucked?” Ari asked her.

“Yes, Sir,” Saskia breathed.

“What about you, Claire?” Kane asked.

“Y-yes, Sir.”

“Kiss each other again,” Kane demanded.

Saskia reached for Claire, their mouths joining once again. Ari pushed Saskia's body against Claire's, as Kane boxed her in from behind. The two men fondled their asses, pushing them closer against each other until their pussies touched. They tried to grind against each other, but they couldn't get the right angle.

Both men chuckled. Claire glanced over to find Marcus wasn't laughing. He was too busy fisting his erect cock in his hand, pumping harder and harder, his eyes locking with Claire's. She was sure he would have been looking at Saskia if she wasn't facing away from him.

Claire gasped as Kane pressed a finger inside her ass. She rocked between him and Saskia, her eyes meeting Ari's. Saskia let out a whimper, and Claire wondered if he was fingering her ass like Kane was Claire's.

Then the cream started to kick in, and both she and Saskia became more frenzied.

“Please, Master,” Saskia whimpered, catching Kane's gaze over Claire's shoulder.

He only chuckled again. Both he and Ari urged the two to continue kissing and groping, not letting either of them get off... Until finally Ari pulled Saskia off the bed, and Kane took Claire.

The men led them over to the spanking horses on shaky legs and made them each straddle one of them. The men secured them down and blindfolded them.

“You don't get to know which one of us is doing what,” Ari said. “Right now we both own both of you, is that clear girls?”

“Yes, Master,” they answered together.

“Good girls,” Kane said.

Claire jumped at the sound of a hard slap against an ass. She heard Saskia's surprised gasp which turned quickly into a moan. Then there was another hard smack.

“Stop trying to get off,” Ari said.

Was Ari the one spanking Saskia?

A hand cupped and stroked over Claire's ass. A hard smack caused her to yelp. The hand was followed by a paddle smacking each of her ass cheeks hard in turn. Was it Kane or was it Ari? Where was Marcus?

There were several chairs around the room. Maybe Marcus had chosen a closer seat since they'd left the bed. Or maybe he stood in front of them or between them.

Claire heard moaning and sucking sounds—Saskia sucking someone's cock. But neither man gave anything away. A few moments later, the same cock, wet from Saskia's attentions was thrusting in Claire's mouth. A hand gripped her hair pushing her down on his cock.

Her pussy throbbed, hungry to be filled. As if to answer that need, someone thrust inside her. Whoever it was let out a groan of pleasure and gripped her hips, pounding into her. She moaned around the cock in her mouth as her pleasure mounted higher.

Then she heard another sucking sound. Someone was fucking Saskia's mouth. So Marcus must be in play. Not only could Claire not tell who was fucking her cunt and who was fucking her mouth, but there were three possibilities now. She was sure it wouldn't be Marcus. Though the idea didn't trouble her like she thought it should. She was too turned on for that.

A hand landed hard on her ass as if whoever it was watched her and knew she was thinking too much.

“Be a good little whore and come for me.” It was Kane. She was so close. He drove into her harder until she moaned around the cock still in her mouth and came. Kane came a moment later inside her. Then whoever was inside her mouth came down her throat, his hand stroking the side of her face.

“Good girl,” Ari said.

Both men pulled out of her. Then four hands were on her, stroking her back, her hair, her ass. Soothing gentle caresses. The blindfold was removed as she finished coming down from her orgasm.

She could see Saskia now, still blindfolded, Marcus thrusting into her mouth. Ari and Kane both started to stroke her, fingering her pussy and her asshole while she moaned and jerked.

“Yes, come like a good whore,” Kane said, clearly his favorite phrase in the world to say.

But those words unmade her, causing her to buck and writhe, her panting breathes coming harder and harder around Marcus's cock. He groaned and came down her throat, then his cock slipped from her mouth.

Saskia screamed as Ari thrust inside her, already hard and ready again. Kane was next to her ear. “Good girl,” he whispered. “Finish for us now. Claire is watching.”

That seemed to excite her even more. She screamed out her release, panting and gripping the sides of the leather. Kane patted her on the back as though she were a puppy who'd performed an adequate trick.

Then Saskia's blindfold was removed as well.

“Are you both ready to be branded?” Kane asked.

“Yes, Master,” they both replied, dutifully.

Though Saskia seemed far more sure than Claire felt. Claire had decided it wasn't the mark that upset her. The idea of wearing Ari's permanent mark on her skin made her feel warm inside. It was the fear about the pain. The fear she couldn't handle it. The fear it might cause a flashback and then this moment would be forever marred by the past.

“Good girls,” Ari said. “This is how it goes... it'll be five seconds. It will hurt. But once the nerve endings are destroyed it won't hurt anymore. Except for soreness while it heals. Claire, are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yes, Master.” Was she okay?

“Saskia?” Kane asked.

“Yes, Master.”

“Good,” Ari said. “As soon as it's over, we'll take care of the injury.”

Claire watched as both men one at a time stepped into the attached bathroom to wash their hands. Then each in turn took surgical gloves from a disposable cardboard box and put them on.

Saskia reached out and grabbed Claire's hand and squeezed reassuringly.

“How's the temperature?” Ari asked.

Kane stood behind them near the branding irons. “It's ready.”

Ari joined him. Claire could hear the irons being pulled out, the terrifying grating sound as they clanged against each other.

“Deep breath, girls,” Kane said when they'd returned. Kane stood behind Saskia, Ari, behind Claire.

Claire and Saskia both screamed when the searing irons pressed against their hips. Claire gripped Saskia's hand tighter. She lost her breath for a moment and thought she would faint, except somehow the smell of burning flesh called her back as the thought floated dimly in her mind... I should have fought. I should have begged him not to do this.

“Five... four... three... two... one...” the two men said together. Then the iron was removed. The pain of only moments before was gone. The skin around Claire's brand felt tight. Her breathing had returned to normal, and soon a sort of elated high felt as though it were claiming her. Saskia let go of her hand and let out a long slow breath of her own.

Claire closed her eyes, tears she hadn't realized she'd been crying moving down her cheeks as Ari smoothed a salve into his mark while Kane took care of Saskia. Marcus came up then with plastic wrap. Both Ari and Kane took some off the roll. Ari pressed a piece of plastic over the brand. Claire let out a relieved sigh even as she felt not quite fully inside her own body as the endorphin rush flooded her.

Ari leaned forward and pressed a kiss against her shoulder. “All done. You did great,” he said.

Ari and Kane released the girls from their bindings. Ari picked Claire up and carried her back over to the bed, careful not to touch the brand. Kane laid Saskia next to her, then the two men climbed into the bed with them. Both Kane and Ari gently stroked the two women.

Claire felt somehow not quite real. She felt lost and like she couldn't make it back to the real world. But instead of the basement, she'd gone to a much better place—a place of safety and debauchery and pleasure sandwiched between two extremely attractive men, and a third one who sat watching.

“Come here, love,” Marcus said.

Claire watched as Saskia rose from the bed and joined him. She straddled him and he held her close, pressing kisses along her shoulder. He touched the brand lightly over the plastic wrap, and she winced.

“Hurts?” he asked.

She laughed. “Yes, Sir. Quill burnt the nerve endings off my hip. It's sore.”

“So I have to be gentle with you for a while then.”

Before she could respond, a loud bell rang, flooding into the room from a speaker in the ceiling. A doorbell. It rang incessantly, demandingly.

“Who in the fuck?” Ari growled. He untangled himself from Claire and got up, angrily jerking his jeans on.

The doorbell kept ringing. Aggressively. Endlessly.

“Motherfuck,” Ari cursed. “I'm going to kill whoever the fuck that is for interrupting this.” He stomped across the dungeon and up the stairs.

Kane got up and dressed as well. He picked up the terrycloth robes that had been draped over the St. Andrew's Cross.

He laid one across the bed for Claire. “You probably don't want to wear jeans until the brand heals. I would stick to loose cotton dresses. Did Ari get you any of those?”

She nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

He helped Saskia into the other robe.

“Who do you think it is? The police?” Claire asked.

Kane shook his head. “The police don't ring doorbells like that. I have my own suspicions. If I'm right, he might need backup.”

When all of them were reasonably dressed they went upstairs to find out what was going on. Claire could hear the shrieking well before she reached the front of the house.

“You've already replaced me with some whore?” a woman's voice shouted.

“Already? Holly, it's been going on a year,” Ari said. “We were done. You made that very clear. And I should have kicked your ass out before that if we've decided to settle finally on honesty between us.”

Ari and a woman with dark blonde hair stood in the kitchen.

“You are such a drama queen,” she said. “We weren't done. I told you I got a modeling contract. I had to take it. It was a huge opportunity for me. What? You wanted me to sit around here like a bored housewife and be your little fuck doll with no ambitions of my own?”

Claire winced at that. Wasn't that her life now? And she'd happily gone along with it. For the longest time, her greatest ambition had been just to survive. And now it seemed to be orgasms, which made her feel self-conscious—like she wasn't aiming high enough in life.

“That is not what happened,” Ari said. “Paris obviously gave you a creative memory.”

“Whatever.” She looked up and saw them standing there. “Hey Saskia, still being a good obedient little slave for your pervert master? How many other men does he have to share you with before you realize he's just not that into you?”

“Are you still an insufferable brat?” Kane asked.

Saskia blazed across the floor and slapped Holly across the face. Before the blonde could react, Ari had restrained her. Holly, not Saskia.

“That's ENOUGH!” he said. “All you're doing is reinforcing the mutual decision to end this. Do you want to know what I think happened? I think Paris wasn't all you dreamed it would be. I think you saw the unappealing side of the work involved in modeling and that it isn't just about people catering to your whims all day. I think you realized what you lost and came crawling back. And it's too late. It was too late as soon as you walked out the door.”

Holly rolled her eyes. “Really? That's not what I heard. I heard you spent weeks moping. Drinking away your sorrows. Admit it baby, you missed me.” Her lips turned down into a pout that she'd no doubt used on him to get her way many times in the past.

Ari let go of her, and she spun around to face him. “You know what we had was hot. You like the fire. The struggle. Admit it. No matter what you say, you don't want some perfectly obedient pet who says Yes, Master and No, Master and never ever thinks to defy you. You want the passion of the struggle. What we had was hot and you know it.”

Was that true? Claire wondered. Did this woman present a challenge he liked? Claire couldn't defy him that way. It wasn't in her. All she wanted to do was please him. Was he going to get bored with that? Did he want a woman he had to overpower constantly? Did he need that sort of constant stimulation? Maybe that's all the branding was, not some sign of something permanent and secure, but him trying to raise the stakes.

She remembered that first night, the look of triumph on his face after he'd overpowered her and changed their positions. Did he prefer that to her obedience?

“You've never known the first thing about what I want,” he said.

Holly reached out and grabbed Ari's cock through his jeans. Claire's mouth fell open. Ari pushed her away.

“Get. The fuck. Out.” he said. “And if you ever ring my doorbell like that again, I will file a restraining order.”

But Holly wasn't done. She spun to face the others in the kitchen, giving Claire a long, slow look.

“Another blonde, Ari? Really, that's so predictable. Has he been putting you in schoolgirl outfits, too? He has this thing for naughty schoolgirls. So, how serious is it? How long have you been his little rebound slut?”

Ari grabbed Holly's arm and started dragging her down the hall.

“Fucking let go of me! If you leave a bruise I'll report you to the police.”

“Fine,” he growled. “Either way we'll get a restraining order, and neither of us gets to be within five hundred yards of the other. Works for me.”

She continued to struggle.

“How many drinks have you had?” Saskia asked. She'd practically stolen the question out of Claire's head. The woman did seem a bit drunk.

But Holly ignored the question. “Wait,” she said.

Ari loosened his grip, and she wrenched free, taking a few steps back. They'd all made it out into the hallway by this point.

Holly held up her hands.

“Are you going to be calm and behave like a rational human being?” Ari asked.

The blonde took in the four other people in the hallway and smiled. “Okay, fine. You want this other slut. For now. I can wait. And Kane has Saskia. But what about the bald guy? He's the odd man out. I could take him and then we could be a sixsome. Is that even a thing?”

“Fuck no,” Marcus said.

This time it was Marcus who grabbed her around the arm and hauled her to the door. Ari pressed his thumb against the keypad, the door opened, and Marcus shoved her outside.

“Don't come back,” Ari said. “I'm not kidding about the restraining order. Sober up, and stay out of my life.”

They all watched out the window as she screamed, her hands balled into fists, looking as though she were going to make a run at the door. But after a few minutes of this, she stalked off, got into a yellow sports car, and zoomed away, narrowly missing backing into one of the gates.

“And that is why you never got a painting of Holly,” Kane said as if it needed to be said. There was a long pause and he sighed. “We need to go. I'll call you in a few weeks when our girls are healed.”

After Holly, the mood of everything was broken. Kane, Marcus, and Saskia got their things together and left. Then it was just Ari and Claire standing in the front hallway.

“You should probably get some rest,” Ari said quietly.

19

Ari bolted from bed.

“Please... please... no... NO!” Claire shrieked.

He heard her writhing and fighting with the blankets in her sleep. Ari grabbed the key and raced up the stairs, his heart pounding in his ears. By the time he reached her, she'd woken. She huddled against the wall, tears streaming down her cheeks, a terrified expression on her face as she tried to sort out what was real and what wasn't. It seemed to take her a minute to relax when she realized it was Ari standing over her in the darkness, not the man of her nightmares.

He unlocked the cuff and picked her up. She trembled in his arms, her cheek resting against his neck as he carried her down the stairs. She hadn't had the nightmares since her first night with him. He'd thought they were past them. It had been a naïve hope. Had he thought he could erase that man and those nightmares with a brand? Had that been what he was trying to do?

Ari put her in his bed and climbed in with her. He held her and stroked her hair as she tried to stop shaking in his arms.

“Claire,” he said softly after a few minutes when her body had finally settled into his embrace. He carefully interlocked his fingers with hers.

“Yes, Master?”

“Do you know what triggered it?” He had his suspicions. He'd created a secure environment for her, and he knew she felt safe inside it. Maybe even happy. But Holly's dramatic scene earlier... he knew it had unnerved her.

She was quiet for a long time.

“Tell me,” Ari said.

“I think it was because of what happened tonight.”

Ari knew she didn't mean the brand.

He sighed, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. “You don't have to worry about Holly.”

“You don't want her back?”

He felt her cringe as she asked the question.

He kissed the top of her head. “Never. I've never branded anyone before you. I would never permanently mark someone like that if I wasn't sure we were forever.”

“But you branded me before she came back.”

“It doesn't matter. She never meant to me what you mean to me.”

He shifted her weight carefully so that she lay on her stomach on the bed. He checked her bandage to make sure it hadn't come off and that she hadn't irritated the healing brand in her panic. Amazingly her bandage was still in place. He sighed and stroked her hair.

Neither of them could say I love you. It was too strange for their situation. How could you honestly say you loved someone whose freedom you'd taken away? If you love something, set it free. And Ari just couldn't do that. Besides, they existed well beyond the prosaic parameters of normal coupledom.

He'd told Holly he loved her. Had he meant it? He wasn't sure, but he knew now that he couldn't have possibly loved her because what he felt for Claire was far beyond anything he'd thought he'd felt for his previous pet.

“Try to get some sleep,” he said. Ari held her until her breathing evened out into the patterns of sleep. Then he got up and tucked her in.

He went to the closet and put on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and some shoes and went to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. It was five a.m. and he knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. He wouldn't be able to get the sound of Claire's screams out of his mind.

The more he thought about it, the more enraged it made him. He had her locked out here in his fucking fortress where no one could possibly find her. And even if they could, they couldn't get in. And that monster still haunted her dreams. He still owned her. Still controlled her.

Ari couldn't be sure if he was more angry at the man who'd done this to her or at her for still not belonging completely to him even after he'd permanently marked her. Or was his anger at Holly for blowing in like a chaos tornado and ruining what should have been a special night?

He slammed a coffee mug on the counter. When the coffee was done, he poured a cup, put a handful of dog treats in his pocket, and went outside. The air was brisk still, but winter had begun to thaw into spring. Trees had already started to bud, and a few colorful blooms appeared here and there on ornamental trees nearby.

He walked along the perimeter of the property, sipping from the steaming cup. Instead of hyping him up, the caffeine somehow seemed to soothe his jangled nerves. It wasn't long until the fox was trotting along beside him. Ari stopped and dropped a dog treat on the ground.

Arnold poked at it with his nose as if he were exploring some new and arcane thing.

“It's the bacon flavor. You like these. Stop being a prima donna.”

The fox let out a shrill whine as if offended and gobbled up the treat. Suddenly remembering just how much he did like bacon, he began to jump up on Ari, sniffing and licking ardently at the side pocket of his jeans.

“Down,” Ari said.

But the fox didn't listen. Foxes never listened to anything. Ari pushed Arnold off him, dug the treats out of his pocket, and sat on the ground next to the fox who was now doing a reasonable impersonation of a sugar-hyped toddler.

Ari put the bacon-flavored morsels on the ground, not bothering to dole them out one at a time. He drank his coffee while he watched Arnold making gleeful sounds and practically pouncing on each dog treat as if it were live prey he'd tackled to the ground himself.

When he was finished, he glared at Ari, a betrayed expression on his face.

“That's all. You can't have any more. You'll get sick and fat. Do you want to be a roly poly fox, barely able to run down your own dinner?”

Arnold just blinked at him.

Ari stroked the fox's ears, but Arnold was in no mood for cuddling. He put up with it for about two seconds before turning and darting off down the hill to the nearest gate.

“Just wait,” Ari called out after him, “I'll fatten you up, and then you'll never squeeze out.”

Arnold seemed unconcerned about this.

Ari sighed and finished his coffee. He wanted to punish Holly for showing up at his house the night before even as he knew he couldn't.

Holly wasn't even the real problem. Somewhere deep down he'd known since the first night he'd heard Claire's screams that he'd have to do what he was determined to do now.

* * *

A couple of weeks passed. Holly hadn't returned. But Claire felt a tension now with Ari. She'd been right. Something had come along to break everything and destroy the fantasy. Had it been Holly? Or the nightmare that night? Had he finally realized how irrevocably damaged she was? He'd moved her to sleep in his bed and had kept her there.

She should be happy sleeping with him every night. But he didn't touch her as much as he had before. But maybe it was the brand. Logic said he was just taking care of her so she healed properly. For the first few days he'd changed the bandages twice a day. He'd put a salve on them. He'd gently cleaned the healing injury.

She felt a growing distance from him. A kind of anger. And she didn't know what she'd done wrong. All the while she berated herself for wanting this man to want her.

Claire watched warily as he prepared their breakfast. There was something different about him this morning. A scary sort of menace seemed to roll off him. Before, he'd had such a steadying energy. It was only now in its absence that she could appreciate just how calm she usually felt just being near him.

“Master, are you mad at me?”

He looked up from the frying sausage in the skillet. “Why would I be mad at you?”

She shrugged. “You seem different.”

He laughed, but it wasn't the laugh you heard after a joke.

He put the sausages and eggs on two plates with forks and carried them to the table, then he poured two glasses of milk and brought them over as well.

“Sit and eat,” he said.

Claire sat. Usually he fed her. Sure she could feed herself, but there was an intimacy in that shared act between them. He was mad at her. She felt the tears start to slip down her cheeks.

Ari sighed. “I'm not mad at you. This isn't about you. It's about him. I've been thinking about it for a while, and I've decided to kill him.” The deadly look in Ari's eyes left no doubt that he was serious. He intended to take a life. This wasn't a bluff.

“Him?” she asked. But she knew. She felt both elated and terrified by this idea. What if Ari wasn't the one who walked away from the confrontation? What if that man did? What if...?

“Do you remember where he kept you?”

She considered lying. It had been nearly four years, after all. It would be reasonable to forget the way.

“Claire?”

“Yes, Master. I remember.”

“Good. You will write down the directions.”

“I-I don't know it that way. I know it if I go. I have to see things to remember how to get places I've only been to once or twice.” She'd never been good at mentally retracing her steps to find things. She had to physically retrace them.

“You're not fucking going,” he growled.

She jumped at his tone, but pressed on. “Anyway, he's long gone by now.”

“I know that. But he probably didn't put the house up for sale, being a killer and all. He may have left behind evidence or some identifying information that might help me hunt the motherfucker down.”

“If you're going, I'm going,” Claire said. Her breath stuck in her throat. She hadn't openly defied him in... well not ever. And she definitely didn't want to start acting like Holly. But she couldn't stand the idea of being locked in this house and him out there hunting that man. What if Ari never came back? She might die in this house. Or what if he took Ari's wallet, found the house, and somehow got in? She chanced a glance up to find Ari staring at her. She couldn't read his expression.

“Fine,” he said.

They were silent the rest of the way through breakfast. After breakfast, while Ari cleaned the kitchen, Claire went to their now-shared walk-in closet and put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, a lightweight jacket, and boots. Her brand was still sore, but the jeans weren't painful.

As soon as the brand had healed enough she'd spent half an hour staring at it in the full-length mirror of the walk-in closet, trying to decide how she felt about this thing that marked her as belonging to Ari forever. She wasn't supposed to want that mark on her flesh. It wasn't as though he'd asked her if she wanted it. He'd merely explained—as gently as possible—what he'd planned to do. He'd never even pretended she had a choice. And yet, she did want it.

“Are you ready?” Ari asked, standing in the doorway, the agitated energy still rolling off him. She glanced down to find a gun holstered at his hip. Her gaze rose quickly to his.

“Just in case,” he said.

She followed him out to the garage. They passed her silver Lexus on the way to one of his cars. He unlocked the door on a nondescript black sedan which somehow looked more conspicuous than if they'd just taken the red sports car. She got in and they pulled out of the driveway.

The drive was long. Neither of them spoke except for her giving him directions as each turn and stretch of road jogged her memory. The journey took them through the city, then out to the other side, through suburban neighborhoods, and out into a somewhat more rural area where the houses were farther apart and many were abandoned, as if people had just forgotten this area existed—or no longer cared that it did.

Finally they pulled up to a dilapidated green farmhouse. Ari put on some black gloves and got out of the car. Claire was right on his heels, her breathing going shallow from anxiety even before they reached the door.

Stones were falling out of the columns, and the rotting wood of the porch creaked when they walked over it. A raccoon scurried out from under the planks and darted across the field. There was an old rusted orange truck off to the side of the house.

Was that his truck? Claire couldn't remember. She'd been unconscious for the trip to his house. She shuddered trying to block out the memories as they slithered to the surface of her mind.

“I-I think he might still be here,” Claire said, backing away. “L-let's go.”

“Are you kidding? This place is deserted and falling apart. I know a house that hasn't been lived in.” Ari stepped off the porch and moved around to the truck. “Come here,” he said, motioning her to him.

Claire followed him to the truck, keeping a wary eye on the house, waiting for that man to burst out the front door with a gun. She'd feel a lot safer if Ari's gun wasn't in the holster.

“The bastard left the keys in the ignition,” Ari said.

Claire watched as he tried to start the truck up. Nothing. It didn't even click over.

“Battery's dead. This truck hasn't moved from this spot in years. Do you believe me now that nobody's living here?”

Claire nodded slowly, but she still wasn't sure. It was true that there were no other cars here and this wasn't a place you could easily live without transportation.

Ari went out to the mailbox and opened it to reveal a stack of unopened mail including very old warnings of impending electricity shut off.

“See? Place is abandoned,” he said, pulling out the mail. He rifled through it, then put a few pieces in his back pocket. Claire glimpsed an envelope that said Edward Fuller on the front. It felt so strange after so long to have her captor's name.

She followed Ari back onto the porch.

“Stay outside,” he ordered.

If she stayed outside, she could run. He had to know that. Could he know he'd broken her will to leave him so completely that he could trust her out here in the open air unfettered while he searched the house?

“I-I can't. I want to be with you.” That sentence was about so much more than just this moment. And they both knew it.

“Then stay close behind me. And don't touch anything.”

For the moment Ari didn't seem worried about the rules between them. His single-minded focus appeared to be on finding something that would help him track down the man who'd hurt her. She wanted to tell him that killing a man wasn't as easy as it seemed. She'd been so sure she could do it only to learn the hard way that she couldn't.

The front door of the farmhouse wasn't even locked. The power was out. The air was stale. Whatever had been in the fridge when the power had been shut off was putting out such a stench of decay, she almost vomited from it.

Ari searched the entire upper level, Claire close behind him. They found no clues of where her captor might have gone. It looked like he'd just... left. It didn't even look like he'd packed a bunch of things or even bothered to clean up his dishes. Claire gripped the edge of the counter and doubled over as a full-on technicolor flashback hit her. It knocked the wind out of her as the vivid memories assaulted her senses.

It was those ugly yellow plates in the sink that brought everything back, so real it was as though it were happening in that moment. Those ugly yellow plates. The food he barely fed her down in that dirty awful basement. She could hear the snap and crack of his belt moments before he beat her with it. She flinched and cringed away as if she could stop the blow that was coming.

“Claire?” Ari rushed to her side and pried her fingers off the counter, causing the present to come back in a rush. She clung to him, burying her head in his shoulder as she cried.

“Let's go,” he said. “You don't need to be in this place. The mail is all I'm going to get. I think it's enough to find the son of a bitch.”

Claire glanced up and saw the basement door. It stood open, taunting her. She moved toward it as if under some spell.

“Claire, no,” Ari said.

“I have to. I have to see it.” She didn't know why she needed to see it. She'd seen it plenty. It had haunted her dreams for years. But she felt pulled there as though somehow she knew closure could never be possible unless she took just one last look at that basement. Maybe if she saw it empty in the daylight she could wake up from the nightmare for good.

Ari sighed. “Okay.”

He followed her down the stairs while she gripped his gloved hand for dear life. When she was halfway down the stairs, she let out a gasp.

A chill traveled over her skin, chased by goosebumps. “He's been dead this whole time. I killed him.”

What remained of Edward Fuller lay stretched out along the floor, arm extended out as if grabbing for someone... grabbing for her. The knife lay a few feet away. A large dark red stain had formed on the ground underneath him. There was a broken window at the top of the basement wall—the obvious entry point for the wild animals that had picked the bones clean.

20

Claire stood numbly in the backyard of the farmhouse, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as Ari buried the very little that was left of the man who'd kept her in the basement. Edward Fuller. It was still impossible to think he had a name. That whole time he'd had a name and bills and a job out in the real world somewhere. He'd bought groceries and gone to the doctor and watched TV like a normal person.

She thought back to the day she'd escaped... that hand around her ankle, the feel of which seemed as if it had been burned permanently into her skin... kicking him in the face, running and not stopping until she reached a road with cars she could flag down.

The whole time she'd thought he'd been coming after her, that he would catch her. But he'd been busy down in that basement, dying. She'd killed a man. But she didn't feel broken because of it... not like she had with what she'd done to Ari. She felt relieved. Maybe some unconscious part of her had known Ari wasn't the guy.

Claire watched as dirt was thrown in on top of Edward's remains. It had taken Ari hours to dig even with the ground soft from recent rains, but it still wasn't six feet deep. He said he thought it was probably deep enough. And with nothing really left but bone, well the animals had already taken what they wanted. So it seemed unlikely more would be coming back to dig the rest up.

When he was finished, Ari went back to the old beat-up truck, put it into neutral, and pushed it until it was over the ground he'd just dug up. Then he went out to the barn and brought back a bunch of wooden planks and concrete blocks and piled them haphazardly near the truck, further disguising any evidence the ground had been disturbed. Not that anybody else would be out here. And if anybody ever was again, by that point there wouldn't be any sign that anything had happened at all as grass grew around concrete blocks and planks and tires, the ground going solid and hard again. Maybe someday bulldozers would tear the house down, and Edward would be discovered. It would just be another mystery no one could solve and that no one cared to, since this man had obviously been loved and missed by no one.

Claire followed Ari back into the house and watched as he got rid of all evidence anything had happened in the basement. It was all somehow less horrifying knowing that she'd killed that man years ago. He couldn't find her again.

“When you escaped what did you touch?” Ari asked.

They both knew it was unlikely anyone would ever investigate this site—since they hadn't already. But Ari had decided it was better to erase any evidence she'd been there at all. And she couldn't say she disagreed with that. Somehow it seemed as though wiping away the fingerprints could somehow undo it... make it not real.

“Just the door handles. A-and the counter today.”

Ari nodded. He wiped down any area in the basement she could have left fingerprints as well as the door knobs and the counter. By the time everything was done, she was starving. So she knew he must be with all the work he'd done in all the hours that had passed.

He took a trash bag from under the sink and took his shirt off, tossing it into the bag, then he put the bag in the trunk of his car. They didn't talk on the drive. But he stopped at a drive-thru of a burger joint just inside town and got them both burgers and fries and colas. The girl at the drive thru stared appreciatively at his bare chest, but made no comment. If she thought it odd that he was driving around town without a shirt before the full springtime had even hit, she was too dazed with lust to question it. Ari parked in the parking lot while they ate.

Still silence.

The sun was setting when they reached the house. Ari parked in the garage, took the bag from the trunk, and carried it inside, holding the door open for Claire. He stripped the rest of his clothes off, shoes too, until he stood naked in the kitchen. He shoved everything he'd been wearing, including the black gloves, into the bag. The gun and holster were spared this indignity and lay on the kitchen table.

“Claire? I need yours too. Strip.” It was the first words he'd said since he'd spoken into the drive-thru speaker box to articulate their food order.

Claire took off the clothes and shoes she'd worn to the farmhouse. She had no objections to Ari destroying them. She didn't think she could ever look at these articles of clothing again without being reminded of this day.

She stood beside the glass door and watched as he took the bag of clothes outside. Ari built a fire in a fire pit he'd no doubt made himself. He tossed everything but the bag into the fire. He looked savage, standing naked under the darkening sky, the fire lighting up the hard planes of his face and body.

In that moment he seemed like someone who existed in another time. A more primal, animal time. This feeling was punctuated by how little he'd said to her over the course of the day. She could see the intense anger in his face, but it wasn't aimed at her. She knew just by looking at Ari, that the anger inside him was directed at the man she'd already killed.

Was he sorry he hadn't been able to take Edward's life from him? A wild and frenetic energy still clung to Ari as their clothes burned in the fire. Finally, he turned back toward the house, his eyes meeting hers through the glass pane that stood between them. He moved with purpose to her.

When he was inside, he grabbed her arm without a word and steered her back to his bedroom and then to the master bathroom. He turned the water on and got two towels and laid them on the marble counter top while the water heated. Steam started to fill the room.

He led her into the shower where he proceeded to carefully wash every part of her, starting with shampoo in her hair. When she was clean he pointed to the towel on the counter. Claire got out and wrapped herself in one of the towels. She sat on the edge of the oversized garden tub, watching Ari as he finished showering. He shut the water off and dried himself with the remaining towel.

“Get in the bed,” he practically growled at her.

Claire did as he said, unsure still what to make of this terrifying and decidedly less calm version of him. He joined her a few moments later. Warm naked skin pressed against warm naked skin.

His breathing came out harsh. His heartbeat thundered in his chest, thumping against her skin. She felt like she should be the one upset today. She'd gone back to the farmhouse—that awful place that had broken her down into so many pieces. She'd had the beginnings of a flashback. Between the two of them she should be the one on the verge of a meltdown, but in recent hours Ari had gone some place dark and wild deep within himself. A place beyond speech or organized thought.

She wasn't even sure if he understood all the things he was feeling.

“Master? Are you okay?” she found herself asking.

A harsh, dry laugh was the only response.

“You know, I could let you go now. The biggest excuse I've used to keep you is gone. He's dead. He can't get you. You'd be safe out in the world now. It's not like you don't have money to take care of yourself. You don't need me. And I know you wouldn't go to the police.”

Claire tensed. She didn't care what it said about her, she didn't want him to let her go. She did need him. She was about to give voice to these feelings but Ari's voice stopped her.

“But I won't. I don't care if you'd be safe. I don't care if I'm not the noble hero anymore, and I have to play the villain. I need you here with me.”

“I need the same thing,” she whispered, barely feeling real as those words slipped softly past her lips.

He held her tighter against him. His grip didn't loosen until the exhaustion and all the emotions he'd been holding onto released in sleep.

Claire wriggled out of his embrace. She went to the big walk-in closet and put on another T-shirt, and a hoodie and jeans and shoes and went outside. Ari hadn't locked the sliding glass door behind him with his fingerprint when he'd come back into the house. But the gates on the outer perimeter were locked so it wasn't as if anyone could really get in or out. It was only the illusion of freedom.

Claire stood outside next to the fire, watching as the flames leapt up to lick at the cool air. Their clothes had long burned away. The fox stood several yards off, his gaze going between the fire and her. He stared at her for a long time as though trying to figure out the answer to a riddle—or maybe trying to understand who she was and why she was here.

As she watched the fire die down into embers, she thought about the long journey to this moment. All the fucked-up things that had happened. But if they hadn't happened, she never would have met Ari. She never would have had this thing that was so right it no longer mattered to her how wrong it was.

She went back into the house and spied a box of dog treats on top of the refrigerator hidden behind a box of cereal. She took the box down, took out a couple of treats, and went back outside. But the fox was gone.

Claire sighed and left the treats out on the terrace then went inside and got back into bed with Ari. He shifted in his sleep, pulling her to him. And they slept the sleep of two people ready to leave the past in the past.

Epilogue

With each month that went by the things that had happened in the basement seemed to blend further into faded half-forgotten memory. Finding the evidence her tormentor was truly gone and watching Ari bury it had offered her a kind of closure. The nightmares never returned. And Holly never returned.

The two of them had settled into a strange sort of kinky domesticity punctuated by the occasional foursome with Kane and Saskia. And the occasional appearance from Marcus who kept a respectful distance from Claire.

As it turned out, Kane knew all about art restoration. He was teaching her. Once she could do the work properly, he had the connections to get her freelance restoration projects. She was so excited to be able to do the work she'd always wanted to do. Ari had already set up a workroom for her in the art wing of the house.

Now it was Thanksgiving. Claire sat in the passenger side of Ari's car in the circular driveway of her parents' estate. He came around and opened the door for her. He offered a hand to help steady her in the high-heeled boots she wore. When she stood, her black wool skirt slid back down over the tops of the knee-high boots.

“What do you call me inside?” Ari asked.

“Ari,” she repeated for the thousandth time. He'd made her call him by his nickname the entire long drive to Thanksgiving dinner. And she was still afraid she'd slip and call him Master.

“Trust me, even if I slipped up, nobody would notice. These are the most self-absorbed people you will ever meet.”

“What are your parents’ names again?” Ari asked. He looked like he was actually nervous about meeting them.

“Wendi and Charles.”

She hadn't really wanted to go to Thanksgiving dinner. Claire hadn't spoken to her mother since New Year's when she'd begged out of the party, with the fake flu. But they would notice if she didn't show up for the holidays, and unless Ari wanted her to be listed as a missing person, she had to show up at some point.

At first she hadn't thought he would risk taking her. After all, she could get help, escape him. But he no longer seemed concerned by this possibility.

It was so strange holding hands with him like some normal couple—the kind of people who picked out blenders and bath towels together. He didn't let go of her hand when he rang the bell. They stood on the porch under the massive columns, freezing their asses off while they waited for someone to hear the door.

“Oh fuck it, let's just go in,” Claire said. It was way too cold already to just be Thanksgiving. She pushed the door open and pulled Ari inside.

“Do they know I'm coming?” he asked.

“No, M-” she caught herself.

Ari bent down to her ear and whispered. “If you say that word while we're at your parents' house, you will receive the most dire punishment you've ever received when we get home. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes.” She had to fight the clawing need to say that word. It just didn't feel right not giving him a title. It felt like everything she said was somehow incomplete without it now.

“Good girl,” he said, leaning in and nipping her throat with his teeth. He grabbed her ass just as her mother walked into the entry way.

“Claire, you look fabulous! Have you lost weight? And that necklace is stunning! It's so chic and sophisticated. You should wear that all the time.” Wendi pulled her close for air kisses then released her to look at Ari.

Claire's fingertips strayed absently over the gold collar at her throat. Her mother would lose all composure if she knew what the jewelry meant. But at least Wendi could get her wish. Claire would be following her advice to wear it all the time.

Wendi gave Ari a very obvious once over. “And who is this tall drink of viking re-enactment?”

Ari actually blushed at that.

“This is Ari,” Claire said.

“Please tell me it's serious,” her mother said as if she were imagining mini vikings running around the house at Christmas.

“Oh, it's very serious,” Ari said. “I'm not sure there is a way it could be more serious.”

The butler appeared then to unobtrusively take their coats. Then Wendi led them to the dining room, apologizing that they were too late for cocktails.

“Charles!” Wendi said when they reached the dining room. “Claire brought a man to Thanksgiving! I can't remember the last time Claire brought a man to Thanksgiving! Can you?”

Her father rose from his seat and came around the table to where Claire and Ari stood. The two men shook hands in that perfunctory firm way men do. “And what do you do?” he asked Ari straight away.

“I'm an architect,” he said.

“Oh? Would I know any of your work?”

“The new library downtown? The Opera house restoration? There were a lot of new design elements that went into it. I also did the bank on Third and Main.”

Her father looked impressed. “That's quite a resume. We were at a charity gala at the new library two months ago and were remarking on the exquisite architecture.”

Claire noticed Roman when he came into the room. She hadn't expected to see him at Thanksgiving; it was usually just family. She excused herself to go say hi while Charles and Ari discussed building design. That might go on for a while.

Roman gave her a big hug when she reached him. “Missed you at New Year's.”

“I know. I came down with the flu,” she said. There was no sense in introducing a different lie, especially when her mother might have told him why she'd said she wasn't coming.

“I would have brought a date if I thought you were bringing one. When your mother invited me it seemed like it might be a set-up.”

Claire laughed. “And yet you still showed up.”

He winked. “Well I couldn't let you die an old lady with cats.”

“Thanks. Love you too.”

“Is he being good to you?” Roman asked, not hiding his open staring at Ari.

“Yes,” she said. She was only just now realizing that perhaps Roman had a bit of a thing for her. She never would have guessed. She'd always just thought they were friends. He was a very nice guy and very handsome, but she had no doubt he was into sweet and normal romantic sex. If he knew the things she needed, he'd run the other direction.

“So is it serious?” Roman asked.

“Very,” she said.

“And you're happy?”

She smiled. “Very.”

Roman sighed. “All right. Well, I'm bringing a date for the Christmas Eve party.”

Claire laughed.

There were about thirty people gathered for dinner along the very long dining room table. Aunts and uncles and cousins and nieces and nephews and her remaining set of grandparents.

“So,” Wendi said, when the dessert tray was rolled out, “How did you two meet?”

In truth Claire was surprised that neither her mother nor anyone else at the table had asked that question yet. The entire room was silent, each person waiting to hear how Claire had met this guy all the women were drooling over and the men seemed intimidated by.

“She kidnapped me and held me captive in a cell for three weeks, and we just hit it off. It was fate,” Ari said without missing a beat.

Claire just gawked at him. But he winked at her, obviously getting a kick out of telling the absolute truth of how they met to her family, knowing they wouldn't take it seriously.

The table erupted in laughter.

“Gorgeous and a sense of humor. Don't let this one get away,” her mother said.

As if she could. “I don't think you have to worry about that,” Claire said.

Dinner was more pleasant than she'd remembered dinner with her family ever being. When the holiday ordeal was over, Ari helped her back into his car. As they pulled out of the driveway, she looked out the window, watching her parent's estate become smaller until it finally disappeared from view.

She sighed and looked back at Ari. He watched the road but took her hand in one of his, his thumb stroking the back of her hand as they drove on in silence.

Three hundred and twenty-three days. That was the amount of time since Ari had taken her. And somehow in that long span, instead of breaking her, he'd put her back together. The last thought on Claire's mind was escape.

* * *

I hope you enjoyed THE ESCAPE ARTIST! So what next?

If you haven't read the companion book, THE CON ARTIST (Quill and Saskia's story), you should go grab it now. Or you could also explore my PLEASURE HOUSE series which starts with GUILTY PLEASURES and then ties back into this world at the end. (It's a 5 book completed series)

Blurbs, teaser scenes, and buy links below! Also, be sure to subscribe to my newsletter to hear about giveaways and new releases at http://www.kittythomas.com You'll find a full list of my titles there. I love hearing from readers, so don't be shy about using my contact form or giving me a shout out on social media. Thank you again for reading and supporting my work!

THE CON ARTIST:

Art. Obsession. Twisted possession.

When starving artist Saskia Roth meets Lachlan Niche, a local art collector and tech tycoon, she has no idea how her life is about to change. One act of desperation, one con gone wrong, and she finds herself at the mercy of a powerful man she fears and despises–or so she thinks.

As her desire for him grows, life as his captive becomes something more… something that could both transform her and destroy her.

One-Click, THE CON ARTIST here: Amazon Link

TEASER SCENE:

Quill set the box next to the cage and walked the few feet to where Saskia sat like a sculpture on the ground. He pulled her up and, without a word, began to undress her. She didn't dare speak.

He unbuttoned her jeans and slid them off her hips, his hands running carefully over each inch of skin as he exposed it to the cool air. She braced her hands against his shoulders as she stepped out of the jeans, kicking her own shoes off in the process.

She'd worn a thong under the pants—subconsciously seducing him, knowing he'd discover it because of course this was coming. Quill ran an appreciative hand over the bared flesh, then removed the thong as well. She was left in the black cami top and collar. She hadn't bothered with a bra on the plane. She'd tried not to think too much about that choice.

It took almost nothing, not even the hint of a breeze, for her nipples to stand at attention.

Typically, she wore bras with padding, not to look larger, but to avoid looking sexually excited even when she wasn't. It attracted the wrong kind of attention. And she couldn't be bothered to constantly explain to men with a frat-boy mentality that they just did that.

Quill cupped her breasts over the thin fabric and tweaked her nipples into even harder points as he stared into her eyes in the most unnerving way. She tried to look down. Some demure submissive instinct? She wasn't sure, but when her gaze dropped, he slipped a hand under her chin and forced her gaze back to his.

Minutes passed in this aching silence. It was a challenge. A game. Who would speak first? As in any negotiation, whoever spoke first, lost. She knew that at least. She'd already lost once with this man, and she wasn't willing to keep doing it.

Finally, he peeled her top off, and she stood on the cold marble floor, the sun from the skylight warming her back... waiting.

She didn't wait long. He led her quietly to one of the Greek columns on the south end of the gallery and extracted a key from his pocket to unlock the chains. He turned her to face the column and locked each wrist in place so that her arms were stretched high over her head in a V. Then he did the same with her ankles. She felt as if she'd been left for a lion to rip apart in some huge amphitheater while the bored elite looked on.

Quill dragged the mystery box over to the column. She wouldn't let herself look inside, too afraid if she saw what all he'd brought out here to torture her with, she'd start screaming and begging for mercy. She closed her eyes as large, strong hands skimmed over her back.

Despite her fear, her body arched into his caress. He pressed a soft kiss against her shoulder, then he rooted around in the box until he found what he was looking for.

Saskia wished there was a clock on the wall, something to mark this length of silence. Some tiny clicking tick tick tick so she could feel and know that time was still a thing that moved even as she stood frozen in this space.

She waited for him to say something. Anything. But now that it had begun, he seemed devoted to this eerie peace.

She jumped as something thudded against the skylight. There was a flapping of wings, and she looked up in time to see a disoriented raven fly off. A beat later, the whip came down across her back, and she winced against its bite.

She hadn't had time to register the sound as it sliced through the air, the noise competing with the bird outside. But she heard it the second time, so sharp and loud it seemed it could rip time and space apart. The leather licked across her flesh like a serpent made of flame, and all she could do in response was tremble in his chains.

Screaming, crying, begging, all of these things would have been appropriate, but Saskia couldn't do it. She couldn't break this vow of silence she'd committed to, and it seemed neither could he. Neither of them spoke, too locked into this trance to interrupt its flow now.

The only sounds that spilled forth into the gallery were the snap and crack of the whip and the tiny gasps as it stole her breath. The tears finally came, sliding down her cheeks in that same respectful silence. And she knew, even without words between them, that he was pleased.

She counted each lash in her mind. She felt his strength, not in how hard he waled on her, but in how he restrained himself and held each strike in check.

Finally, he returned the whip to the box. She tensed, waiting for something else—not sure she could take more when no comfort was offered. While he hadn't put her in physical peril, the lashes were much harder and more intense than the light play she'd experienced at the few kinky parties she'd been to on a lark.

And here there was no magic word she could say to make it all stop. All she could do if it became too much was beg and hope he'd have mercy on her.

Saskia startled when his hand wrapped around her throat, pulling her back, turning her tear-streaked face toward him. He left a long, lingering kiss on her mouth that took her breath away.

When he pulled back, he said, “I'm going to paint you now. Just like this.”

One-click THE CON ARTIST now: Amazon Link

GUILTY PLEASURES:

She was a bored housewife until she was taken and trained for the pleasure of the highest bidder.

Vivian Delaney leads a life of privilege, but behind closed doors she feels isolated and trapped in a gilded cage. Unable to achieve sexual pleasure with her husband, she finds herself in the capable hands of Anton, a massage therapist intent on awakening her to her full sexual potential. By any means necessary.

One-Click GUILTY PLEASURES here: Amazon Link

TEASER SCENE:

Five minutes of tension passed before the door clicked open. Vivian lay there with her eyes shut, trying to relax. It was just a massage. Millions of women did this every day. And even liked it, if all the raving at the country club was any indication.

“You're my next appointment?” A male Eastern European accent—possibly Russian—greeted her ears. She squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Couldn't she get a female for anything?

She considered requesting a woman, but then she got a look at him.

Wavy, jet black hair fell over the best cheekbones she'd ever seen up close and in person on a man. The definition of his chest was visible through a white t-shirt. He had strong, well-defined arms, and large, yet elegant hands, like those of a concert pianist. She could see how those hands could be equally at home playing flesh draped over a massage table.

Her eyes traveled slowly back to his face. It was expectant. Waiting for something. Oh, yeah. An answer to his question.

“Y-yes,” she managed to stammer.

“Very good. My name is Anton. I'll be taking care of you today.”

The way he said it seemed like both a sinful promise and a sinister threat, causing Vivian's heart to start doing erratic things in her chest. He moved closer, and she tensed.

“Relax, my dear. Dr. Smith was correct. You are quite a closed-budded flower. We will open you.” He made it sound so sexual and wrong. A warmth fluttered in her center and spread outward.

Her voice came out breathy, “You spoke to Dr. Smith?”

“Just a few moments ago. While you were getting ready for me.”

She turned her head away so she could stop looking at him with helpless longing. She'd experienced testosterone overload today. Too many men near her in situations that were far too sexual for her comfort.

“You are Vivian, yes?” he said as he selected a body oil from a cart near the table. He was the king of the rhetorical question.

“Yes.”

The slick oil made a sound as it coated his hands. He pulled back the towel to reveal her bare back. “Lovely,” he murmured.

Vivian wasn't sure if he was admiring her skin, or if he was referring to her name. Before she could decide which, and whether or not it was appropriate, his hands were on her body, and she forgot how to think in full sentences. The strong, gentle kneading along her back caused her to, inch-by-inch, loosen and open to him and the pleasurable sensations he delivered to her.

He was silent as he worked out the tension around her shoulders, and then her upper back and neck. Her arms and hands came next. Everything slowly began to unclench, starting with the muscle group he was rubbing and spreading outward as she let herself relax. Her body felt loose, liquid, suspended in a tranquil bubble of calming sensations.

Anton worked on her like this for about fifteen minutes, and then his hands began to slide lower, pushing aside the terrycloth until the towel was bunched around her thighs.

“Really, Vivian. Underwear? I'm disappointed.”

She reached behind her frantically for the towel to cover herself. Now there was no question he'd crossed the boundary. Wasn't a massage therapist supposed to protect their client's modesty and comfort?

He gripped her wrist hard, not so hard to damage her, but hard enough to make her gasp in surprise at the rough contact and the menace behind it.

“Are you going to be a good girl and put your hands back where you had them?”

One-Click GUILTY PLEASURES now: Amazon Link

Acknowledgments

Thank you to the following people for their help with The Escape Artist:

Robin Ludwig @ gobookcoverdesign.com for the fabulous cover art! This is my favorite yet!

Thank you to Michelle for great beta read suggestions.

Thank you to Lori Jackson for the amazing teaser graphics!