“Let me go,” she said, quietly, swallowing against his fist.
He smiled, and it illuminated his eyes. “Never.”
“Why do you hurt me?” His fingers dug in, pinching her esophagus. Where had her voice come from? Even when he wasn’t choking her, she’d never had the guts to question him. But that was then. She’d grown a lot in four years. “Did someone hurt you?”
He chuckled. “Hurt me? No. My father was exceedingly wealthy and powerful. No one would dream of touching his son.” He sighed wistfully, and the hand around her throat loosened. “He beat my mother regularly. Even she loathed to defy him.” His eyes glazed over, faraway and heavy-lidded. “My father only needed to walk into a room and he owned it, its walls, and its occupants. He was a magnificent mentor.”
His father had erected the cartel that was Oxford Industries. She shivered, grateful there was only one Oxford left to stain the world. As for Roy, the placidness of his current mood didn’t delude her. Spoiled little rich boys could exhibit moments of good behavior. As soon as things didn’t go their way, the tantrums ensued.
“I slept inside you all night.” His whisper was a thousand crawly things skittering up her spine. “Your hot, tight cunt clung to me like a vacuum.”
Delusional pervert. Thank God her weakened body had put her in a dead-like sleep. “Yes, Sir.”
He reached around to her nape and pulled her face to his. The pain from the previous night was too fresh. If she fought him, it would only invite more. So she thawed her joints, molded against him, and tangled her tongue with the slug in his mouth. Cold and rigid inside, she gave him the silent, yielding response he expected. Whatever was needed to expedite his departure.
The door creaked. “Sir. Your car waits.”
Their lips separated, and his eyes imprisoned hers. “Thank you, Salvador.” His mouth, so close and pinched in a line, was a sanguine gash against the pale background of his face. Black hair and eyebrows intensified his complexion. He personified a macabre portrait of beauty and would look much the same frozen in death. The thought gave her strength, as did the lurch of the mattress and his parting words. “I’ll be a while.”
The door closed behind him, and she released a shuddering exhale. The tears in her rectum caught fire as she threw off the quilts. She flinched, froze. No clothes, but that wasn’t what sent ice through her veins. It was the felt-lined shackle around her ankle. She twisted it, found the locking mechanism, and knew the key had just walked out the door.
She followed the attached chain, which was light-weight and wrapped in a tube of silk, down to the coiled pile on the floor. From there, it led to a steel ring bolted to the hardwoods beneath the bed. No sense in yanking it. He would’ve made certain it bolted securely to the floor joist.
Bruises speckled her hip bones and wrists. The welts on her legs tightened with each step toward the closet, and the chain unraveled to crawl behind her.
Nothing had changed in her absence. The spartan dresser at one end. Her easel, desk, and drawing boards at the other. A flat screen facing the foot of the bed was the only fixture on the wall.
The eyes in the ceiling followed her. The movement of tiny cameras wired in the recessed lighting might’ve gone unnoticed, but she’d had two years in her previous captivity to assimilate the room’s every detail.
At the threshold of the closet, the chain jerked her leg mid-stride. All her old clothes hung in tidy rows beside his and out of reach. Twisted prick.
She limped toward his dresser. Half-way there, the chain strained again. Trapped and naked. Dammit. Her drawing supplies were twice as far. A classic Roy Oxford tactic. Nothing was carte blanche. Her favored pastime, her clothes, all of it kept in the room and out of reach as a visual reminder that everything had to be earned.
Four doors divided up the monotony of blank walls. The corridor, the closet, the bathroom, and the sliding panels that would open to his office. The exterior wall glared with floor to ceiling windows and a vista of the Golden Gate Bridge. The street below had a daunting view of Roy’s fortress of mirrored glass. A view she had never experienced.
She walked the circle of the tether, her stiff muscles and sore bottom stinging with each step. Only the windows, the bed, and the bathroom were in reach. She emptied her bladder, used the toothbrush—the single item in the drawer-less, cabinet-less room—and skipped the shower. No toothpaste. No soap. No towels.
A tray of assorted pastries, berries, a pitcher of milk, and bottled water sat on the round table beside the bed. But it was the bowl of oatmeal squares at the center that made her heart skip a beat.
Dance with me at our wedding.