Did he plan on starving her?
Natalie reached for the handle on the sink. Air and moisture sputtered, and then water began flowing. Using her hands, she cupped the cold liquid and brought it to her lips. The stench of sulfur filling her nose was worse than the musty aroma of her cement cell. Without drinking, she opened her hands and allowed the water to splash into the sink and disappear down the drain.
Perhaps at least, she could make it warm. That would help.
There were two handles. Natalie turned the handle on the left of the faucet as far as it would turn. As she waited for the temperature to change, she took care of other business. Her hand stilled as she began to wipe.
Had he touched her…there? Obviously, he’d taken her clothes. Had he raped her?
Memories were fuzzy at best. She recalled floating or being carried. Though she was cold—chilled to the bone—and her muscles ached from trying to keep herself warm—too long rigid and contracted—she didn’t feel injured or sullied beyond her nakedness.
When she’d boarded the plane to Nice, Natalie had been a virgin. Surely, she’d know if she weren’t any longer.
Forgetting about the camera, she carried the toilet paper into the light and sighed. There was no blood. She’d heard there would be blood.
Natalie wasn’t completely without sexual knowledge. She’d dated boys in Iowa. They’d kissed and petted, but even with the biggest football star, she had a figurative wall around her, protecting her from going too far. No one dared be the boy to look her father in the eye after taking her virginity.
At Harvard, it was different, yet the same. Though her father’s reputation held no boundaries, it was Natalie who didn’t want to cross that line. It was she who didn’t want to face not only her father but also her mother until the man who earned her hymen was also the one who earned her heart.
Some would consider it old-fashioned.
Maybe it was seeing her parents’ devotion to one another. She wanted what they had. They’d overcome more obstacles than she even knew, and through it all, they loved one another unconditionally. They had the kind of love that survived life’s trials and came out stronger.
Tears returned. Will she ever see her parents again? Can their marriage survive the tragedy of losing their daughter?
The ache in her chest grew larger, bubbling out with an audible sob.
Throwing the toilet paper in the water, she grabbed another piece and wiped her eyes. As it all swirled in the darkness and disappeared down the drain, she straightened her neck. She would survive this ordeal. Somehow, some way, she’d make it back to them.
Reaching for the running water, she expected heat. The reality was a few degrees above ice, reawakening her chill. Beside the handle was a small bar of soap. As she washed her hands, she turned off the one handle and tried the other.
A buzz or whistle sounded—shrill yet short. Had it come from the pipes? Natalie tried to listen, to hear it again. Like the light of the camera, would it recur?
With each passing second, the sound stayed away; only her beating heart thumped in her ears. However, to her delight, the water warmed. To her cooled skin, the liquid heat was heaven. On any other day, in any other place, combined with the stench, it would be unacceptable. Today, in this hell, the slight rise in temperature was the best thing she’d found. Forgetting everything else, she stood still, allowing the warmth to run through her fingers and return her circulation. As her hands warmed, she splashed some on her face. Even though she couldn’t dry it, the water took away something—cleansed her as well as restoring something, bringing her back a small sense of normalcy.
When the warmth began to fade and she turned off the faucet, a shadow passed over her, chilling her skin. Was it simply a figurative cold to the loss of her warmed water? Had she imagined it?
Though there was no mirror above the sink—only more wall, the same as the rest—she lifted her face. Even without the reflection, Natalie knew. Standing taller, she braced herself as the hairs on her bare skin came to attention like small soldiers ready to fight.
What she’d endured so far was only the prelude. The battle was about to begin.
“Turn around, bug. We have rules to discuss.”
Chapter Eight
Of all the animals, man is the only one that is cruel. He is the only one that inflicts pain for the pleasure of doing it.
~ Mark Twain
Dexter’s command hung in the musty air.
Paralyzing fear: it’s mentioned in books and seen in movies. A thing of fiction until it was real…so real that even blinking seemed impossible. Involuntary movement commenced. The trembling from earlier returned, causing Natalie’s hands to visibly shake. It was when her knees began to knock that she managed to reach out to the sink, an anchor to keep her from falling.
“Rule number one…” His tenor slowed. “I don’t repeat myself.”
Natalie had never been fully nude in front of a man—even those she’d dated. She wasn’t a prude; she was merely twenty.
“May…” Her voice cracked, the word stuck in her throat, barely a croak. She cleared her throat, still facing the wall as her fingers gripped the edge of the sink. “Please, may I have something to wear?”
His shoes upon the cool, hard floor echoed, each step reverberating louder and louder as he came nearer. When he stopped, she looked down. On either side of her bare feet were shoes—boots with rounded toes. She thought they were the same ones he’d worn on the plane, but she couldn’t be sure.
His body, merely inches behind her, radiated warmth, the temperature she craved. Yet his proximity did little to reassure her.
Dexter’s hands moved up and down, feathering her arms, a conduit of electricity springing the small hairs to life, similar to the effect of rubbing a balloon. “You’re cold.”
It wasn’t a question. There was no sympathy to his statement. It simply was.
“Yes.”
He leaned closer. His coffee-flavored breath reawakened her hunger while also caressing her neck and shoulder in warmth. “Tell me, bug, how you can get warm.”
Each word weighed a ton until her head dropped forward, unable to bear the load. Tears filled her eyes. “I-I don’t know what you want.”
Dexter took a step back. “Rule number two. Disobedience will always be punished. If I tell you to turn, turn. If I tell you to answer me, answer me.”
Her shoulders quaked. If there were a door on the bathroom, she’d close it. It wouldn’t really be an escape, but it would give her space. And then she realized…the door. The one he entered.
Quickly she spun and raced forward. As soon as she neared the barrier, she saw the error of her ways. She was naked in the better lit room, and the door was shut, locked, still with no way to be opened. However, that couldn’t be true. Dexter was with her. He wouldn’t lock himself in, would he?