His Captive, The Unabridged Collection: Billionaire Dark Romance (6 page)

The relentless sun beat down through the living room window, and as I stirred, I brought a hand up to shield my eyes and turned in toward the back of the couch. My head was throbbing, every part of me numb and largely useless. Even bringing my arm up to cover my eyes took ten times the effort it should have.

I sat up slowly, bleary-eyed and disoriented, leaning forward in my seat enough that I had to grab the cluttered coffee table to keep myself from falling off of the couch. As I clenched my legs to keep myself upright, I felt the same pulse between my legs I'd felt when I laid down. The events of the night before came flooding back, and I immediately found myself aching for Rafe's touch.

I remembered the way his fingertips danced so lightly over my skin, the way he teased and taunted me, his commanding tone and presence. I found the hand not grasping the table sliding up my thigh at the memory.

Pointless. Not him.

For all I knew, it wasn't coming down from the drug that had me so desperate to get inside the apartment, so absolutely wrecked that I’d only been able to cling to consciousness long enough to fling myself on the sofa. Maybe it was Rafe. Maybe he had just thoroughly wrung me out.

I shook what fog I could from my mind, trying to put the memories of his expert touch aside for the moment and willed the living room to come into focus.

Stumbling across the cluttered floor, I picked my way carefully to avoid stubbing my sensitive toes on Rachel’s collection of accessories and boxed appliances. Only a thin path led to the back hallway. Everything else was covered in wrapped gift boxes, bags from high-end boutiques, and imported shipping crates.

People were always stashing stuff at her apartment or offering her luxe gifts she didn’t need, she groaned with an irritable wave of her hand the first time I had seen the place. I just stood there with my mouth open at the expensive, careless mess piled in unstable towers that nested against the cracked plaster walls.

From the front door of the tenement, I had assumed I would be walking into something a lot more Spartan. The other apartments in the building were probably nowhere near as well-appointed, but almost all of it seemed to be unopened or at least unused. I counted at least three espresso machines in boxes and the two mismatched leather sofas still had thick plastic on them where they butted against each other.

“What,” she had said with a disinterested shrug. “Men just like giving me things.”

I picked my way gingerly down the hallway to the bathroom, flicking on the light switch, my eyes widening at my appearance. My eyes were shadowed and haunted, mascara and liner smudged in dramatic swipes in the hollows above my cheekbones. My skin was sallow and porous, pasty with a suspicious cluster of blotches along my jaw. Just how strung out was I?

I pulled a brush through my hair, wincing hard. Deep in my belly I felt my guts flopping over themselves, warning me that I needed to eat something soon or suffer the consequences. But there was no food here. The last time I had opened the refrigerator out of desperation I had found only a jar of French mustard and a container of salt. I needed coffee, maybe groceries.

What I need is money, though. Dammit, Rachel why couldn’t you have paid me my share before you left?

With another ominous gurgle from my belly filling the tiny, rust-stained bathroom, I knew I didn't have time for a shower—I had to find Rachel. I straightened my clothes, giving a soft, groaning sigh as I regarded myself in the mirror.

It’s good enough to leave the apartment, at least in this neighborhood. And I should leave some evidence of last night on me in case she doesn’t believe me. I bet my story's better than hers, for once.

I cracked a little smile at that, finally beginning to feel the weight of the strange night lifting. She was going to be proud of me, I knew it. Maybe even a little jealous if I was lucky. Slipping my sneakers on at the door, I grabbed my purse and headed out for the neighborhood where Rachel worked.

It was a short enough walk, and one I'd taken a few times before. I trudged among the grey-yellow weeds in the sidewalk cracks, head down against the wind. Though it was warmer than the night before, the sky was still low and close and every few steps I felt a gust of wind whistle into my thin windbreaker.

The street she worked on was always an odd, surreal sight. The rowhouses were seemingly endless variations on a single theme. They were all tall and narrow, with slight variances in color between them and incredibly cramped together. Slanted window boxes hung untended off front windows, choked with withered former flowers. The bottom floor windows were all barred on the outside and curtained on the inside, as though keeping the outside out as well as the inside in.

I'd become accustomed to crummy apartment living just fine, but something about the sight of these run down, beat up houses made me a little uneasy. Houses meant independence. They were supposed to be neat and tidy. Pristine examples of the American dream. Something to aspire to.

As I walked past a rusty, swaying gate a chorus of dog barks shot out into the street, making me nearly jump to the curb. Cursing my nerves, I just hunched into my jacket and walked forward faster.

I figured that Rachel was bound to pass by or see me eventually, so I forced myself to slow down and wait, make myself obvious. I couldn’t remember which houses she worked in, but there were at least two possibilities and so I stood halfway between them. I felt an uneasy pit in my stomach with the crumbling sentinels standing over me, their paint chipping and wood rotting.

Stealing furtive glances up toward the windows, I hoped to just luck out and find her standing in one of them so I would know which house it was. But every window was blanked out with drapery like a blinded eye.

This was one of the worst blights in the city as far as most people were concerned, but it was more than that. It was neglected and overlooked for a reason. The tenants were the ones society wanted desperately to forget about: the elderly, the infirm, the addicts, the disturbed.

Rowhouses in other neighborhoods were usually reserved for decent middle class families, which only made this place all the more disturbing. Somewhere along the way this neighborhood had just been forgotten and left to rot. It was structurally like so many others, but fetid and shabby.

There was probably a moment in history where it could have gone either way. Some tipping point. Some point where everything could have been reversed: the eaves painted, the flower boxes perennially filled, the gates repaired. But then everything turned, and it could never be retrieved.

The throbbing at my head was only getting worse. I leaned against one of the short handrails, grasping it tightly as the world spun around me. I reminded myself for the hundredth time that yes, taking the pill was a mistake, and that I would stand up for myself a little more next time. Either Rachel didn't get it or didn't care. Either way, that wasn't happening again.

The low rumble of an engine stirred my from my swooning stupor, and I stood as straight as I could to begin the walk anew. I slowed when I realized that the car wasn't passing by—it was following me. My walking wasn't putting any distance between me and the sound, and I could hear the engine tick up here and there. I chanced a look over my shoulder, and saw a black SUV with blacked out windows.

My heart skipped a beat. I found myself surprised at my reaction—I wanted it to be Rafe. I wanted him to come and take me into the big black SUV, drive me around, touch me, command me...
anything
. I turned and began walking to the driver's side window, a small smile on my face. It immediately fled when the window rolled down to reveal Bronson.

He didn't seem too happy with me, but he wasn't exactly angry either. “Hey, Rachel. What's goin' on, huh?”

Oh, god. He still thinks I'm Rachel.

I put on my best vaguely friendly tone and expression, but my worry must have shown through. “Hey, there. Bronson, right? What're you doing around here?”

“Just followin' up on a little lead is all. I need to talk to you.”

He opened the door, dropping out quickly into a half-crouch like a wrestler. I found myself backing up instinctively as he walked toward me, ready to bolt through one gangways toward an alley or to start banging on doors.

“The fuck are you running for? Stop, stop.” He seemed earnestly confused by my retreat. “Did I say something fucked up last night? I mean, I was on all kinds of shit, it's not like I remember. I probably didn't mean it, whatever it was. Come on, talk to me for a second.”

He gave a quick beckon with his hand and I squinted against the gusty winds. What harm could there be in talking to him? We were in broad daylight. Admittedly, it wasn't a great neighborhood, but he'd have to be insane to try something out here. Even as I took a few tentative steps toward him, I chastised myself for acting like a scared puppy. He was just a guy. Maybe he wanted to talk about the real Rachel or something, ask for her number, something like that.

“Yeah, fine. All right, just... what is it you want, exactly? It's kinda weird to meet you out here, we're not exactly close to the bar or anything. Do you know Rafe? Did he tell you where I stayed or something?”

He shook his head firmly. His auburn hair was so tightly coiled to his head that it remained utterly perfect.

“Nah. Like I said, just followin’ up on a little lead. I was kinda scoping out this block. And ah... y'know. When I saw you, I figured I had to ask. Is this where you're gettin’ the stuff?”

I could feel my brow coming down instinctively, defensively.

“Um...”

He crossed his arms tightly, muscles straining against the sleeves of his deep red jacket. Under knitted brows, I could see his coppery eyes were hooded and dark and realized he had the same hangover I did, if not a few times worse. I didn’t envy him.

“Don't be coy with me, I just want to get some for myself, fuck,” he drawled, rolling his eyes and sneering over one corner of his fence picket teeth. “Is this where you get the stuff or not?”

I hesitated for a long moment, looking back at the ramshackle buildings behind me. Remembering Rachel’s coaching I stood up straight, trying to affect a confident pose.

“Yeah,” I finally admitted. “You can get pretty much whatever in a pl—”

I felt him creeping far too close for comfort. I turned to him, staring up, the fear obvious on my face now. I think he liked that. The last thing I saw of him was his tongue, thick and curling over his open bottom lip as he grabbed me by the hair.

He spun me around, one of his arms tucking beneath my chin.

Oh, god, he's going to strangle me.

I kicked wildly, thrashed, tried to headbutt him, but nothing seemed to loosen his grip on me at all. His arms clamped around me like a vise as I clawed pointlessly as his sleeves. My mouth opened wide and I desperately tried to call for help, but nothing came. There was no one else around, and if the tenants above saw us, they didn't care.

The world was fading quickly around me, and my head throbbed like it was about to burst. I went limp just as much from resignation as exhaustion.

This is it.

Spirals twirled in front of my vision, setting the edges to fire and then black ash. I couldn't believe how cavalier he was about it, as if he'd done it a million times. Expert, quick, efficient.

I knew I couldn't have been his first; he was too brazen. That thought was simultaneously comforting and terrifying. I’d found someone truly dangerous, and I hadn’t seen it coming at all. But at least I wasn't the only woman he'd singled out. At least I wasn’t unique.

As soon as that thought drifted through my mind, I was gone.

I had been turned into stone. Some loud machine throbbed rhythmically, its hydraulic chugging relentless in my ears like a semi truck’s air brakes. I couldn’t even think, it was so loud. The sound beat at me, pulverizing my blood into pellets, splintering every thought before it had completely formed.

My eyes wouldn’t open. I felt like I had been dipped in amber and frozen. A thick shell covering my whole body. Nothing worked. I couldn’t even piece together a command to move any part of me that I could remember.

But that sound, that fucking
sound
. Goddamn. Why wouldn’t it stop? If I could just have a moment away from it to clear my head, to get my bearings… I desperately wanted silence so I could understand what was going on.

A red haze seemed to seep behind my closed eyes, buzzing with a threatening swarm of tiny lights. Panic. Was I dead? Did he kill me?

Stay calm. Stay calm. You can figure this out.

I tried to feel something. Color. Pressure. Cold. If I concentrated, I was almost sure I felt light settling on my face. There was a light above me. I was lying down. The light was so bright that I didn’t really want to open my eyes, but didn’t think I could anyway. Or could I? If only that throb would stop, I could try to think straight. What was that?

I know that sound.

That’s me. That’s my heart beat.

I’m still alive.

That awareness came with others: pain, panic, fury. I was alive, but paralyzed? Why couldn’t I open my eyes? Why couldn’t I move? I centered all my thoughts on my eyes, feeling the seam where they were closed, the weight of the light that fell on my lids. With an absurd amount of effort, my lashes gradually began to tear away from where they were stuck to my cheeks.

At first it was like a sharp, jagged shard. The light was crazy, pounding down in blocks that shifted and bleared in starbursts and random colors. My nerves jangled out a painful objection. I blinked, half-afraid that allowing my lids to close again would mean they would never reopen. It was so bright it was practically sound, a shout. I couldn’t make sense of it.

You’re doing great. Now breathe.

But breathing hurt, bad. I wanted to whimper. The air sawed at my throat as it passed and I fought to swallow the pain. But at least I was certain I was alive now. Every second, the white light shifted to a slightly better focus. With each blink, I could make out a little bit more.

Still I was trapped in stone. Nothing was moving. I mustered all the energy I could to sit or roll, but either I didn’t remember how or something was preventing me. Commanding myself to remain calm, I tried to just feel my body and figure it out.

What do I feel? Cold? Pain?

After what seemed like several long minutes, I had called out to every remote part of myself and gotten at least a weak response. I could feel my hands, arms, belly. My feet were blockish and numb but present.

It seemed like my body was there, but something else was too. I could feel wide, tight bands across my chest and hips. Something utterly unyielding jammed against my shoulder blades. I couldn't turn my head much either way, and my vision was still hazy.

Oh god.

I’m tied. I’m tied down.

Instantly I needed to move. My neck strained forward, but a thick bolt of cloth had been tied around the bottom half of my face. I felt the knot at the back as I dropped my head back to the surface in defeat and heard a metallic clang.

Moving from my neck downward, I pulled hard at the bonds—each one individually with what little strength I had, hoping that one of them might be loose. When nothing seemed to budge, I tried in vain to pull all my limbs inward, breaking them free of their containment. Nothing.

I kicked and struggled wildly then, tapping into reserves I didn't know I had. I fought against the bindings with everything small jolt of strength as I began to hear another sound.

No,
sounds
. Plural.

Someone else in the room? Voices coming closer. They seemed to be fading in and out along with my thready consciousness as I struggled. I was still swooning, trying desperately to focus on their voices—anything to bring me out of this terrible half-conscious, drugged fog.

A series of dark shapes floated vertically in the blare of my vision. I squinted hard, trying to see them. Three? Six? No, two. Two people. I could hear the vague impressions of their voices, like underwater whispers. Like an old car radio being dialled in past the sea of white noise, cutting through in brief snatches.

“...tie her…”

“... unprepared…”

“...
Rachel…
”

At the sound of her name, I arched my back and pulled with all my might. Parts of me knocked loose and banged against the metal. Something fell heavy and sudden against my shoulders and flung me back, pinning me to the hard surface. My skin pinched as the straps were tightened and I could no longer move again.

My heart raced, threatening to pound out every other noise in the room again. Struggling for clarity, I focused on the sensation of someone very close to my head. I could feel their breath, oily and hot on my skin.

“...not like I wanted…”

“...just where you said…”

Focus!

Two people. Two men, I was sure. There was one voice near me, and one farther away. I tried desperately to slow my breathing so I could hear better, realizing that I was making sounds, whimpering through the cloth. I had to stop.

“The fuck you mean, this is the wrong girl?” came the voice near me. The sound oozed over the skin under my ear. “This is Rachel. You told me to get Rachel.”

“No, it isn’t,” came a response, farther away.

“The fuck it isn’t. Look at her! Blonde hair, big bag of pills… That’s Rachel!”

“No, it isn't. Do you
realize
the problems you've just laid at my door?”

I’m not Rachel! Listen to me!

“Christ. Keep her still!”

Something fell over me again, blocking out the light and briefly blinding me. I realized I had started thrashing again and was now cinched down past immobility. Much more and I wouldn’t be able to breathe at all.

“If you cannot control her, please leave the chapel,” came a growl.

“I’ve fuckin—
Fuck!
” came the gruff response. It felt like I was straddled, held down as the straps were tightened too far. “I’ve got her!”

“For the moment. Perhaps.”

The shadow passed as the body above me climbed off the metal table. The light returned, as harsh and blinding before. The bindings were so tight that I could barely take a breath and began to pant in shallow gasps, pain lancing my sore throat.

I know him.

I knew that voice. Despite the hard edge it had taken on, the anger that boiled just beneath the surface, I knew that it was Rafe's voice. That uncanny smoothness, the haughtiness and superiority that dripped like honey from every word he spoke.

Another shadow. I held my eyes open and waited, needing to see more. The first thing I managed to focus my eyes on was the last thing I wanted to see. Bronson's wiry copper hair stood out against the white ceiling far above me.

Panic rose again in a swarm, my chest rising and falling quickly as more and more of the world cleared around me.

“Stupid bitch.”

Bronson leaned in, his eyes narrow, his brow twisted in anger. The receding fog around his face brought it into unnerving sharpness and clarity. His eyes bored into mine. His upper lip curled back over his stained, crowded teeth.

“This ain't my fault,” he hissed, close to my face. I could feel drops of his spit pocking my cheeks. “It's yours. I can't fucking
stand
liars.”

He straightened up again, leaving my vision.

“How was I supposed to know who she was? I wasn’t about to go for her ID, Rafe. She
said
her name was Rachel… She sold me the goods… What was I supposed to think?”

I felt Bronson's rough hand at my face, his fingertips digging into my cheeks. The sudden pain of the pressure dragged me toward full consciousness and the room snapped into sharp, searing focus. Bronson stared at me, but spoke to Rafe. A stripe of milky spittle trailed from his tongue to his upper gums.

“So… What are we going to do with her?”

“I don’t know,” came the answer, a menacing growl. “She’s… not supposed to be here.”

Bronson shrugged, his mouth twisting in a sneer. I could see a birdshot scatter of oversized blackheads on his chin.

“I could take her off your hands,” he said in a low, oily voice. “Take care of her. Oh, that'd be
great
fun.”

My mind began to churn. Was it the pills? Was there something wrong with them, or did he just want more? I moaned through the ties over my mouth. If they would just let me explain… If Rafe would just come closer…

Rafe! Please!

Bronson’s beady eyes scanned mine, flickering over and over from left to right as he leaned closer and closer. Then he glanced away toward Rafe’s voice.

“You'll do no such thing, Bronson. This is your mess, but you won't be cleaning it up. Not like that.”

Bronson scoffed, releasing my face with a little push as he stood straight again.

“So, what? You like this girl, now? She’s useless.”

Please talk to me!

Rafe’s face finally entered the swath of light that I could see. Relief felt like a cool surge in my belly. I wanted to cry. He knew me. He would do something, I was sure. I tried desperately to communicate to him, but his inky black eyes only stared down, hard and cold as onyx.

“No. I don't like her,” he growled, nostrils flaring. “What kind of question is that?”

“Tch. Then what's the problem? I take her off your hands, we get our girl, and this whole thing gets wrapped up properly.”

Rafe held my gaze. My eyes burned as I fought the urge to look away. He seemed to be leaning on the table, deep in thought as his stare bored holes in my soul. I didn’t even blink. I needed him to connect with me, to feel I was there. How could he let Bronson keep me like that?

Rafe, please!

His small smile spread slowly.

“You know what? Maybe I do like her—in any case, more than I like you. At least she follows orders properly, isn't that right?” He leaned closer to me. I could smell his spicy cologne in my sinuses, salving the raw tissues.

He looked back to Bronson, jabbing a finger at him. “We're putting her in Gretchen's room, and that's it. We'll figure out what to do with her later.”

Bronson immediately shook his head. “No fucking way. We can't put her there.”

Rafe gave a shrug, but his eyes were a silent challenge. “What choice have you left me?” He pointed back the way they came. “Get the syringe.”

No!

He shook his head subtly. His voice was oddly resigned, and his tone filled me with a new terror. My mind began spinning wildly. Who was Gretchen, and what was in her room? Why was I being kept at all? Why wouldn't they just let me go?

I bit down hard at the gag, giving a small whimper, trying to draw Rafe's eyes back to me. Maybe if he saw my fear, my desperation, he'd feel sorry for me and just let me go.

My breath quickened by the moment as I heard Bronson's footfalls coming closer and closer. I pushed a pitiful excuse for a scream for mercy through the gag, tears flowing freely from my burning eyes. Yanking hard at the wrist bonds, I tried in vain to sit up, to twist toward Rafe, anything to put off whatever was in that syringe.

Rafe’s stare was cool and remote as I begged him silently to let me speak, let me go. My eyes jerked over to Bronson as he came to stand beside me. He gripped my fingers tight, the crushing pressure causing me to cry out again against the gag. I felt the needle sink into my hand, the burning ache of the sedative spreading quickly.

My eyes darted back to Rafe just long enough to see him turn his gaze from me. He didn't look sorry. He looked disappointed. Exasperated.

The world closed in rapidly, an inky black wave of unconsciousness washing over me as the drug took hold. I sank and sank, until there was nothing again.