Defaced: A Dark Romance Novel (6 page)

Seven

Lily sat, blindfolded
and cuffed once more. The chair was hard wood behind her back, and her posture matched the chair. The older man had left her as soon as he’d secured her for his boss, and she’d sat waiting with her whole body taut, her breath shallow.

The moment he entered the room, she knew she was no longer alone. Though she’d never even seen this man, something about his presence demanded her attention. He filled the space, taking over every sense. The hairs on her body stood to attention, her heart tripping in her chest. The scent of his cologne slipped like smoke across the air that divided them, filling her nostrils and leaving its taste on her tongue. She braced herself, waiting for what would come next.

His voice broke through her imposed darkness, and she jumped at the sound. “I apologize for the plainness of your first meal. I was aware you’d not eaten for several days and thought a richer meal would not be kind to your stomach.”

Judging from the direction his voice came from, he was standing directly in front of her, perhaps only a few feet away.

Her eyebrows lifted in disbelief. Who the hell was this guy? He’d had her kidnapped, held her against her will, had her blindfolded and handcuffed, and had hit her, but he still cared about her digestive system?

“It was fine,” she said, feeling strange speaking to someone when she couldn’t see him. “What do you want with me?”

She heard footsteps, sensed his slight change in position, more to her right. “You understand that I own you now, don’t you? I paid a lot of money to have you here.”

Anger raged through her. “You can’t own me!” she spat. “I’m not a piece of property.”

“You are now.”

“It’s illegal to own someone.”

“Perhaps in your world, but we’re not in America any longer.”

Her stomach clenched with fear, and she ran hot and cold. Her fears had been confirmed. Though she’d been fairly certain she’d been moved to another country due to the flight, she’d been clinging to the faintest sliver of hope that she was still on home ground. This man could do whatever he wanted with her. She had no way of escaping, and no one was going to come looking for her.

“Where am I?” she demanded.

“You don’t need to know that.”

“Yes, I do!”

“You need to forget you were ever an American,” he told her. “You need to forget you were Lily Drayton. You will no longer be known by that name.” He paused, and then said, “You are mine now, so I get to name you. That’s part of the rules of possession. I think I will call you … Flower.”

She gave a laugh of derision. “Call me what you like, but I’m not going to answer to it.”

His voice grew stern. “You will answer me when I address you by whatever the hell I want.”

Deliberately, she pressed her lips together and turned her face away.

He moved across the room in three long strides. His fingers shot out of the dark and caught her by the jaw, wrenching her face toward him. “Don’t disobey me, Flower. Don’t think for one moment that I won’t hurt you if you make me.”

She tried to pull herself away, but she was cuffed and didn’t have anywhere else to go. She considered kicking out at him with her bare feet, but knew it wouldn’t achieve anything, and she’d only find herself being hit again if she angered him further.

“What do you want with me?” she asked again, forcing herself to be strong.

He released his hold on her face, though she could still feel the imprint of his fingers against her skin. “I want your skills.”

That wasn’t the answer she’d been expecting. She’d believed she’d been brought here—wherever here was—to act as some kind of sex slave for a rich psychopath. Not that she imagined herself to be the typical choice for such a thing. At twenty-eight, she wasn’t exactly young anymore, and her love of pasta and wine meant her previously voluptuous curves were now running into fat. She couldn’t imagine a brunette, slightly dumpy, almost thirty year old was anyone’s idea of a sex slave.

It seemed she was right.

“My skills? My skills to do what?”

“You don’t need to know that yet.”

She sighed, and tried a different direction. “Why did you choose me?”

“You are alone. You won’t be missed, other than by your work colleagues, but they’ll make less of an effort to find you than family would. You’ve had no meaningful relationships during the entirety of your adulthood.” She sensed the change of air as he leaned closer. “Why is that, Flower? Why have you never found someone?”

Did he actually expect her to spill her life story to him? There was no chance she was going to give him more ammunition to torture her with.

“Is it something to do with this?”

Her heart stopped as the weight of his hand pressed against her breast. She tried to jerk away, but her bonds were too tight. “Get off me, you son of a bitch.”

His thumb brushed against her nipple, and it tightened and contracted, despite herself. He gave a cold laugh, but the hand withdrew.

She sensed him straighten and heard the flutter of a sheaf of papers. “According to your psychiatrist’s file, you have a fear of touch.”

Every muscle in her body tightened with anger. “How the hell did you get that file?”

“When you have access to the sort of money I do, you can get pretty much whatever you want.” He paused, and then said, “But tell me more about yourself. Your files discuss the fear you have of touch, and intimacy, but don’t give the reason. Your therapist speculates that you suffered a trauma of some kind, but says you refuse to speak of it.”

She scoffed. “You can’t actually think I’d tell you anything about myself.”

The hand returned, placed on her thigh now, long, strong fingers slipping only inches from her most private part. Her breath caught, her whole body rigid. No one had touched her there for many years, and she had no intention of allowing anyone to do so again.

“Oh,” he said, his voice a growl, “I think I have ways of getting you to talk.”

She recoiled, every internal organ turning to ice. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

To her relief, he withdrew, and she was able to breathe again.

***

He left the
room without another word.

Moments later, the older man came back in and released her from her bonds and removed the blindfold. She shook all over and crumpled into a heap, too shocked to even cry. The man gave her no words of comfort, but as he turned to leave, something occurred to her. She had thought the man called Monster had not allowed her to see him because he considered possibly freeing her one day, and so he didn’t want her to give a description of him to the police. But the theory didn’t work if Monster planned on protecting his employee in any way. She’d seen the older man several times now and could easily give an accurate description.

“Why am I allowed to see you, and not him?” she blurted.

The white-haired man peered over his shoulder to take her in with his cool blue gaze. “No one sees him.”

“No one?”

“No one,” he confirmed.

“But you must see him.”

“I’m different,” he said. “He trusts me.”

And with that, he left the room, locking the door behind him once more.

Lily threw herself at the door. “No! Come back! Let me out of here!”

What sort of freak had had her kidnapped? A man who never let people see him?

Eventually, she gave up. No longer caring about the quality of the water, she stumbled to the bathroom to place her mouth beneath the faucet and gulp down mouthful after mouthful of cold water. The water soothed her throat, but sloshed around in her stomach, making her nauseated. She’d eaten the bread hours ago now, and had no idea when she’d get her next meal.

The thought of the man—Monster—touching her increased her sickness. The memory of his hand pressing against the inside of her thigh, his fingers brushing her nipple. No one touched her like that, not anymore. But the worst part was how her body had reacted to him, her nipple tightening, a pulse of excitement through her most private part. It was as though her body still craved what her mind and heart had worked so hard to keep at a distance.

Her stomach churned again and saliva flooded her mouth. Losing her battle to hang onto the water, she dropped to her knees and clutched the rim of the white porcelain bowl. She heaved, and acidic tasting water gushed from her mouth, spattering against the bowl. She heaved and heaved again, ridding herself of the last of her stomach’s contents. Small pieces of partially digested bread floated in the bowl. Her eyes and nose streamed.

Panting, she sat back and used a piece of toilet tissue to wipe her mouth and nose. She shivered uncontrollably.

Even weaker now, she crawled out of the bathroom and to the bed. Exhaustion weighed her down, but she didn’t want to sleep on the bed. The thought of lying on the mattress, asleep and vulnerable, made her feel like she was giving the bastards who held her captive the wrong idea, as though she was somehow inviting them in. She knew her worries were ridiculous—if they wanted her, they would just come and take her. Where she slept would make no difference to them, but she couldn’t shake the feeling.

Still determined not to sleep on it, she pulled the comforter from the bed to the floor, and then reached up for the pillow. Creating a small nest around herself, she curled up into a ball and fell into a deep, nightmare-filled sleep she couldn’t escape.

Monster (Twelve Years Earlier)

His father’s heavy
footsteps once more came down the hallway.

He was older now, matured, with coarse hair on his chin and chest. He’d grown tall, and his incarceration in the room with the gym equipment his father supplied had given him time to become strong and thick with muscle.

The time of his lesson had arrived, but, as the bedroom door opened, he saw his father was not alone. Following close behind was a young woman. Her dark hair was worn straight and smooth so it fell down over her shoulders. She wore a red dress in material as silky as her hair, which clung to her curves. Her breasts appeared to be too high on her chest, the globes too round and pushed together—though he was sure this had been done on purpose to draw the eye. Her heels were so high he was amazed she could walk. Her dark eyes were thick with mascara, her lips shiny with gloss.

Though, from the way she was dressed, he’d have thought her to be someone who knew her place in the world, her confidence didn’t shine. Instead, she hid behind his father, fiddling with the clingy material of her dress. She bit her lower lip, her small white teeth pressing into the pink gloss.

“Your lesson will be different today,” his father said. “Someone else will be teaching you.”

Monster’s eyes widened, wondering what the young woman could possibly teach him. “But ...” He didn’t know what to say.

“Teresa is used to working with people ... like you,” he finished. “She knows what to do.”

And with that, his father stepped back, allowing the young woman to move past him and enter the room. His father moved into the hall and shut the door behind him, enclosing both Monster and the young woman in the bedroom together.

His heart picked up, tripping over itself.

The woman smiled prettily. “Hi,” she said, stepping closer. Her gaze flicked up to his face, only to sweep away again just as quickly. “My name is Teresa, but you can call me Tess, or Tessie, if you like.” She gave another coy smile. “Hell, you can call me whatever you want.”

Heat bloomed in his chest and quickly crept up his neck to spread across his face. What did she think she was doing?

Her hands went to the tie on the wrap of her dress. She looked down at the knot as her fingers fiddled with it, though it was only a bow, and a simple tug on one of the lengths would unravel it. He couldn’t help but feel the concentration on the knot was a convenient distraction from the man standing in front of her.

The knot came loose, and the dress fell open.

He gasped and took a step back. She wore black underwear, lacy panties and stockings. With one move, she dropped the dress to the floor so she stood only in her heels and underwear.

As Monster stepped back, she took a step forward. She reached for his shirt, her gaze focused on the buttons. “So, sweetie, your father didn’t tell me your name.”

She still wasn’t looking at him.

“My name?”

“Yeah, you know, the thing everyone calls you by.”

No one calls me anything,
he thought, but didn’t say. Instead, he said the only thing he’d ever been called.

“Monst—” he began, but cut himself off. “I mean Mont,” he added hurriedly.

“Your name is Mont?”

He nodded, his whole body tense.

“Okay, sure thing, sweetie.”

She had finished unbuttoning his shirt, and her warm hand slipped beneath the material and against his skin. The place where their skin touched sent shocks of electricity through him, lighting his senses on fire in a way he’d never experienced before. The impulses fired downward, spreading through his lower belly and into his groin. He started to react in the same way he had when he’d been reading the erotic scenes in his novels, or had thought about the girl with the long blonde hair.

His stomach twisted with guilt.

The woman’s hands moved lower and cupped over the top of his pants. She squeezed the hardening length she found there, and Monster had to stop a strange noise issuing from between his lips.

A smile played on her lips, though her eyes still didn’t lift to his face. “You like that, huh, Mont? What about if I squeeze you like this?”

Her grip tightened and released, and tightened and released.

This time he couldn’t stop the groan escape his throat.

“You can touch me, too,” she said, her voice as soft as a whisper. She reached out and took his right hand and lifted it to the sweet swell of her breast. “I like it if you touch me. It makes me feel good.”

“I want to kiss you.” His tone was hoarse with desire. All he could think about were the sort of kisses he’d imagined with the blonde angel, and how he could replicate those imaginings with the woman now offering herself to him.

But Tess paused. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. Your father didn’t pay me enough for kissing. It isn’t something I normally do with a client.”

He stiffened. “What do you mean?”

She gave a faint shrug. “Nothing, Mont. Here, let me make you feel good, too. Your father wanted you to learn how to be with a woman. You want that, too, don’t you?”

He heard the rasp of a zipper, and then her slim hand slipped inside his fly and into the opening of his shorts. Her fingers met with the hardness of his erection, her touch like fire, making him moan. He grew even harder as she worked him free, the hot skin of his shaft meeting the cool air of the room. His balls tightened, growing heavy. She gave his length a couple of expert strokes and his breathing grew harsh.

“Come on, honey,” she encouraged as she stroked him. “I know you’re enjoying this.” She leaned in closer and her lips met with his throat. “You just need to relax.” She pushed her breasts against his chest, rubbing herself against him, while her hand moved in a pumping motion between them. “Squeeze my breast,” she breathed. “Pinch my nipples. I like that.”

He did as she asked, pinching the hard nub of her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, but found the action did nothing for him. She kept her face buried against his neck, giving little moans of what he assumed were pleasure, but which felt faked. He needed there to be a connection, for her mouth to be on his, for their eyes to be locked with shared passion.

“Look at me,” he growled.

But instead of lifting her line of sight to his face, she dropped to her knees. He gasped as her hot, wet mouth enclosed around his cock. Her tongue swirled around the tip, her teeth gently grating his length. She began to moan, but the sound only made his shoulders tense, unbidden anger rising within him.

“Look at me,” he demanded again.

This time her eyes lifted, her mouth still circled around the girth of his erection. Her gaze flicked over his face, lingering on the side he knew was disfigured. Horror and revulsion registered in her dark eyes before she hastily looked down and continued to bob back and forth.

His erection began to deflate.

Filled with anger, guilt, and disappointment, he reached down and grabbed her by the upper arm. Her mouth moved off him, and roughly, he pulled her to her feet.

“Get out of here,” he said, giving her a shove toward the door.

Her eyes widened with fear. “But ... but ... I haven’t done what your father asked.”

Monster tucked his dick back into his pants. “Leave!”

“Please, I’ll do anything you want me to.” But she still wasn’t looking at him—her gaze darting around the room, resting on every surface except the thing that horrified her the most. How could she do it, he wondered? How could she touch him in such a way when he was so repulsive to behold she couldn’t even bring herself to look at him? He felt no compassion for this woman—only the same disgust she must surely feel about him.

He strode to the door and banged on the wood with the flat of his palm. The sound echoed through the room, loud and hollow, making her cringe. His hand smarted at the contact.

Footsteps on the other side, growing louder as they approached. And then the door swung open, his father’s familiar figure in the opening.  The other man’s keen gaze flicked between them, taking in the scene before him—the frightened woman pulling her dress around her body, the angry, ashamed expression of his only son.

“You did what was required?” his father asked the woman.

A prostitute,
he realized that now. He’d read about women who were paid to have sex with men.

“I .... I ...” she stuttered.

Monster spoke up. “She did what was required.”

His father’s eyes blazed. “You dare lie to me?”

His stomach churned at the lie, at standing up to his father. “No, Father. She put her mouth on me. I enjoyed it.”

“Lies! I know what satisfaction looks like, and this certainly isn’t it.” The man stalked into the room. With his open palm, he struck the prostitute across the face, hard enough to knock her to the floor. She raised her hand to her face where she’d been hit, her dress falling open once more.

“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I tried, I tried.”

His father turned to him. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” Heat burned his cheeks. “I wasn’t able to—physically.”

“Bullshit. There’s nothing wrong with you, at least not with that part of you, anyway. Tell me the truth or I’ll beat both of you bloody.”

Monster’s lips pressed together, not wanting to tell his father the truth, knowing how pathetic—how weak—it sounded.

His father strode to the woman and reached down and grabbed her by the throat. Even though he was older, his father was still a powerful man, both mentally and physically. Monster was big enough and strong enough to overpower him, but the psychological dominance, together with the love and twisted respect he held for his father, stopped him from doing so.

“Tell me the truth or I’ll kill you here,” his father hissed at the prostitute.

Tears streamed down her face. “He kept asking me to look at him.”

“And you couldn’t even do that?”

“I did, but he’s ... like he is. He must have seen it in my face, and he ... lost his erection.”

His father turned his attention back to him. “Act like a man, dammit,” his father snarled. “Real men don’t ask a woman for something. A real man takes it. This little slut only exists for the pleasure of men. You take what you want, and she will give it to you, because that is the correct order of things. If you let a woman think she’s in any way better than you, she’ll have your balls crushed in no time. That’s how it is with women. Make sure they know their place.” He turned back to the prostitute. “Crawl on your knees and suck him.”

Monster’s heart leapt in his chest. “No, Father!” That was the last thing he wanted.

The man rounded on him, his eyes hard as ice. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

Monster looked anxiously between the prostitute and his father. Neither of them wanted to argue with the older man.

She crawled to him, coming to rest at his feet. Tears poured down her face, her mascara running in black rivulets down her cheeks. The side of her face where his father had hit her had already bloomed in a reddening bruise. Her lips were swollen, her lower lip split.

Something about her disfigured face stirred a reaction within him. She was no longer his superior—the beautiful, perfect, sexually confident woman who had walked into the room. Now she was his equal, almost as ugly as he was. To his horror, his cock began to stir in his pants.

No, he didn’t want that!

“Father, please,” he tried again.

“Shut up, Monster,” he snapped, and Monster saw the woman flinch at the name. “Or I’ll kill you both.” He moved over to them both, and reached down and grabbed the woman by the jaw. He forced her chin up, so her eyes were raised to Monster’s face. “Look at him while you’re doing it, or I’ll cut your pretty tits off.”

And she lifted her eyes to his completely this time, not even shifting her gaze as her hand slipped back inside his pants to free his erection once more. Even as her hot mouth encircled his cock, still she looked at him, her eyes bloodshot and streaked with black mascara, the bruise in the same place his own disfigurement was. And this time she was able to look at him. Perhaps this time she’d realized there were more frightening things in the world.

To his shame and horror, his balls grew heavy, tightening into his body. His breathing grew more frantic, his whole body rigid. His hands were clenched at his sides, not wanting to touch the damaged woman staring at him with his member in her mouth. His arousal built, higher and higher, until his hips jerked with involuntary movement.

He forgot for the briefest of moments that his father stood over him, and the girl on her knees in front of him had been both paid and beaten to be there.