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TWO

The First Time

“Shouldn’t she feel guilty that she was allowing this huge werewolf to force himself on her? But he was so perfect and well-muscled! Cindee’s body reacted instantly.”

—Gilda Sapphire,
Scorching Passion of the Billionaire Werewolf

My memories after the whole judo attack are a bit blurry, but I know I struggled and cried hysterically all the way to my bedroom. Of all the outcomes I had envisioned, rape had been the least likely until now, because the guy appeared to be looking for something specific, and let’s be honest, that smooth bastard and his dimples didn’t look like they needed to resort to coercion in order to get laid.

Needless to say, when he dropped me face-first on my flowery comforter, I was quickly reconsidering my earlier assessment of the situation. I tried to bat his hands away as he leaned toward me, resting one knee on the mattress.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me or I’ll—”

“Or what, Island?”

I couldn’t come up with any satisfying answer to this rather rhetorical question, and I guess that’s more or less when what little backbone I had been holding on to until then deserted me. He locked my arms against my back, his hold both inescapable and unexpectedly controlled. My heart raced and pounded against my rib cage until it hurt. Common sense screamed for me to call for help or to try to struggle again, but March clearly overpowered me, and I had no idea what he might do if he so much as saw me open my mouth. This time, the call remained stuck in my vocal cords as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.

“Y-You’re going to rape me?”

“No. I’m going to interrogate you.”

Whatever relief his initial denial had caused me promptly vanished, replaced by horrifying visions of movie spies getting their fingers cut off with pruners. An unpleasant pressure started building in my skull, and my thoughts scattered like pieces of a broken mirror: I could picture myself reacting in hundreds of different ways, but my body remained paralyzed. I just froze and tried to block what was happening—the slight warmth elicited by the contact of his hand on my arm and his faint scent of coffee and mint. He brought my wrists closer together, and I heard a metallic sound behind my back. Somewhere in the maze of my mind, a little chunk of gray matter that wasn’t pissing itself in terror connected this sound with the cold sensation around my wrists.

He had handcuffed me.

My arms jerked in an instinctive response, and I think that the realization I was physically restrained triggered something primal within me. It was way too late, but I fought back for real this time, Bruce-Lee style and all.

Pumped up with adrenaline, I tried to roll away from him. My legs flailed and kicked in all directions, and I thought I had landed one good hit against his stomach with my right heel, but all my foot met were hard muscles under the fabric of his shirt; he didn’t even flinch. My little loafers went flying around us, one landing near the bed, the
other hitting the wall. I howled in rage and tried to kick him again. This time, he stopped my heel effortlessly, rewarding the initiative by a strong grip on my neck and a cool warning.

“Don’t push your luck, Island.”

What luck?
The battle cry died in my throat, along with my offensive. There was a beat, a floating couple of seconds during which I released a trembling breath. I heard him exhale as well, and I felt his fingers tapping gently twice against the nape of my neck, as if he had just come to a decision regarding my fate.

Lightning-quick, one of his hands sprang to reach under my gray sweater dress and grab the hem of my tights. He pulled down, and my panties threatened to roll down my thighs along with them. I couldn’t process this: hadn’t he said that he wouldn’t . . . ? I let out a panicked sob, begging him not to rape me, and squeezed my legs together. I felt his fingers untangle themselves from my underwear, though, to focus solely on the tights. A swift tug nearly tore the black cotton, and they came down.

I was in all likelihood being assaulted by a former cowboy, since March had just lassoed me with my own fricking tights. I whimpered in fear at the realization that my ankles were now locked together by the stretchy material.

A little part of me still wanted to be strong, but all I did was bury my face in the pillow, hot tears wetting its red peonies pattern. His fingers threaded in my hair, caressing it in a surprisingly gentle manner, considering the way he had treated me until now.

“This doesn’t have to be difficult. Tell me where it is, and I’ll let you go.” His voice had turned soft, coaxing.

It only made me weep harder. “I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about . . . please don’t kill me!”

He was about to speak when a faint noise coming from the apartment’s entrance door caught his attention and mine. We both heard the lock at the same time, and my chest swelled with a mixture of dread and hope when I heard Joy’s despondent voice in the living room.

“It’s me . . . I need a hug, and an Irish cocoa . . . ’cause right now I wanna die.”

Well, that could be arranged on short notice.

I registered March’s short huff of aggravation. Mr. Clean actually seemed surprised. Scratch that, he
was
surprised. As I’d learn later, our phones had been tapped, and our respective schedules diligently tracked. My working hours and Tuesday yoga, Joy’s Friday Pilates followed by hot sex. He already knew it all. The only thing March couldn’t have guessed was that I would call it a day at five instead of seven, while, somewhere in SoHo, Joy was getting dumped over a kale and banana juice by her Pilates instructor.

All that crying had broken my voice. I barely heard myself croak against the pillow. “Joy! Call the p—”

March didn’t need to cover my mouth this time. He pressed his hand against my neck again and I shut up instantly, deciphering the unspoken message on the tip of his fingers.

“Please, don’t hurt Joy—” I whispered my plea, afraid that a mere decibel too much might cost Joy her life.

“Then tell her to leave us alone.”

I said the first thing that came to my mind, hoping she would buy it, but I had a feeling this wouldn’t end well. “Joy, I thought you’d be with Dan . . . Don’t come in. I-I’m with someone—”

It didn’t end well.

There was a slight rustling sound that I assumed was her coat landing where it belonged—on the couch, mind you—and high heels clanked on the wooden floor as she rushed to my bedroom. March stood up, ready to deal with her, and I gave him a desperate look when I saw him adjusting his black gloves over his knuckles. I remember grinding my teeth in tune with the faint squeak of the leather.

Joy burst in the doorway, her long golden locks falling over her shoulders, her eyes wide.

Silence sometimes speaks louder than words. The ten seconds of absolute peace, the wordless intensity filling the room as she took in the scene before her, those were worth a thousand oratorios rising to the firmament to celebrate an event of biblical proportions. I was lying on my bed facedown, handcuffed, my legs tied with my own tights, my panties showing; a handsome guy stood near me, and I thought Joy was going to cry.

She didn’t. But it was a close call: when she recovered the ability to speak, her tone was reverent. “Oh my God . . . Finally. Finally!”

Her eyes then met March’s; I winced as a suggestive smile stirred her lips. “Mmm . . . which is it? Sir . . . ? Daddy, maybe?”

Seriously? Daddy?

Joy would probably be safe, since she had no clue what was going on. I, on the other hand, would die, and all people would remember about me was how my life had ended at the tender age of twenty-five, in a miscalculated BDSM scene.

I returned to nuzzling my pillow in shame and defeat. “Joy, can you leave us—”

“Oh. Sure . . . I guess I can go see a movie. Do you guys have everything you need? Booze, toys,
protection
?”

“Yes, thank you, Joy.” March seemed to know exactly how to make his voice sound deep and sexy when needed. Had I not known any better, I almost could have believed he was about to perform.

She wiggled her hips with a provocative grin and turned to leave, sending a last wink in our direction. “Losing your V-card
Fifty Shades of Grey
style. I respect you, girl. You’re gonna have to tell me e-very-thing!”

And with this, she was gone.

After the apartment’s door had slammed, March focused his attention back to me, and there was a sympathetic smile on his face. “Good thing it’s not what we’re here for. I can’t think of a worse scenario for a first time.”

I won’t lie. For a second there, when I heard his meditative tone, devoid of the threatening edge it previously held, I thought Joy’s intervention had defused the whole situation and that March had fallen prey to her innate ability to lighten the mood wherever she went.

I was wrong.

As soon as he had said this, he switched back to inquisitor mode, grabbing my right elbow and twisting it against the cuffs with controlled pressure. “Island, my employer has been hunting that diamond for more than a decade. So tell me where it is, or I’ll break your limbs one after another until you talk. Do you understand?”

I was far beyond rational thinking, and all I could do in response was wail and pant. The discomfort slowly grew in intensity, my joint fighting its unnatural position, and when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, it started.

I knew the signs: the dull thudding against my temples had been present for half an hour or so. I had been prone to occasional but violent bouts of migraines since the age of fifteen, a permanent souvenir of the car accident that had killed my mother in Tokyo and left me in a coma for two weeks. The strain in my arm increased; I could no longer move, no longer breathe. My entire skull exploded with white-hot pain. I slammed my head against the pillow and hissed in agony.

Of course he didn’t buy it, no doubt filing me as a wimp. “I haven’t even started . . . Wait at least until it hurts.”

There was the slightest hint of mockery in his voice, and I hated him even more for that, especially since I was going to have to beg. My mouth was watering already, and the unpleasant sensation in my esophagus told me this was going to be a large migraine with a side of nausea.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

My plea fell into deaf ears. “I’m sorry to inform you that it can and will wait.”

Giving up all control, I screamed, “March, I’m going to throw up!”

I felt his grip loosen, as if he were pondering the authenticity of my plea.

My entire body shook in urgency as I begged again, my voice cracking. “Please! Please!”

I suppose that the prospect of vomit all over the sheets carried a peculiar sense of threat for a guy who loved order so much. Strong hands hauled my body and carried me to the small bathroom, setting me in front of the toilet. I bent forward and waited for a few torturous seconds, soon rewarding us both with a series of awful gurgles as my stomach heaved and poured its contents in the bowl. Once I was done, the nausea itself was momentarily relieved, but the waves crashing inside my skull wouldn’t stop. I let myself fall on the old blue tiling and rubbed my forehead against the cool surface in despair.

I think it was the head rubbing that gave him a hint. Kneeling beside me, March turned me over, cradling my face in his right hand with unreadable eyes. “You have a migraine.”

I nodded haphazardly, sweating, unable to talk. The ceiling light was setting my eyeballs on fire, and my surroundings were getting blurry.

He remained perfectly Zen, as if all his victims always collapsed in a similar fashion. “Do you have any medication?”

I managed to raise my chin at the mirror cabinet resting above the sink, prompting him to get up and open it. As he examined the jungle of beauty products crammed onto the shelves, I rasped two mangled syllables that he was able to connect with the box of Zomig resting in front of him. When he pried my mouth open, I gladly welcomed the tablet, letting it dissolve under my tongue.

I felt the cuffs around my wrists and the tights squeezing my ankles come undone before he carried me into the tub. I still had my clothes on, but I was so out of it I didn’t care. Warm water started pouring on my head and neck, and when his hands moved to cup my cheeks, I registered he had removed his gloves at some point. I progressively went
limp as large thumbs pressed on my temples, massaging the pain away in slow circles.

The motion was familiar. Like a gentle swell rocking me. I remembered the sun peeking behind clouds, kissing a long teak deck. The turquoise sea. A boat in Antigua that belonged to a man. A friend of my mother, or maybe a work acquaintance, I wasn’t sure. My mind wandered to her long auburn curls and vibrant green eyes. I thought of those fifteen years spent wandering the world with her, of happy times . . . until the descent into darkness, and at the end of the rabbit’s hole, the white light of the hospital room. I had come to live with my father in New York afterward and tried my best to ease into a new lifestyle made of regular school attendance, friends, or concerns about finding a suitable prom dress . . . Stupid, foreign notions that had made me feel trapped.

Trapped like in that burning car.

Trapped in March’s arms.

I tried to shake his touch away, but I was getting increasingly drowsy and my movements seemed slowed, as if I had been struggling at the bottom of some warm, viscous lake. The last thing I heard was the shower stopping and March’s voice as he answered a phone call. “No . . . nothing significant at this point . . . I understand . . . I won’t interfere again unless there’s a need to.”

I begged my brain to stick with me and make sense of all this, but it declined, and everything went black.