Terrorscape (19 page)

Val inhaled sharply, and saw his eyes darken as
his pupils dilated to consume the iris.

 

“I want to leave.”

“You want to resist me. Feel the need for it, in
fact, because as long as you resist, you are innocent.
Blameless. A lost little lamb for the slaughter.”

“I mean it. You can't keep me here. You can't—”
She broke off, choking, when he crawled onto the
bed. “Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”

“I wasn't—”
“You
were.
”

She backed away and in doing so, forgot herself.
Pain spliced her, cleaving her in twain, and her legs,
now as weak as a newborn colt's, became entangled
within the sheets. The smell of roses grew suffocating
as the petals were crushed by their bodies.

He hefted her upright, and pulled her damp hair
back from her neck. “Perhaps the lamb wanted to feel
the bite of the wolf's teeth.” He traced the freckles on
her throat from ear to shoulder, before letting his
hand fall back to her waist. “Sometimes the body has
trouble separating terror from ecstasy. The sensations
are so very similar. Context is everything.”

Val stared ahead and the bed creaked as he
leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the
wisps of peach fuzz on her neck.

“How easy it would be for a lamb to lose herself
in the eyes of a wolf that first time. She would be
unprepared. She would be frightened. Her little heart
would pound. Blood would flow to her limbs. Her
breathing would catch—and quicken.”

He inhaled against her skin.

“Perhaps the wolf would consume her. I think in
most cases, he would. Yes. But this lamb possesses
something that arouses his curiosity—and makes him
hunger for something more than flesh or blood.”

She felt his lips against her pulse.
“And so the wolf lay with the lamb.”

She shuddered violently, hating the way her
stomach jerked, knife-like, with warmth seeping into
her loins like blood. “That's not how it goes.”

“Mm,
well,
I've
always
considered
myself
rather…unconventional.” He
paused.
“I
got
you
something.”

“I don't want it,” she said automatically.
A cold weight settled at her collarbone.
He's trying to strangle me.

She grabbed at his hands, before he could pull the
metal cord taut. He batted her away. “If I were going
to kill you,” he said, “you would not be breathing.”

She tried to twist around to look, and he tilted her
head towards the mirror. It was a necklace, heavy,
probably silver Liquid silver. Thin strands of metal
links designed to feel as fluid as oil. The metalwork
was lovely and delicate and spangled, with a large
thin circle worked prominently into the pattern. She
hooked her finger through it, tugging at the metal.

It was no less possessive than the arms around
her waist.

 

“You feel the desire to struggle,” he said softly. “I,
too, have things in which I wish to be indulged.”

“This…this is a collar. You think you can own me
—like I'm…some sort of pet? You're sick.”
She wrenched her shoulders, lashing out with an
elbow. Her hand, still hooked in the necklace, pulled
harder as she prepared to snap off the ring which
now served as the hitch for some kind of gruesome
leash or chain in her imagination.
He grabbed her wrist. “Don't start games with me
that you aren't prepared to lose, Val; it will quickly
devolve into something that I am sure you will not
enjoy. I believe we were speaking of indulgences.
Well. On the matter of control, I stand firm. I will not
tolerate your attempts to 'top from the bottom,' as it
were, and if you persist in this manner, I may have to
hurt you to prove my point. Animals have been killed
for less in the wild.”

His grip, which had been painful, slackened to a
pressure that was tolerable. He touched her necklace
with his free hand. “It's subtle, tasteful. If someone is
astute enough to recognize its significance, all it will
tell them is that you are mine.

“Here is what you are going to do. You will
change into something more appropriate for civilized
company and then the two of us are going to have a
nice glass of wine. We have much to discuss.”

“We have nothing to discuss. I'm not going to be
your plaything!”

“You will be whatever I tell you to be.” He looked
at her, harshly. “I thought we had gone over that
lesson sufficiently, but if you need reminding I
suppose we can postpone your change of attire for a
few hours—”

She released the necklace as if it had caught fire.
“Where are the clothes?”

“I'll get them for you.” He slid off the mattress
with an ease that would have made her loathe him if
she hadn't already been pulsing with hatred. She
watched him produce a shopping bag that she had
somehow missed before, during her initial cursory
inspection of the room. Unless he went and got it
later.

And with that thought she fled into the bathroom,
taking the sheet with her.

Her eyes were stinging. With tears, she thought,
until
she
remembered
her
contacts.
They
were
cosmetic and not intended for prolonged wear. Her
salty tears and running makeup had caused them to
chafe horribly. Val washed her hands and prized out
the tinted silicone disks. They were good for a few
more wears at least but she tossed them into the trash.

After a pause, she wet a piece of tissue and began
to clean herself up. When she reached her thighs she
had to stop because the room had begun to tilt and
blur. She grabbed onto the faucet, clinging to the
porcelain like a sailor to the mast of a sinking ship,
and splashed her face with cold water.

Bitterly cold. Ice cold. Frozen, like his eyes. Over
and over, until her cheeks lost their deathly pallor and
the stinging
sensation
receded to a comfortable
numbness.

The bag contained a pair of expensive jeans, a silk
blouse, and undergarments—all in her size.

Val wasn't sure which unnerved her more: the fact
that he knew her most intimate details offhand, or the
possibility that he had procured these items in
advance. She had not seen them, true, but if he had
not wanted them to be found then she wouldn't,
would she?

That someone could be so cruel, to deliberately
and methodically plan out such debasement—
Do you even hear yourself right now?

Val fell to her knees in front of the toilet and
retched, but her stomach came up empty. She hadn't
eaten—had thought she was starving. She smoothed
down the shirt and wiped her forehead. Apparently
not. Bleakly, she looked at the mirror.

The blouse was fitting and molded to her curves,
with a neckline lower than one she would have
chosen for herself.
But not so low as to be unseemly
, she
could almost hear him say.

The jeans, by contrast, were a loose boot-cut that
showed off her streamlined legs to great effect.
It was his style.

She felt nakeder than she had in just the sheet.
When she turned her head, regarding herself from
another angle, she saw the marks he had left on her
throat like scarlet letters. She ran her fingers over the
bruised skin, clutching the necklace in her fist. She
wanted to destroy the damned thing but…no, she
didn't quite dare.

Gavin did not turn, though he must have heard
the bathroom door open. He was reclining on the
loveseat, leaving her the choice of the armchair or the
desk chair since she was not about to sit beside him.
He watched her seat herself with a lifted eyebrow.

“Now that is a very pleasing effect.”
She looked up sharply. He nodded at her shirt.

“I've never believed that redheads should not
wear red. That particular shade of scarlet is quite
lovely against your skin, like blood on snow.” He
drew a finger down one cheek in thought. “Yes,” he
mused, “You look simply ravishing, my dear Snow
White.”

Did that make him the Huntsman? She wondered
if his word choice was intentional. Ravishing. What a
terrible
word
that
was—saying
someone
looked
lovely enough to take against their will. She folded
her arms, then lowered them when she realized that
the gesture pushed up her breasts for his easy
inspection.

“Perhaps too much so. I do apologize for my…
avidity. It was necessary to be thorough. Next time, I
will issue more self-restraint.”

“Next time.”
Her words fell like stones in the silence.

He caught her expression a heartbeat before she
could change it. His lips curved into a satisfied smile.
“Did you think I'd only want you once? Oh my, you
are more naïve than I thought. Why would I go
through so much trouble for a mere tryst? Does a man
ride a stallion but one time before condemning it to
the abattoir?” He filled a crystal glass and handed it
to her by the stem. “I think not. Drink your wine.”

And there it was. His 'apology' was merely a
pretext to put this new horror into play, the coup in a
chess game that swung the odds in one player's favor.

His.

He didn't care if he hurt her. He was incapable of
chagrin, period. He had made that clear four years
ago, and yet she signed her heart over to him to be
broken time and again. Why? Why did she do that?

“You bastard.” She snatched at the wineglass,
sloshing the contents into his face, then let it shatter.
“Fuck your wine. Fuck you.”

He was off the couch before she could blink,
holding her by the neck of her shirt. “You don't seem
to understand. You took me on, and you lost.” The
silky rage in his voice made her tremble all the more.
“And I intend to make you pay for your hubris. We're
playing my game now, with my rules, and I have all
your pieces. You, my dear, are a lone pawn with no
hope of promotion. However numerous your charms
and the extent of the appeal they hold for me, you are
chattel.”

Val shook her head as if trying to shake out his
words. It wasn't a gesture of defiance and he seemed
to know that but he acted as if it were, knotting his
fingers in her tangled hair and yanking her head back.

“Oh no,” he said, “you are nothing—and you
can't even begin to know what that means, but you
will.” He cleared his throat. “In three days' time I will
give you a clue. That clue will represent both a piece
and a player. You will have one guess. One. Guess
incorrectly and that player will die. Slowly, I should
think, and rather painfully—just in case you don't
find death ample motivation.”

He gave her an arch look.

 

“How helpful the clue is will vary in accordance
with how pleased I am with you at the time.”
“You're a monster.”

 

“Oh, is that right? A monster, am I?” He laughed.

She tried to pull away, but he swept her into his arms.
“Ask yourself what a man without guile might do to
your body in the dark.” He glanced at the window—
the sun was rising, sending golden rays spearing
through the shade—and added, “Or in the daylight.
It's worse in the sun. It makes it all seem so much
more…inescapable.”

Val sucked in her breath. Yes…she remembered…
“I would love to see your body burnished in the

golden light of a savannah noon. Or if you are partial
to the classicists, the wet drapery of the Romans. Well,
the Greeks, actually. When Rome conquered Greece,
they appropriated all the things that caught their
fancy. I am very much like my ancestors in that way.”

“You are insane.”

“Rome conquered the Britons, too. Remember
that sketch, my dear? The only females permitted to
wear togas were the courtesans. History can be so
informative—don't you think? Perhaps you would be
willing to pose for me again.”

“No.”

Again, she tried to pull away. He caught her by
the hand. “Ah, ah, ah—not so fast. There is one more
thing. This is a private game, one that is to be kept
between you and me. No friends. No lovers. No
police. N'est ce pas? I'll be very angry if you defy me.
You wouldn't want that.”

“No.” She didn't.

“Then you may go. We're finished here.” He
released her hand, gesturing at a forlorn pile of black
fabric outside the bathroom door. “I believe your coat
managed to escape the fray. See that you don't forget
it.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“You
wouldn't want to catch your death.”

I already have.

Chapter Twelve
Columbine

She stood on the bus ride home even though it
was empty, gripping the handrail with one trembling
hand. The bus driver looked her way a couple times
but didn't say anything. Val supposed if you drove
the bus for long enough, you eventually learned to see
nothing but the road.

(Did you think I'd only want you once?)

She would be lying if she said she had never
secretly wondered what it would be like…to give in.
Adolescent fantasies were capricious, and at fourteen,
seventeen, she had been helpless in the face of his
overt sexuality. Of course she had wondered.

She
wrapped
her
coat
more
tightly
around
herself, grateful that the high collar covered most of
her throat.

As she walked back to her dorm from the stop it
seemed to Val as though everyone was aware of her
stiff gait and its significance. Until now, she had never
fully grasped the concept behind “walk of shame.”

Now, she did. Oh, now she did.

Mary was not home. Val checked everywhere,
even the bathroom. Nobody was home. Small favors.
She dropped her things on the floor and fell back
against her bed, landing so her back hit the mattress
first. Tentatively, she let her hips touch the bed, and
then she let herself cry in heaving bursts, crying the
red-faced snotty tears they never seemed to show on
television.

First he had ripped out her heart. Then he had
shattered her mind. Now he had broken her body.
Nothing left was hers, not anymore. It was all his.

Through the blur her vision had become, she
could make out the glowing numerals on her clock
changing. She fisted her eyes, drying them enough to
see that the bus she needed to take to get to class
would be coming soon. Class.