This wasn’t the first time I’d been kidnapped, and unless he planned on killing me—which I doubted, because then he wouldn’t get paid—it probably wouldn’t be the last time either. I could survive the bruises, the vile words, the threats of violence and rape. I didn’t fear it, because I’d grown up surrounded by it. But the humiliation of peeing myself was a new one, even for me.
I’d lived my life on a bed of violence and survival, but this man had ignored all of that in favor of a new kind of torture, and I had no idea and no plan for how to cope with it.
There was no way my daddy was coming for me. He wouldn’t risk his own exposure to save me, his only daughter. And he wouldn’t back down from threats against me or the club either, I realized. The only way I was getting out alive was if I got myself out of there. You would think that sort of knowledge would break a person, but it only made me stronger.
Stronger because I had to be.
I’d always had to be.
The sound of the man’s boots on the stairs somewhere in the house set my teeth on edge, my nerves trembling in my stomach in anticipation of what he would do next. I listened hard, trying to work out if he was coming up or going down.
Up, I finally decided.
The burning shame that he would be coming into the room and would smell my pee, again, made my cheeks flame red and my chest go hot.
The door handle turned and then the door pushed inwards. And there he stood, staring in at me. He was wearing a plain leather cut with no T-shirt, his muscular chest covered in smears of grease like he’d been working on a car or a bike. I’d looked for any club patches but there were none. He knew what he was doing. His mask, a scrap of black material, was tied around his face. He scratched lazily with one hand at his sweaty chest, and in the other he held a small plate.
My stomach rumbled at the realization that it was food.
I couldn’t work out how long I’d been there by then. Two days? Three? All I knew was that I hadn’t eaten since I’d been there, and I’d peed myself twice in that time. And despite having only that one bottle of water poured down my throat when I woke up, my bladder felt full again. I had no idea how that was even possible, but it was a fact.
“Hungry?” he asked from the doorway. His hand went to the plate and he plucked something off it before pushing his mask up and popping into his mouth. He sucked his fingers, his gaze on mine the whole time, and I likened him to a lion and me to an antelope as he chewed on whatever it was in his mouth.
Devouring it.
Feasting on it.
My throat felt dry and my stomach rumbled in response. My head was thumping from…well, from everything. From the anxiety of being there, the worry of what might happen to me when this man realized my daddy wouldn’t pay for me, the hunger that twisted in my gut, and the anger that tore through my body at the unfairness of life. A groan of hunger left my dry throat involuntarily.
His mouth twisted and he started to turn away. “Fine, I’ll eat it then.”
“Yes,” I mumbled. Because if I was going to survive this—if I was going to escape—then I needed to eat. I already felt weak, and who knew when he’d offer me food again if I didn’t take it this time. “Yes, I’m hungry.”
I wondered if he’d laugh and walk away regardless. If him offering me food was just another form of torture. Another way to try and break me.
Maybe he didn’t even have any desire for money from my daddy.
Maybe he’d planned to kill me all along. To prove to Daddy that he wasn’t untouchable.
It was a real possibility.
But then, just as I thought he was going to walk away, he turned back around and stalked toward me, coming around the side of the bed and dragging a chair that was against the wall with him. He pulled it right up to the bed and sat down in it and then placed the plate down on the bedside cabinet next to me. I glanced across, seeing mac and cheese on the plate. I loved mac and cheese, and my stomach grumbled even louder.
He chuckled and reached behind me, propping my head up with the pillow. He smelled of sweat and oil. I recognized the scent from the bikers in my father’s club, but there was something sweet smelling beneath the musk of this man. Something citrusy, that smelled clean and fresh, despite the smell of sweat from him, and pee surrounding me.
“Ain’t got no silverware,” he said as he sat back down and picked up the plate. He scooped some of the food up with his fingers and my mouth watered in anticipation. I opened my mouth like a baby bird waiting for a worm from its mother. His hand hovered above my mouth before dropping the cold mac and cheese into it, and I chewed and swallowed not caring that it was smeared over my chin and lips. I opened my mouth back up for more. He scooped some up from the plate and his hand hovered over my waiting mouth. His face was serious, his eyes watching my every move. I licked my tongue out across my lips and groaned again at the taste of cheese sauce.
His mask twitched and he hummed in appreciation at me; greedy, at his mercy, willing to do anything for more of this food. My cheeks flushed with shame at how weak I was being. I looked between his dark brooding eyes and the food in his hands. I felt hot, tempted by the Devil himself, weak. I needed to break the contact between us, the energy that flowed from him to me that was stealing all and any power I still had.
“You washed your hands, right?” I said, my voice hoarse from screaming and thirst.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re layin’ there covered in your own dried piss, half starved, and wondering if I’ve washed my hands?” he drolled.
I nodded stubbornly. “I don’t want to catch anything from you.”
He shook his head and the spell between us was broken once more. His mask twitched, and I had no doubt that behind that scrap of material he was smirking at me. He moved his hand away from me, shoving the material to one side so he could suck the mac and cheese from his thick fingers.
I imagined his fingers in my mouth, forcing themselves between my lips as he tipped my head back and I opened my throat to him…
