64
Happy Tears
The front door opened, letting in a chilly gust of wind and the smell of snow. Footsteps came inside, striding purposefully before slowing.
Angel kept her head down, her fingers buried deep in the thick shag carpeting spread in front of the fire. It was lit; those orange flames made her shiver every time they licked her naked skin.
A briefcase fell to the floor. She glanced up through her lashes, keeping her head down as she watched Drew dropping his jacket to the floor.
He was always messy, out here. He never tidied anything, never picked up after himself.
Was he like that out there? In the outside world? Or was he the same old Drew she’d first met; meticulous to the point of OCD.
“What’re we having?” he asked, his voice a quiet rumble.
He smoked too much these days — had, ever since the accident.
That was what she had to call it when she called it anything. And it was preferable she didn’t speak about it at all.
The accident.
Because that’s what it had been, he’d explained. An accident.
“You can speak, princess. What are we having?”
“Braised lamb shank and red wine sauce on a bed of polenta.” Her voice was quiet; he didn’t like it when she spoke louder than a murmur.
“Mmm-mmm!” His tie dropped to the floor.
The clink of his belt made her shiver, but she covered the gesture by slowly bringing her hair over her shoulders and arranging the perfectly curled tresses over her bare breasts.
His belt clanked when it hit the floor. He kicked off his shoes, moving silently over the carpet on silk-stockinged feet.
“Sounds almost as delicious as you look, princess.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“What did you eat today?”
“Some fruit.”
“That all? You’re looking a little skinny, Angel. I don’t want you wasting away.”
“Sorry, Sir.”
“We’ll have plenty when we’re done. Would you like some wine?”
“Yes, Sir. Please, Sir.”
She ducked her head, again watching him from under her lashes as he turned and went into the kitchen. Her heart gave a hard knock, and then she sprang forward, reaching for his briefcase.
Behind her, a chain clanked. That sound tore through her like a scourge of locusts. She bit hard on her lip, stretching through the pain, her fingers grasping at the air.
His briefcase was less than an inch from her grasping fingertips, but it could have been on the moon.
When Drew came back into the living room, she was sitting on her heels where he’d left her. He sank to his knees in front of her, removing his cufflinks and setting them down on the coffee table.
They had his initials on them; B. S.
Bruce Sun.
She’d laughed when he’d told her that his new wife — Wendy or something — had bought them for his birthday. And then he’d slapped her, and she hadn’t laughed at him again. She’d been full of spite and malice back then. Those first few months after he’d trapped her here. But that anger, that rage, had simmered. Had cooled and gone hard and brittle, like glass.
He brought a wine glass to her lips, lifting her chin so she would drink.
She swallowed it down — careful not to spill on the rug — until he took the empty glass away. Her head spun a little; she’s last had wine when he was here two weekends ago. During the times he was gone, she wasn’t allowed alcohol.
He used his thumb to dry her lips, and then his mouth. She responded instantly, sitting up so her body was against his, knowing that her enthusiasm would make him hard. He would be rough and quick — he always was, the night he came home — but tomorrow he would be gentle and loving.
A tear trickled down her cheek and slipped into her mouth. He pulled away, cupping her face in his hands.
“Why are you crying?”
“Missed you, is all,” she murmured, forcing her lips into a line.
“Happy tears?”
“Happy tears.” She nodded, freeing another pair of them. “Just happy tears.”
He scooped her into his arms, hugging her hard as he kissed her again. He tasted of cigarettes and chocolate; he’d developed quite a sweet tooth in the time they’d been apart since the accident. It was a taste she savored, one she’d come to love. Especially when it meant he didn’t taste of gin—
God, she hated the taste of gin.
She shuddered hard, and his hands slid down to cup her ass. Then they glided into the crease between her legs.
“You’re not wet,” he said into her ear as he stroked her. “What did I—”
“You were late,” she said, and then stiffened when she heard the defiance in her voice. “I was, I mean, I did, but you said you’d be here—”
She flinched when he grabbed her hair and tugged back her hair. He looked deep into her eyes, his a black void as emotionless as his face.
“I was late,” he conceded with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Angel.”
He nuzzled the side of her neck, his hands sliding around the front of her body. He cupped her, massaging her as his breath warmed her throat.
She stared over his shoulder at his briefcase, her hands digging into his shoulder like claws.
When he’d first put the manacle around her ankle—
It’s lined with leather, Angel. Feel how soft it is. Isn’t it soft?
—he’d locked her in with a key. Then he’d shown her a special place in his briefcase where he kept that key. A small pocket. A secret pocket.
He always left the briefcase there, just out of reach, as if he had a mental circle in his mind of the exact circumference her length of chain allowed her.
It was uncanny, how this house had been built. She could go into the kitchen. Out onto the deck. Upstairs, to the first room on the right, where she slept. All the way into that en-suite bathroom.
But she couldn’t reach the front door. Or that small semi-circle of space where Drew put his briefcase when he was home.
She’d tried to use tongs from the kitchen once. But he’d seen them, the lump under the rug. And he’d taken them away before she’d even had a chance to use them.
How long before he forgot? How long before he moved it the inch that would let her reach it?
Now she waited here for him. Naked, so she couldn’t be hiding anything. Demure and perfect.
His little Angel.
He thrust deep inside her, wrenching a cry from her. She buried her face in his neck and clung to him to him.
One day he would come home, and his little Angel wouldn’t be here anymore.
One day she’d be free.
His little Angel would be in heaven, and he’d have to find another ankle for his chain. Another to warm his bed and suck his dick and make his food and wait for him to come home. Wait like a lapdog begging for scraps.
One day… when she found the courage… then she’d be free.