Chapter Twenty-Seven
Tamara
The days drag by as I try to adjust to this strange new life. The rules are not clear anymore.
Joshua takes me into the sparring room every day, and he trains me for as long as I want. Two or three hours. He’s teaching me all kinds of dirty tricks. How to escape various chokeholds, how to gouge out eyes, how to turn anything into a deadly weapon. Hide heavy objects in a pillowcase and use it to smash someone’s brains out. Use a lighter and a can of hairspray to make a flamethrower. Where all the tender, vulnerable spots on the body are, and how to strike them to instantly disable someone.
There’s a tiny spark of hope in me. The skills he’s teaching me are actually useful. Joshua let his guard down once, and I got access to the razor. Maybe it will happen again.
I hate that tiny spark of hope, though. Giving up, preparing myself mentally to die, was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Hope is dangerous. Hope will weaken my resolve.
He’s hard on me when we’re sparring, and I’m murderous. I’m sincerely trying very, very hard to maim or kill, but of course I never do. Sometimes Joshua puts on a thick, padded suit with a mask and lets me practice eye-gouging, throat strikes, groin-kicking.
Our sparring sessions always end in fucking. Always. Rough, hard, glorious. I struggle at first, then submit every time, and it’s like it’s part of our sex play. I could refuse him, but the horrible truth is, I crave it. His mere presence, his heated glance, makes my sex damp with desire. The more violent our sparring, the more I want him. Pinned down on the floor, writhing underneath him, fighting to get away but really wanting it…just like the fantasies I used to shamefully entertain before I ever met him.
He resumes bathing me and shaving me in the morning. I let him cuff me to the tub without trying to fight, because I find it heightens the pleasure for me. And that ends in fucking too. That’s sweeter and more tender. I get the best of both worlds from him—soft, gentle sex, and brutal, hard fucking. I have an amazing sex life. Several orgasms a day, and they’re always mind-blowing, explosive, shattering.
If I wasn’t his prisoner, he’d be the perfect lover.
But I am his prisoner. I finally go and try that front door that used to taunt and terrify me, and of course it’s locked. I knew it would be, but I still stand there and cry as I uselessly yank on the doorknob.
At night, at the dinner table, as I sit there with one ankle chained to the chair and the chair bolted to the floor, he tries to draw me out in conversation. I keep my answers monosyllabic and dull.
He starts telling me about his childhood, not as if he’s looking for pity, just as if we’re boyfriend and girlfriend, getting to know each other. Except the childhood that he tells me about is so horrifying that it sounds like something out of a Stephen King novel, and it frequently kills my appetite. His casual discussions of his brothers’ deaths bring tears to my eyes.
The worst of it, to me, is that it could have been stopped early on. There were several visits to their deep woods cabin by concerned social workers—who apparently weren’t that concerned after all, because each time, after a brief visit, they left the family to their fate. The murderous eyes of Joshua’s father burned into his family’s flesh as they spoke politely to the state employees. Those idiots didn’t even bother interviewing the family separately—they did it right there in the room with Lenin Montgomery watching them. And they swallowed all the lies and went back to their offices content.
Apparently Lenin was able to put on a human face when he needed to, just like his son. But the similarities stop there.
Lenin Montgomery was a pedophile rapist and an insane survivalist with the world’s most warped notions of child-rearing. Brutal, day-long physical fitness drills. Forcing his children to run miles through the woods in the summer heat without water, to sleep naked outside in the winter, to catch and kill animals with their bare hands. Setting them against each other, making them fight and not letting them stop until someone had drawn blood. Constantly pounding his sick, twisted vision of life into their vulnerable heads. All that predator-versus-prey crap. “Eat the weak.” You’re king, or you’re nothing.
Killing Joshua’s siblings one by one. His mother, a frail, beaten-down thing, sitting by dully and not fighting until the day his father buried Joshua’s twin, Charlemagne, alive.
Joshua, watching his mother die and feeling absolutely nothing.
The sound of Charlemagne’s death rattle. The way Joshua describes it, carefully and precisely, with words leached of emotion, I can actually hear the horrible sound in my head.
The reporter who guessed that Joshua Smith was living under an assumed name was right. Joshua’s name, originally, was William Montgomery. As in William the Conqueror, because all the boys in the family were named after powerful leaders. The last name Montgomery might have been a lie, given that their father was a sociopath who lied about everything. Joshua had done some research into his family after he killed his father, and couldn’t find any evidence of where they’d come from.
I understand him now, although I don’t forgive him. The compassionate part of me wants to climb into a time machine and travel back to Joshua’s childhood with an Uzi, to rescue him, to rescue all of them. I can empathize with Joshua’s dark urges. I don’t just want to go back in time and kill his father, I want to drag it out for weeks of hideous torture, drinking in every scream.
But I stay hard. I stay strong. I’m sorry this happened to Joshua the same way I’d be sorry if it happened to anyone, but it doesn’t excuse what he’s done to me.
As the days march by, he talks to me about his business over meals. He tells me how he selects companies to acquire, and the various ways that he makes sure that he gets what he wants—some legal, some not. He’s designed software that allows him to hack into just about anywhere, so he’s always got an unfair advantage.
He’s giving me an education and a fascinating behind-the-scenes look at high finance. He’s telling me all his secrets, confiding in me like a lover, making me feel special.
When he isn’t wearing his icy mask of hate, he’s funny and witty and entertaining. I saw that side of him when I was working for him, sometimes, how he’d show his appreciation to employees who’d excelled in their positions and they’d just light up. His approval is sweeter than honey. He’s still a hard-ass, still controlling and sinister, but there’s something sexy about that too.
But I keep my walls up. This man tortured me and locked me in a cell, and he is the reason I will never be anything more than a chained-up puppet, existing only for his amusement. My world has shrunk down to the interior of a well-decorated prison because of him.
One day at lunch, when he’s talking about how he hunts his victims, he tells me about the software he uses to find the murderers. At that, I perk up, briefly.
“You could sell that to police departments, to the FBI,” I say after he describes it to me. “It could save so many people.”
But he shakes his head. “A large part of my process is illegal,” he says. “Once my software does the preliminary work of identifying disappearance clusters, my next step is use it to hack into numerous email and social networking accounts and bank accounts of the victims, friends and family and employers of the victims, and suspects. The police could never do what I do. They’re hamstrung by the law.”
Disappointed, I go silent again. I still refuse to speak to him in more than monosyllables, unless we’re sparring.
So he starts offering me things. Trying to bribe me.
“Since you haven’t tried to kill yourself in the last three weeks, I am willing to take you outside.” He springs that one on me at dinner one night.
It’s already been three weeks since I was released from my cell? Fuck me. What’s it like outside now? It must be late fall, at least. Maybe winter. I’m hollow with sorrow and despair at the thought of how long I’ve been here.
This is the only life that I’ll know, locked inside these walls. The months sliding away into years. Unless I finally manage to kill him, or myself.
“No,” I say, looking at my plate as I eat.
“Interesting. Why not?”
Interesting. My misery is interesting to him. I glare down at my pasta. “A glimpse of the outside world, as a patronizing pat on the head for being a good little girl? It would be torture, not pleasure. It would remind me of the freedom I can never have again.”
“I didn’t say a glimpse. We could walk outside every day that the weather permitted.”
“You could take me for daily walks like a dog chained to your leash, you mean? Again, no.”
He sighs, as if he’s a parent dealing with a very trying toddler. “Your sulky attitude is getting very boring, Toy. What would make you happy aside from freedom?”
I shoot him a nasty look. “If you shut the fuck up and let me eat my food without talking to me. Forever.”
“How unfortunate.” He gives me that bland, maddening smile that reminds me who’s in control here. “That’s not going to happen. Anyway. I find that I’m interested in your ideas, your perspectives.” I scoop up a forkful of fettucine, avoiding his gaze and trying not to let myself feel flattered. I know what an intellectual snob he is, how few people he respects enough to carry on more than a brief conversation. The fact that he never seems to tire of me, that he considers my thoughts and ideas worthy, it makes me feel good about myself. But also angry with myself. After everything he’s put me through, I refuse to be that easy.
“I’d like our conversations to be civil,” he continues, “and I’d like to achieve that without having to revert to my more brutal methods of chastisement, but my patience is nearing an end. And if you tell me to kill you one more time, I’ll hang you over the electric plate until you pass out. Or maybe I’ll heat up my branding iron.” And just like that, the warm feelings that were fizzing around inside me evaporate.
The thought of my flesh being burned makes me quail inwardly, so before I lose my nerve, I drop my plastic spoon, casually pick up my plate of pasta, and throw it in his face. “Kill me, Joshua crybaby Smith.”
And I brace myself for pain. A lot of pain.
Instead, his eyes flare with what I swear is arousal as he sits there with fettuccine alfredo sauce dripping onto his shirt.
He loves it when I fight him. It turns him on.
“I’m disappointed in you, Toy.” He picks up a napkin and mops strands of pasta from his face. “If you were smart, you’d start negotiating. How about a million-dollar donation to the battered women’s shelter?”
That sends a shockwave through me. He says it so casually, but that’s an enormous amount of money. My God, the lives that could be changed with that money. I could actually do some good before I figure out a way to end myself. He’s offering me a little bit of power.
“What would you ask in return?” I ask cautiously.
He cocks his head. “First answer a question. This is the first offer of mine that you’ve shown any interest in. Oh, and you briefly got excited when you thought I could use my software to benefit law enforcement. You talked to me then, but after that, you stopped. Why don’t you want things for yourself? Why do you care about helping people so much?” I hate the mockery lacing his voice.
How can you answer a question like that? How can you explain compassion and empathy to a man with an iceberg heart?
“Penance for my sins, maybe. I just… I want to make a difference to people.”
“That’s pure ego, you know,” he says with mild contempt as he picks up his napkin and scrubs at his face. “You just want to do good things for people so you can feel better about yourself.”
I shrug. “All philanthropy is selfish at heart. It doesn’t matter. Yes, it feels good to do good things for people, to make the world a better place. So what? Does that mean I should do bad things, and make the world a worse place, so I don’t feel good? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Interesting point.” He chews it over, considering it, then nods. “This helps me understand philanthropy, on some level. So are we agreed? Anonymous million-dollar donation, in exchange for you answering questions when I ask them?”
Fuck. Damn. Hell.
He’s doing it.
He’s breaking me down. He swore he’d make me accept my life here.
And I’m letting him.
Just for now, I promise myself.
Not forever.
“I will accept the deal, if you answer one question for me.”
“Depends on the question.”
“You keep offering me things—physical objects, money, a walk in the prison yard—to try to get me to accept what you’ve done to me. What would make you accept having your life stolen from you and living as someone’s slave, under their complete control, and knowing you’ll never talk to another person again for the rest of your life?”
“I’m not you. I’m me. We’re different people.” That baffled look appears on his face again.
“Right. That’s Joshua-speak for ‘I utterly fail at understanding normal human emotion.’”
He shakes his head chidingly. “I answered your question as best I could, given that your question made no sense in the first place. Now, my turn. I want you to tell me ten things that you love about being here.”
I could be petty and tell him nothing, but that would be a lie, and he might cancel the deal. If I can really get him to donate a million dollars to the shelter, that would be huge.
Frowning, I stare down at the table and force myself to open up to him, as I’ve done too many times since he kidnapped me. “I…I love it when you bathe me. I love sex with you. The gentle, sensual whipping, and when you spank me just right—I love that too.” My face grows hot with resentment, and I clench my fists and press my thighs together tightly. I don’t want to give him this. It’s like validating what he’s done to me, and again, he’s invading my mind and making me feel disgustingly vulnerable. Like being strapped down to an ob-gyn chair and put on public display.
“That’s three.” There’s an impatient snap to his voice now. “Go on. And don’t stop until you get to ten, or the deal is off the table.”
“Can we just have a damn conversation without you threatening me?” I yell at him.
He gives me a nasty smile. “Given who and what I am, probably not.”
I heave a sigh. “When you made me confess to what I’d done to my stepfather, it took an enormous weight off my shoulders.” I hold up my hands to tick the numbers off. “That’s four. When you made me talk about my mother’s death and told me it wasn’t my fault…sometimes, you have a way of saying things that can make me believe almost anything. I have felt a darkness lift from me ever since that day. I haven’t done my tapping rituals in a long time, and I don’t wake up in the middle of an anxiety attack any more. That’s five. I love the selection of books that you have here. That’s six. I love the food that you serve. That’s seven. I love sparring with you every day and getting to pretend I’m actually hurting you for every rotten thing you’ve done to me. That’s eight. I love the artwork here. That’s nine. I love the furnishings in the house. That’s ten.” I clench my splayed-out fingers into fists.
That’s ten pieces of my heart and soul he just pried out of me. I’m hyperventilating, tears burning in my eyes. Damn him. I swore to myself, when I reclaimed my identity as Tamara, that I would never again let him hurt me emotionally. And here I am. He knows exactly how to get to me.
“What about when I gave you the dresses?” he asks.
Again with the damn dresses. I flash him an annoyed look. “No, frankly, I didn’t love that at all. Why do you care so much about the dresses?”
“Because it was the first time in my life that I’ve ever attempted to buy someone a gift and genuinely wanted to please them.”
The look on his face… If it were any other man, I’d say it was a look of hurt and confusion. But this is Joshua Smith, the world’s slickest psychopath. He’s just manufacturing that look to mimic a normal human response, isn’t he?
If I’m forced to be honest with myself, I’m not entirely sure. He isn’t lying when he says that my presence here has changed him. I know he’s opening up in an odd way, doing things he’s never done before. He’s treating me differently than he’s treated anyone in his entire life. Perhaps I have touched something inside him, made him a little bit more human.
I shake these confusing thoughts from my head. He’s staring at me expectantly.
“You never buy gifts for Elizabeth?”
His perfect brow wrinkles. “No, why would I?”
“You just don’t get people, do you?” Then I laugh at myself. “Right, right, look who I’m talking to. So you never show her the slightest appreciation or acknowledgment of what she does for you. No wonder she’s miserable. Then again, if you bought her gifts, it would just give her false hope. All right, you wanted to know why I didn’t like the dresses. Seeing them just made me think that nobody but you would ever see me wearing them.”
“Who else do you want to see them?” There’s a dangerous edge to his voice now. Is Joshua actually jealous? What new level of madness have we reached? Dear God, the look in his eyes. I think if he ever saw me flirting with another man, he’d gut him like a deer.
“I would just get the pleasure of wearing them to a restaurant, to a play, to a movie, to an art gallery opening… I mean, I can’t explain it. Why do you wear nice clothing when you’re here?”
He smiles mockingly. “Why, to please you, Toy.”
“That’s Tamara Bennett to you, Joshua Smith. And bullshit. You wear nice clothing because it pleases you and feeds your grandiose ego. Where are we, by the way?” I throw the question out, since we’re actually having something resembling a conversation. Maybe he’ll give me something for free.
“What will you give me if I tell you?”
Nope. Nothing’s that easy.
“What could I give you? Thanks to you, I have nothing of value.”
“Self-pity is unattractive, Toy.” He’s really quite cuttingly nasty when he wants to be. “Try again.”
“I promise I won’t try to kill myself.” I give him a weary shrug.
Genuine anger flashes in his blue eyes. “Of course you will. Don’t lie to me, Toy.”
I laugh, a harsh, bitter sound that grates on my own ears. I can’t remember the last time I laughed with joy rather than mockery. “Why not? You lied to me. The one thing you swore you’d never do, and you’re so fucking weak and cowardly and pathetic that you couldn’t even follow that one little rule. You couldn’t control me without lies. Do you have any idea how much contempt I have for you because of that? God, you make me nauseous.” I’m angry all over again as I say that. Rage burns through me like a cleansing fire.
He leans back in his chair, the anger fading from his face. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we, Toy? I wonder what’s going to become of us.”
“One of us will die at the hands of the other.”
“Perhaps. Well, if you plan on killing me, you’ll need your strength.” He shoves his plate of pasta at me. The remains of my own plate are splattered on the table in front of him. “Eat.”
I shake my head.
“Do you know what a funnel gag is, Toy? It would allow me to shove food into your mouth and down your throat.” He says the words politely, and I feel a bizarre shiver of arousal.
He has well and truly screwed me up for life. His threats turn me on now. God help me, even if I escaped, I’d never be free of him.
I look up and meet his eyes. “I’m genuinely not hungry right now, Joshua. When you forced me to tell you the things that I love about being here—that was hard on me. I lost my appetite.”
He looks at my hands and sees that they’re shaking. “Why?” He seems to be genuinely interested.
“It’s painful for me to open up like that. I spent a lifetime building up walls, and when you tear them down like that, it makes me feel weak and exposed.” My muscles tense up, and I clench my fists to stop the trembling.
“I see.” He thinks about it for a moment, then stands up and walks over to me. He pulls me to my feet, and…wraps his arms around me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, astonished.
“It’s called a hug, Toy.” He says it with gentle mockery.
He’s hugging me to make me feel better.
His arms tighten around me, and I melt into him before I can stop myself. His body is so strong, his grip so firm. I rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes and breathe in his warm, masculine scent, the faint whiff of cologne and sweat and male musk. Then I circle his waist with my hands and hug him back.
I hug my kidnapper.
I hug my torturer.
I just want to feel better about everything, I want to leave my nightmare behind even if it’s just for a few moments of make-believe, so I pretend that he’s none of those things. I keep my eyes closed tight and pretend that he’s my boyfriend, my lover, my protector. And in a way he is. I have no doubt that if anyone tried to harm me, Joshua would kill them or die trying. He’s the only man in my life. The only man who’s ever given me an orgasm. When we have sex now, it feels like making love, and he always, always makes sure that I come first.
Why couldn’t he have been like this when he first took me? I think I’d have been in love with him by now.
He begins stroking my hair, gently, fingers trailing through the tresses.
“This isn’t so bad,” he murmurs, and I’m not sure if he’s talking to himself or me. And a little bit of me melts. This is probably the first time he’s ever hugged anyone, and, heart-breakingly, the first time he’s ever been hugged. Several minutes slide by, slowly, sweetly.
I open my eyes and tip my head back to look at him. He’s staring down at me, and the look in his eyes is pure tenderness. It looks like love.
“You could let me go, Joshua,” I plead for the millionth time.
“If you truly knew me, Toy, you would understand that I can’t.” I think his smile is tinged with sadness. At least, if it were anyone else, that would be a sad smile. “I simply can’t.”
How can anyone truly know someone as fucked up as you, Joshua?
I step back out of his arms, as far as I can go with my ankle still chained to the chair, and my body cries out at the loss of his warmth.
He bends down and uncuffs my ankle.
But he doesn’t set me free.