EMMA

Does it make me an awful person to admit that I didn't hate Ethan as much as I should? Despite what it made me to realize my feelings, or lack thereof, they were still there, or more accurately absent, the weight of them becoming more crushing with each passing day I spent in the cages and was rotated through a routine common for the women kept here in this prison.

It had been silly to think I'd found some connection with Ethan Cole. Over the first few days, he'd paid me special attention. He'd allowed me to read him, to know his thoughts, to take an educated guess about how he felt for me while he sculpted me into a monster who would kill as easily as give up. But as the days wore on and I neither saw him nor heard from him, I understood the stark truth that I'd underestimated Ethan - or overestimated him I guess I should say. I'd given him a heart that wasn't actually there, a warmth that didn't deserve even the passing notion that it could exist inside him.

Where he had once filled my hours, I was now drowning in routine. Each morning we were woken by the guards, told to use our buckets if we had to pee, and then marched off toward the showers where we took our bag of essentials, scrubbed our bodies and dried off. We were led to a cafeteria after, sat in front of trays filled with unpalatable food, given fifteen minutes to manage the task of forcing our throats to swallow it and begging our stomachs to keep it down. We couldn't be blamed for the sickness; after one day of the routine, we knew well where we were headed next.

Melanie had failed in her explanation of the theater, her words leaving out the true depth of horror that faced us each time we were led down the long hall leading to its intricately carved double doors.

Much like one would expect of a wonderland of film, the halls were painted a deep crimson red, the color contrasting sharply against white floorboards and vaulted ceilings. Chair rails ran the center, above which hung the images that began the nightmare you faced while being marched into a theater that was a comfortable viewing of Hell itself.

Posters lined those walls in equally spaced gilded frames, each image depicted beneath some bold title more disturbing than the last.  

The word "Stretch" scrolled across the image of a woman held down by two men, her arms tugged above her head where they were clearly pulled from the sockets of her shoulders while a third man enjoyed the fruits of their labor.

Another bore the title "Pretty Puppet" and showed a woman bound by marionette strings, the pink of her cheeks were actually bruises, her eyes dead where she hanged from those strings in a childish dress that was lifted from behind while her puppet master had his feast.

In yet another, the title "Symphony" overlaid the haunting image of a woman on her stomach over a bed, her legs bent up so that the thick strings of a cello or bass could be tied at her wrists and pulled taut down her back to be secured at her ankles where they rested just above her ass. While one man pulled a bow across those strings, another was nestled between her legs, his hands clenching her thighs as he conducted his own type of cruel music.

I didn't want to look at the posters as I passed, but curiosity has a way of dragging your eye to some vivid tragedy, your body pausing while your heart races, time once again slowing so that you catch every horrible detail of that violent crash of pure evil against humanity. I could hear the screech of tires, the crunch of metal, the shattering tinkle of glass, but it wasn't cars or trucks or trains that collided together - nothing as inhuman as that - it was people who crashed to become blazing infernos, their souls crying out against the horror of vicious speed and poor timing.

In the week that I spent enduring the routine, the posters never changed, but the films did, as well as the order of women in our line. At first, I hadn't noticed the subtle placement of who would lead us into the theater, but after a few days it became apparent that whoever's film was featured that day were given the front spot, made to sit front row center to witness their torture on the big screen.

They cried while we fought to avert our eyes from the films in a feeble attempt to spare them that one humiliation of being watched by dozens of curious eyes. Melanie had been right about one thing: the screams did echo once you left, they were carried inside you from that theater as a petulant lullaby guiding you into fretful sleep. There was no escape from the horror, not even in the moments you could sit silent in the darkness to remember what had been done to you and others on stage.

I've forgotten one thing in this recitation, one glaringly obvious part that perhaps was the result of my mind shielding me so I wouldn't be driven insane. The selection, I liked to call it, the beginning of our day when we were woken to the begging and pleading of panicked voices. They were always pulled from their cages first thing in the morning, the women whose stages were set for whatever movie was being filmed that day.

How the women were rotated, I wasn't quite sure, but I did notice they were given time to heal from whatever wounds were inflicted during their films before being chosen again. By the week's end, Melanie was already out of her stitches and I was being gathered from my cage to be led to medical for the removal of my own. However, unlike Melanie, I wasn't immediately led back to the cages. Instead, I was walked down a familiar hallway to be pushed through a familiar door.

"Ms. Hart," a cultured voice crooned as soon as I stepped foot inside his office, a note of satisfaction or possibly joy lacing the words. "It's good to see you again. Have you been enjoying your time in the cages?"

"Thoroughly," I answered, not willing to bend the knee to this man by lamenting my dire circumstances.

The quick answer pulled a grin from his lips. "I see the actress has walked in and not the woman hiding behind the obstinate mask. Very well. I'll deal with actress. Take a seat."

Rather than repeating the first night in his office when I'd refused to sit, I slid into the chair allowing my exhaustion to dictate my behavior. One would think hours of wasting away in a cell would leave you with a surplus of energy, but in truth, it zapped you out faster, the cold shivers depleting what wasn't stripped by the lack of physical exertion. It was like sleeping too long and waking to find that your body only wanted to sleep more. I was dragging and hadn't realized it, not until I was planted in the seat facing Ethan's desk.

"We have a date tonight," he announced, lowering his body into the leather executive chair. Grinning slyly, he fiddled with a pen atop his desk before peeking up at me. There was such a boyish charm to him that made it difficult to recognize the beast behind the facade. "Dinner and a movie."

Having a date with Ethan didn't strike me as a fun time. Dinner and a movie were just fancy words for torture. "Are we leaving the studio for this date?" I glanced down at my naked body to make a point. "And will I be given clothes?"

A wolfish grin lit his face, the dimples I remembered now buried beneath a week's worth of stubble that was quickly growing into a full beard. The facial hair suited him, made him appear harder somehow. "I have your favorite t-shirt available. And no, we'll be dining in."

"Well," I answered, "then it won't be much of a date. The cuisine in this place leaves much to be desired and I'm not a particular fan of the movies, either."

His laughter could fill a room, the way it burst forth with such ease to dance past your senses, seducing a smile from the lips. It calls to you with a crooked finger, daring you to fight against the true humor and mirth. A colorful bit of warmth in a freezing, grey space, his laughter was only part of his eloquent deceit.

Leaning forward, he glanced at me with twinkling eyes, a myriad of colors dancing through the silver. I was beginning to believe he'd been honest about watching being a natural part of him, because it was in his eyes that I saw a reflection of every beautiful and horrible thing he'd witnessed. He not only watched, he absorbed a bit of the soul from every scene that played out before him, became part of the events around him, orchestrated the minuscule details that drove your heart to race or your stomach to drop into your feet.

"You do have a way about you that amuses me, Emma. I won't deny you that. But your stubbornness is growing tiresome." Pausing, he allowed the music of his laughter to die off, to compress into a sharp thorn he used to scratch my skin in warning. "Continue, and the behavior will only get you in trouble."

Pushing to his feet with the grace of a panther, he rounded the desk to stand in front of me, the material of his pants brushing my knee on a delicate tease. Sitting back against the wood, he crossed his arms over his broad chest, the shoulders of his pressed, black shirt straining against his hard body. Everything he wore only added to his allure and I wondered again how he'd ended up behind a camera instead of in front.

Angling his head down so that he could lock that mysterious stare with mine, his lip twitched with dark humor. "Don't you want to know why we're going on a date tonight?"

Swallowing down the odd sliver of attraction that had lodged in my throat, I answered, "Honestly? I'm not sure that I do. It seems that from one experience to the next, this place just gets more horrible and cruel."

Eyes sparkling, he reached out to run the tip of his finger along my jaw, the touch so soft it was impossible to believe it had come from a man so vile. "You should take care to watch what you say and do, Emma. I gave you the first few days to become acclimated and to learn your place, but I can't allow disobedience or back talk. How you behave will influence the others. You'll only give them false hope through rebellion, and that would be the worst cruelty of all. Those women have no hope, just like you. I want you to understand that so that your spirit isn't crushed by the illusion."

Hating the way my voice trembled, I confessed, "My spirit is already crushed."

Sorrow was the line of his smile. "Not yet, it isn't. I would know." Sitting taller, he was matter of fact in tone, absent of the emotion one should have when announcing death. "On the day your spirit becomes crushed, I'll dispose of you like all the others. But until then, I'll use you for what you're worth."

Rubbing his hands together, he bounced from sorrow to excitement, giving me whiplash in the process. "Back to our date, the reason we are going is to celebrate. You, my lovely little rebel, are in demand. Not only that, you've helped prove to the studio heads that my visions are the key to the future of this industry."

Blinking my eyes slowly, I tempered the anger bubbling inside me. "And what exactly is this industry? Or am I not allowed to know that?"

I wasn't so blind as to not have guessed what the movies were for, but it didn't mean I wasn't hoping to have my suspicions confirmed.

Standing up from the desk to cross the office and pull something from a closet, Ethan turned to me with t-shirt in hand. Tossing it my direction, he stood watching as I shrugged it on. "We distribute illicit pornography on the dark web. It's not a new business, this kind of thing has existed since video cameras were cheap enough to be affordable to the public. We simply fine tuned an old idea and gave it fresh life by producing the films professionally."

Waving an arm, he moved toward the office door, "The night's wasting away. Come, we'll talk while walking."

Knowing better than to argue, I pushed to my feet...and swayed. The room spun around me threatening to topple me over until a strong arm wrapped around my waist to prevent the plummet. The spicy notes of Ethan's cologne tickled my nose, seducing me.

"Careful, Emma."

If I were told he was speaking from inside a deep tunnel, I would have believed it. His voice echoed as I crashed apart, my muscles withering and unbalanced beneath the dizziness. "I think we need to get some food in you. The cages have weakened you faster than they should."

Nothing surprised me in this place, not after a week spent enduring it. Yet, to feel the compassion of Ethan lifting my body to crush against his chest was a startling shock to my weakened system. My heart attempted to beat in panic, a sigh escaping instead. Enjoying the heat and smell of him was wrong, but I was so tired of everything - the cages, the movies, the inhumane treatment. I just hadn't realized how tired until I relaxed in Ethan's arms.

Delirious with the sudden exhaustion, I forgot the rules about overstepping my place and allowed curiosity to power my tongue. "Why the cold, Ethan? Why do they keep it so damn cold?"

To that question, as well, I thought I knew the answer, but confirmation was important to me. For no other reason than satisfying my insatiable need to understand why my life had to be so unbearable.

"Exactly for the reason you're demonstrating now," he answered, his soft voice laced with affection. I must have been worse than I thought to believe I heard it. Ethan wasn't an affectionate man. "The cold keeps the body shivering and drains the frustration that can lead to desperation and violence. It makes the women more docile, more compliant. But that's not just for our convenience, it's for the safety of the women as well. The guards have been known to go a little far in their discipline."

"Who cares? We're all dead anyway."

"Not until I say you are." Turning a corner, he motioned with his head for a guard to follow. We approached a set of double doors at the end of the hall. "Open the door for me," he called out. The guard rounded us to do as ordered, his expression pulled taut in confusion to see Ethan carrying me. To his credit, he didn't say a word.

My body bounced in Ethan's arms over his long-legged strides. Lifting my head took effort, but I managed to take a look around. "Where are we?"

"My suites. I won't eat in the cafeteria. It's too -"

Lost for the word, he paused. I filled in the blank for him. "Disgusting? Basic? Utilitarian? Heartless?"

"Those will do."

My weight was dropped down onto a couch. Although it was cozy, it wasn't as warm as Ethan's arms. "I'll see when we can expect to eat. And also find something that will perk you up."

While he was off seeing to the food, I was struggling to sit up. Managing the feat, I shook my head to clear my vision, my eyes rounding at the luxurious details of Ethan's suite coming into focus. The ceilings soared at least ten feet above my head, the walls textured in red and gold tones emitting warmth, but still providing a neutral background as a back drop for framed movie memorabilia, signed posters, autographed costumes, and shelves of glittering awards positioned beneath track lighting which highlighted each individual piece that deserved notice or admiration.

White floorboards cut a bright border between the walls and the shiny, black stained wood floors, the crown molding drawing the eye up to the vaulted ceilings. Despite the chandeliers that hung glistening from hidden wires and the furniture that was large and imposing, the room was understated in its simplicity making the room appear larger than it actually was.

But it wasn't the glamor of the interior design that stole my attention, not when compared to the floor to ceiling windows that lined one wall, a view of a distant city sparkling against the evening that teased me with a reminder of the world to which I no longer belonged. Reality existed outside those panes of glass while I was trapped in here, a character in illicit films that Ethan treated as one of his favorite dolls.

"I managed to find you a soda." A glass full of clear liquid and fizzy bubbles was shoved in front of my face. He shook it just enough for the ice to clink against the glass. "Drink this. It should help with the exhaustion. I think you may have had a blood sugar crash."

Wrapping my fingers around the glass, I mentioned, "Proper food could prevent that from happening." Bringing the rim to my lips, I swallowed down the cool liquid, thanking God for the crisp, sweet burst of flavor against my tongue.

"That's intentional. What the women are fed is enough to keep you from withering away or starving, but not nutritious enough to give you any strength. Although, for you, that needs to change."

The drink was helpful for refraining from asking what he meant. Chugging it down, I didn't bother with any questions, the potential answers too harrowing to consider. Eventually the glass ran dry and I set it on a table beside me. "You have a nice place. I especially love the view. What city is that?"

Not that I believed he'd tell me, I attempted to discover my location regardless. A girl had to try.

Ethan twisted to glance over his shoulder. "That's Dubai."

My eyebrows lifted at how easily he'd offered the information. "We're in India?" There had to be an American Embassy in India. If I were somehow able to escape the building...

"Presently, yes." He lifted a remote from the table, turned and directed it at the window. "But, we could be in Moscow, if you want."

A click of the button beneath his thumb changed the scenery outside the window drastically, the soaring towers and sparkling starlight replaced by Saint Basil's Cathedral, a burst of color within the white carpets of snow and dancing flurries.

"Or, if you're feeling tropical, we could be in the Bahamas." Another click changed the scene to a white sand beach with turquoise waters stretching to the horizon. Sunlight sparkled off the calm waters, seagulls diving and flying back up again.

My lips pulled into a thin line, my heart dropping into my stomach to realize that the view, like everything else in this place, had been a set design and nothing more.

"It's remarkable, isn't it? Like a green screen in the home. It's also a large screen for watching movies when I'm in the mood to kick up my feet and relax."

Still suffering the blow of losing hope that I knew what country I was in, I forced words from my mouth. "Do you enjoy sitting around and watching your own movies? I'm not much of a fan. In case you were wondering."

Pushing up from where he'd previously knelt to hand me the soda, Ethan crossed the room toward a bar against the side wall. "You wound me, Emma. And here I was thinking of gifting you the full collection for Christmas."

While he poured a drink, I was given the opportunity to stare at his backside. It was a nice view. Nicer than nice, really. Damn near perfect. Unfair, actually. His broad shoulders and sculpted arms filled out the material of his shirt, the hem of which was tucked into slate grey slacks accentuating a trim waist. The pants did little to hide a firm, round ass that sat atop muscular thighs barely hidden beneath the tailored cut of the slacks. He was seduction personified, so beautiful that he shouldn't have been real.

Monsters shouldn't be good looking. They're supposed to be big, lumbering men with scarred skin and receding hairlines. Their teeth should be absent, or they should have eyes that are dead instead of sparkling. They should have big rounded guts and meaty hands that bruise and maim when they touch you. But they shouldn't look like Ethan.

How he'd ended up in a place like this was beyond my understanding. He wasn't the type who needed to force women to their knees, he could simply ask and they'd gladly lower themselves down to look up at him with coquettish eyes, hopeful that their bedroom skills would tether his heart to theirs. He was a predator in every sense: his body, his voice, his intellect and talent. He seduced merely by existing.

My curiosity got the better of me again, so much so that I could be renamed Cat and it would be fitting. "How did you end up in this career?"

Turning with the ease of a dancer, he sipped from his drink. "Directing? It was always a dream. I was addicted to movies as a kid. My father was absent and my mother used the television as a babysitter while she worked late nights."

I shook my head. Even though his story was incredibly sad, it didn't answer my question. "Not just directing, but this place? How did you end up here? From what Melanie told me, you had a career directing real movies, with real movie stars and everything that came with it. What happened that all you do now is live in a horrible place directing films of women being butchered?"

A burst of sound rumbled over his lips. Not laughter, it was something far darker, like a small piece of bitterness slipping out to tint the air.

Slamming the rest of the drink, he set the tumbler delicately on the table, but by the look in his eye, I would have sworn he preferred shattering it. It seemed I'd stumbled on a sore spot, a wound that wouldn't heal while I picked at the scab. Opening his mouth, Ethan almost answered before a knock at his door stole away whatever his answer had been.

"Dinner," he announced, his tone of voice a heavy weight settling over the room that threatened to crush me for having asked the question.