Loran

 

 

 

I'm not an idiot. I saw the way she eyed the silverware, the way her eyes darted back and forth between me and the knife in her hand. The way her face darkened every time she pondered potential chances to attack me, and her chances of getting out alive.

The ache these observations evoke in my chest is new to me, and I hate that it's even there. It shouldn't affect me the way it does. After all, can I blame her? She's not here according to her own free will, she's not getting paid for this, and she has no idea what I might have planned for her once I'm done with her.

To be honest, neither do I. I've become a complete living-in-the-moment idiot ever since I took her. She‘s like a fucking meteor, destroying everything in its path. I’m no longer the man I was, a man in control, a man with a plan. I've never been one to just wing it, taking each day as it comes. With her, it’s all I have done. She caught my attention without even trying, came along with me, albeit as a result of a confusion that neither of us realized, and been messing with my head ever since.

I shouldn't let this happen, and the only way I was able to make myself feel safe when I brought her up here for dinner was to tie her ankles together. I'll admit, I never even considered the possibility of her attacking me with a knife – attacking me period, for that matter – until I saw the look on her face as she held it in her hand.

Clearing the table, I can see the hope fleeting away from her as I move the silverware out of her reach as quickly as possible without making it seem obvious.

Her eyes follow my actions as I carry the plates and silverware over to the kitchen.

"Would you have gone through with it?" I ask, never looking directly at her, as I walk into the other room.

"Gone through with what?"

I load the dishes in the dishwater, leaving her wondering at the meaning of my words for a few moments as she waits alone at the table. She doesn‘t move an inch, but her eyes remain glued on me. Posing the question and then leaving her hanging was my strategy for preventing any further contemplation on attempting to escape on her part. If I hadn't distracted her, she might have started analyzing her restraints, maybe even going as far as testing them or searching around for some kind of object that could be used to help her escape.

"Stabbing me," I say, closing the dishwasher with such momentum that the abruptness of the sound makes her jump in surprise.

I return to the table, hands in my pockets in a move that radiates patience and calm.

"I saw the way you were looking at that steak knife, toy," I state evenly. "It was written all over your face. You can't hide anything from me."

I pause, enjoying the look of horror on her pretty face. Her hands are clasped in her lap, and she’s the image of sweetness and innocence the way she sits looking at me quietly.

"I'm just wondering, would you actually have gone through with it, if I'd given you the chance?"

"I didn't plan on doing anything, master," she says in a low voice.

She flinches in surprise when I dart forward, removing my hands from my pockets and closing them around her throat. My motions force her into a standing position as I pull her toward me.

"Don't lie to me, toy!"

She reaches up to her throat, trying to loosen my grip, but I know it's mostly for show. It may be uncomfortable, but she sure as hell is still able to breathe just fine.

"I'm not lying!" she insists. "I’m not saying that I never considered or the idea hasn't crossed my mind, but I didn't plan on doing anything. I’m being honest, master."

Her eyes flicker as she stares at me, her face contorted in a conflicting grimace of pain and determination.

"Because it has crossed my mind," she adds. "How could it not?"

She gasps out when I let go of her. She uses one hand to steady herself with the table since her balance is slightly off-kilter from having her feet bound to the chair. Her other hand reaches up to gently massage the area where I grabbed her throat.

Such a drama queen.

"So you have considered it," I confirm. "What an ungrateful little slut you are."

She glares up at me with fire flaming in her eyes. "Ungrateful?"

"You can't tell me you're not enjoying this," I counter. "You can't tell me you're not the one who comes every single day while tensing around my cock, the one who begs me to fuck her, the one who has experienced more orgasms than most will ever have during an entire lifetime just while you’ve been here. All of them orchestrated by me, your generous master!"

The blush on her face tells me there's truth behind my words.

"You said it yourself," I remind her. "You're doing this job because you enjoy it. Because you craved being treated like the little slut you are."

The look she shoots me is the fiercest one I've ever seen on her. Her cheeks are glowing a mad red, and her green eyes sizzle sinisterly. This is one of many moments when I’d love to see her natural hair color. Red. Fiery red.

"But this is no job," she hisses. "This is real. I'm in real danger."

"And you fucking love it."

She doesn't talk back, and before she can object in any way, I close in on her, wrapping my arms around her to make sure I'm in full and complete control of her when I kneel down to unfasten the cuffs to free her from the chair. She struggles in my arms, but her efforts are half-hearted at best, confirming she has no real intention of trying to get away from me.

Because she knows she can't. And, deep down, she doesn’t want to.

One of the cuffs is still locked around her left ankle when I pick her up to carry her over to the stairs leading to the basement. That's when she starts fighting me. She's struggling in my embrace, making it hard for me to keep my balance as I carry her across the living room. She's small and doesn’t weigh very much, but she's still a full-grown human being with a strong will and the vigor to match.

"No!" she shrieks. "Not back down there! Not yet! Please, let me stay up here for a little while longer. Please!"

I ignore her, only tightening my grip around her struggling body as I stagger down the stairs.

"Stop it!" I warn her, when she almost causes me to fall because of her silly attempts at fighting me off. "You'll kill us both!"

"I don't care!" she protests, and before I know it, I'm reminded that I failed to take specific precautions into account with her yet again.

Her teeth dig into my left shoulder. It's bearable at first, but when she realizes this is not getting her anywhere, she intensifies the pressure on my skin, so much so that I'm sure she can taste blood.

I yell out, unable to fight my instincts as I let go of her. What happens next is something neither of us anticipated.

It's one of those terrible moments that seem to happen in agonizing slow motion. She's falling out of my arms, trying to stop her fall by grabbing for the railing on the side of the stairs. But there is no rail, only a flat wall.

I can see the expression on her face changing, overwritten by terror as she realizes she's about to tumble down the stairs, and there is no way for her to catch her fall.

And just as her facial expression changes, so does mine.

Furious rage and shock turns to worry, as I see her toppling down the stairs.

"Ruby!" I cry out, reaching for her.

My hand misses her wrist by only inches, and I'm forced to witness a greater horror, watching her plummet head over heels down the steps. There’s nothing I can do but watch.