Page 40 of Cruel Master
I didn’t mean to say that last part, and it shocks me enough to push back the need a little. I just asked for my captor. I just begged him to come back, and I feel a sudden, rough nausea at how easily he’s molding me into what he wants. I know how this works, for fuck’s sake. He shouldn’t be breaking me so easily.
Movement. I can’t just sit here. I need to do something to occupy my body. So what if people are watching and I look ridiculous? I don’t care anymore.
I get to my feet, wobbly as my legs still are, and force myself into a workout. I’d kill for a sports bra, but I make do as I runthrough a series of bootcamp-style exercises. Burpees, leg raises, push-ups. Anything to give me something else to think about.
It’s wonderful while it lasts, but my body is drained. I haven’t eaten in hours, and my burst of energy soon fizzles. Fuck. I’ll have to open the box again soon. Why hasn’t dinner arrived yet? At least, I think it should be dinner? The ceiling lights have faded a bit, which I think indicates the day ending. Probably. Unless he’s twisting that around, too.
At least that took some time up, an hour or…
I stare at the timer. Fifteen hours and twenty-eight minutes to go.
Are you kidding me?
Are you fucking kidding me?
“Hey! Hey, asshole! I know you’re messing with the timer. I’m not stupid.”
I’m on my feet now, waving my fist at nothing like a lunatic. But I don’t care.
“I know you—”
“He can’t hear you. He’s not watching right now.”
I freeze, fist raised, like some statue of a revolutionary and stare around the room like an idiot. Of course there’s no one there. It’s the voice again. The one I’d almost convinced myself I’d imagined, along with the weird Morse code.
Is it the same person, though? I’ve got a good ear for voices, and she sounds different. It’s subtle, but…
“I’ll erase that last bit, where you called him an asshole. I don’t think he’ll like that. You don’t want to get in trouble. And he’s not messing with the timer. It’s accurate.”
“Uh. Thanks.” It feels like the right thing to say, though I’m not sure I like the idea of her messing with my video feed. Saldar is a known quantity. I might be wrong, but I don’t think he’ll kill or seriously hurt me. This woman might be helping me now,but I don’t know who the hell she is. Why does she have control over anything?
I consider wrapping the blanket around myself, but I’m way too hot and sticky, and this mysterious person has obviously seen me in much worse positions than just naked. I grew up in a family of almost-nudists anyway. Hadrian panicking when he walked out on Mum sunbathing topless was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.
He turned beet red, stammered, “Sorry, Mrs. Stewart,” and ran back into the house. Mum always begged him to call her Sandy, but he just couldn’t do it. So many old-school values drilled into him by his conservative father.
It didn’t stop him being a genius with his tongue, though. He might have been vanilla in the bedroom, but he could eat pussy like no one else. God, now I’m imagining him spreading my legs apart, and it’s unbearable.
Stop. Focus on the now. I need to have a productive conversation with whoever the fuck this voice is.
“Can you tell me where I am?”
There’s a long pause before the voice answers. “No. I don’t want to break the rules too much. But it’s not a bad place.”
I wait, hoping for more, but nothing comes.Not a bad place.Not exactly encouraging, but it could be worse.
“How many people are here?” It’s a question that’s been really bothering me. To create this prison must have taken a lot of resources. I don’t think a single man working alone could have constructed it. So who the hell did? Some shadowy “Dungeons R Us” contractor paid not to question why the door locks from the outside?
“I can’t tell you.”
Fuck. If this person isn’t going to answer any questions, why is she talking to me at all? “Are you a captive too?”
“No!” No hesitation this time, and a lot more emotion. Well then. I’ve touched a nerve. Maybe I can get something out of this conversation after all.
“So, if you’re not a captive, what the fuck are you doing here? Do you help capture women? Prepare us for trafficking?”
“No! No, I would never. No one is trafficked from here. We—”
She cuts off, and my stomach lurches. No one is trafficked. Implying we are kept. We, not just me. Captives. Plural.
