Page 7 of Summer's Cage
She’s talking more today,something I take as a good sign, but I also understand she’s trying to drag this moment out; she doesn’t want to be chained. Even if I left her loose, she’d never escape.
It’s more of a precaution in case someoneelsetries to take what’s mine, and that’s a very real, very terrifying possibility.
She is right, however; it’s cool down here, and I hadn’t been insightful enough to give her a blanket. Although pressed for time, I carefully pull off my hoodie, ensuring to keep my mask snugly in place. Her curious but frightened green eyes keenly watch my every movement, and I smirk despite her not being able to see it. I like the way she resists me because it’s not only physical, but mental, and she holds nothing back.
Wild, frizzled hair sticking up like a plume of blonde smoke around her head, heavy, purplish bags under her eyes, and lips pressed into a scowl, she is still as stunning to me as she is when she’s all dolled up for the camera. Some of the comments under her videos are enough to make me crush my phone in my hand, but I’m keeping a detailed list so I can eventually hunt down every salivating loser who even glances atmySummer.
Giving her a chance to willingly accept my offering, I hold my sweatshirt out to her, and those damning eyes bounce from the bundled fabric to my face and back about a dozen times as she considers. Fire simmers low in my belly as the cogs in her mind turn, her lips pinching and her eyes turning dark.
“I said blanket, dumbass.”
I can’t help but snort, laughter sinking its claws into my chest and forcing air to expel past irreparably damaged vocal cords. I haven’t laughed in years, and before that, it was a rare occurrence. My mom used to make me laugh sometimes. Stupid shows or video games could, too, but that was all before.
Now, the sound that exits my lips is a garbled wheeze that sobers my very soul and douses the pleasurable fire she’s coaxing to life in me.
Her lips round and pop open slightly, and something far too close to pity for my liking settles across her features. Annoyed and becoming enraged at my past, I lash out and grip her ankle, yanking her roughly to me across the bed. She gasps and bounces a few times, eyes widening in familiar terror. I climb astride her as I did the night I took her, pinning her hips snugly between mine and using my weight to keep her planted.
I fucking crave this view of her, this frightened girl beneath me completely at my mercy, her terror raw and so sweet a sight to behold. Her stiff nipples poke at the cotton of the shirt I gave her, her breasts taut and firm.
I’ve never palmed someone’s tits before, and the temptation is far too great. Biting my lip against the surge of blood rushing to my cock, my hand skims up her side, fingers diving beneath the shirt. Panicked, she kicks and wriggles and grips my wrist with both hands, fingers digging into my tendons. Her strength is pathetic, but I won’t ever tell her that.
I want her to fight me,always.
Her bottom lip and chin wobbles, and tears stream down her temples into her hairline as she cranes her neck, attempting to use her skull as leverage while my fingers brush her heaving ribs, her skin pimpled in goosebumps.
“Kage…Kage, please,” she cries, that high, pleading note to her voice so fucking sweet and addicting. But I don’t stop this time as my heartbeat drowns out all other noises. My palm engulfs her tender mound of flesh. She’s so soft, so pliant, her nipple dragging across my rough hand as I knead her breast and squeeze. She whimpers at my show of strength, and I grin maniacally beneath my mask. A wave of euphoria baptizes me in the religion of Summer Stone.
There is no going back now.
“Please…I’m not…I’m not on the pill…you could get me…get me pregnant, and…” Her voice cracks with new tears as my hand falls still, its exploration halted as my mind latches onto her strange words. “That could kill me, I would need to see…see doctors, and…pleaseno.”
Pill?
I withdraw my hand, her fingers still holding my wrist in a death grip. My palm settles over her lower belly, muscles heaving against me as she fights to steady her breathing. When I catch her eyes, a different type of fear is there, one so desperate it guts me. I obviously understand that fucking leads to screaming kids.
I just…didn’t realize there were ways to prevent it. It was always talked about as though sex was a roll of the dice every time, a gamble with the fates. Although I don’t see myself the fatherly type, I would care for my child far better than my fucked up family did me. I want to ask her more, but I’m running out of time.
Using her momentary stillness, I swiftly release her with one hand and grab the hoodie with the other, bringing it toher yowling, kicking form and tugging it over her head before shoving her scrawny, weak arms through the holes. By the time I’ve finished, she’s red-cheeked and glaring hotly at me, the hood askew on her head.
I slap the cuffs on her wrists, and her shoulders slump as she releases a congested sigh. Concern pricks at my heart, but I brush it away. If she’s sick, I can bring her medicine. I may have been raised off the grid and unaware of how the rest of society functioned in an elitist cult, but I escaped.
And if that tells you anything about me, it’s that I’m patient, and brilliant.
I leave her on the mattress with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, an apple, and three bottles of water. Already I’m itching to get home, but part of flying under the radar is maintaining a mundane façade. The closest I allowed myself to brush against the corporate world was working at a grow operation up the mountain I live on.
It keeps me close enough to Summer for my comfort, because the harsh truth is, she’s in far more danger than she thinks.
And it’s not from me.
CHAPTER SIX
SUMMER
I can still feelhis hand against my bare flesh, the way his rough palm gripped me so hard a bite of pain flared through my chest. He’s fascinated with me, with how I react to whatever he chooses to do. He’s insane, and I am losing hope faster than water being sucked down a drain.
Sniffling, I wipe my nose on my wrist, carelessly using the sleeve of his hoodie to blot at my snot. The fabric is begrudgingly warm. My nose bumps against the harsh metal of the cuff, and my eyes water with fresh tears. I have to face the reality that—statistically—my chances of survival are slim. He’ll either kill me by accident, or in a fit of rage if I’m not more cautious in how I approach him.
Exhausted and having heard no sounds for a while, I feel safe enough to eat the food. I doubt he’d poison it. He seems to rather enjoy watching me cry and struggle; the way his eyes ignite when I do so is terrifying.
