The Beast (6 page)

Her throat hurt and her arms were sore. These were the first thoughts surfacing as Columbia regained consciousness. The last thing she remembered was kissing Stuart in his truck, so why did she hurt? Had Debbie caught them and dragged her from the cab of the truck to kick her ass?

It came back to her in a slow drip of information. The stupid plan to confront Jarrod Jacobs, the stupid need to impress Stuart, Stuart touching her arm and recoiling...and being attacked from behind in the kitchen of the
multimillion-dollar penthouse she’d snuck into.

She opened her eyes but only the smallest sliver of faint light appeared at the bottom of her vision. She was blindfolded, and she was tied down. She felt a surge of panic flood through her body but controlled the desire to twist and scream against her captivity.

She tested her bonds, stretched against her bound wrists and determined she was tied at the feet as well. She listened and thought she must be alone, but where? How had she moved from the kitchen to wherever this was? It suddenly occurred to her that nobody would care if she disappeared. The thought made her tense up and race through the possibilities of how she was going to die. She heard the faintest movement somewhere in the space above her head. Years of waiting in the dark for her father had given her extremely sensitive hearing. No matter how quiet he attempted to be, Columbia always knew he was coming. Not that it mattered, no matter how hard she fought, he always had his way.

She yelled into the room and heard an echo. It must be a large space. It sounded cold.

Her bravado got the best of her and she threatened her captive with the fact that people knew she was here. He didn’t need to know that Stuart probably wanted nothing to do with her, and her parents wouldn’t give a fuck at her absence, other than somebody else having to cook. Her sister would notice, but she was powerless to do anything about it, and she didn’t know where Columbia was.

Marco would want his phone back. That was the one lifeline she could hold on to. He would want to know what happened to her.

The phone! She wiggled and felt it still tucked inside the cup of her bra, warm against her left breast. He hadn’t frisked her, or if he had, the phone remained undiscovered.

Without her purse, he wouldn’t have found much. She called out to her captor and he responded. His voice was rich and deep, slightly raspy with the smallest hint of darkness in it. Had it been any other time in any other place, she might be listening to him selling her a luxury automobile or an expensive brand of cologne. As it was, the sound of it send jolts of adrenaline coursing through her body, it was the voice of a predator.

Their conversation was short; he was curt with his information and accused her of wanting to kill him. Realization flooded over her as she listened to him speak. Along with his accusations, his voice did not match the gentle drawl of the Texan she was supposed to confront. She suspected he might be Russian mob or some kind of Eastern European criminal, but she had no idea who. He might have even murdered Jarrod Jacobs and taken over his apartment. Nobody she knew of had ever seen the reclusive American billionaire, so it could be easy enough to steal his identity.

She heard him leave and held back her tears as best she could. She rarely cried as it always lead to worse things in her house, but the gravity of her situation couldn’t be ignored. She thought she heard him listening as she started to sob, but the door clicked shut and she was alone.

At last she let the tears flow, her arms were aching, her legs cramping and now her face felt hot and itchy from the wetness on her face. She didn’t know how she would get out of this situation at this point. The possibilities raced through her mind; murdered and dumped, sold into white slavery...but with her body she might not be wanted. Death might be the better option at this point.

She forced herself to calm down, took several deep breaths and concentrated on how she was going to get away. She would have to wait and find
a weakness to exploit. She lay back and let her body relax. She would need to keep her senses if she was going to make it out of here alive.

Dimitri sat on the edge of a leather club chair in the centre of his bedroom. He had his hands on his knees to keep them from jerking. He felt a ball of nerves like snakes moving in the pit of his stomach. She couldn’t be left in there like that for long, but he was fully aware that he was in no state to finish her off.

He knew he was a changed man. Without the constant dance of threat and avoidance, his skills had lapsed. He hadn’t realized how much until presented with this situation. Three years ago he would have had her throat crushed under his hand before she had a chance to take a breath in the kitchen. He would have deemed her a threat the moment she entered his space. He would have dispatched of the body with cool efficiency and thought nothing of it again. But now, after wasting all this time punching a bag and dreaming of killing Sergei, he’d let his killer instincts suffer.

He used to have ice water in his veins. He wasn’t a fucking anim
al, like some of Sergei’s
Bratva
, the ones who would have raped her and cut her belly open while their seed was spilling out of her. He had always been calm about his work when it came to killing, and he had always been able to finish the job. He might gain a small thrill when choking the life out of the women, but the killing itself had always been professional and efficient.

Not this time though, why not?

He stood and paced in front of the window, back and forth, the multimillion-dollar view unobstructed, but a cage nonetheless. He wished his friend was here and checked his phone again. Still nothing from the concierge. He had hoped for some lifeline from the outside world, some reassurance that he wasn’t alone in this. He had hoped to ask his friend for his input.

He knew t
he concierge would tell him to kill her, he was sure of it.

So why did he give a fuck about her life? She was alluring, he’d give her that, but he’d been with women much more beautiful than she. How did she manage to wiggle under his skin? He didn’t even know her name. He rubbed his head and shook his arms out, attempting to release his tension and confusion.

Like the moment the Tiffany lamp had hovered on the edge of the table, between perfection and destruction, Dimitri knew he was entering this sort of arrangement with the girl in the room. This new territory had the potential to be dangerous, and he didn’t have the luxury of time, but for now he would relish the moment and take his pleasure while he could.

*****

“I am going to untie your feet first,” Dimitri told the girl, “but if you try to run, I will kill you.”

“Do you have a gun?” she asked
, trying to sit up as far as her bonds would let her. There was a panicked edge to her voice and she moved like a trapped animal, slowly and carefully.

“I don’t need a gun to kill you, little dove,” Dimitri said and laughed, a low, rich sound. “I can do it with my hands if need be. But there won’t be any need if you behave yourself, do you understand?”

She nodded her head and emitted a small whimper.

“Say yes or no so we’re on the same page,” he said again.

“Yes, I understand,” she whispered.

He grabbed her throat and squeezed until she coughed and whined at the pain. “I told you to say yes or no. There is no reason to get complicated. Do you understand?”

He released her and let her take a few deep breaths before she replied, “Yes,” in a broken voice.

Dimitri leaned down to untie her feet; she immediately stretched and brought them together. They were slightly bent at the knees and tilted to the side. Dimitri let his gaze travel upwards, enjoying the angle of her twisted body.

“I am going to untie your hands now. Do not remove your blindfold, are we clear on that?” he asked her.

“Yes, we-” she replied and drew in a sharp breath. He realized she was holding it in anticipation of his touch, afraid he would choke her again, so he moved quickly to the head of the platform. He undid the knots in an experienced motion and she pushed herself to sitting.

“I am going to let you move your legs to the side. Swing them towards the sound of my voice. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she whispered, rubbing her wrists and sliding her legs over the edge. He watched her wince at the pain in her wrists, but was unmoved
by this. Captives often exaggerated their injuries to gain sympathy. It had never worked on Dimitri.

“I am going to take you to the bathroom, just to the left of us. I will allow you five minutes to freshen up. You must keep your blindfold on.”

“Yes,” she said and nodded her head.

He
led her carefully to the bathroom, guiding her through racks, benches, odds and ends of Dimitri’s playthings. She entered and shut the door behind her. He didn’t bother to tell her not to lock it; there was no lock. He heard her fumble with the handle, searching for one, then swear under her breath when she discovered the truth.

He stood still at the door listening. After a moment, he heard her talking to herself and did a mental inventory of the items he had taken off her body. A cell phone wasn’t among them. He knocked on the door and asked, “Who are you talking to?”

She went silent, and then said, “Nobody.”

“I heard you talking to somebody,” he persisted. “Don’t make me come in there.”

She exhaled loudly, blowing air through her lips. He would have liked to see that. “Fine, you found me out,” she said, “I talk to myself. I know it’s an annoying habit, but one I can’t control. Especially when I’m stressed.”

He heard the accusation in her voice but suspected she was hiding something more. He wouldn’t allow himself to be manipulated by her
emotions; he wouldn’t let himself lower his guard because she was upset by all of this. He hadn’t asked for her to drop into his world like this. He pushed the door open to catch her sliding the blindfold down over her eyes before he opened it fully.

“I said do
not
take it off, do you understand me?” he barked and jerked the ends together, effectively tightening the blindfold against her face. He followed this with a backhand across her cheek, the sharp smack of skin on skin resonated in the small room. She fell back; she would have landed on the floor but caught herself on the bathroom counter.

“Yes,” she cried out and cowered away from him, hunching over and trying to shove something under her shirt.

“Give me the fucking phone,” he demanded.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said and turned away from him.

“Do
not
try my patience, little dove. You will find it short lived,” he said, pulling her around and hitting her face on the last two words for emphasis. Her head jerked away under both the strikes, but she was frozen in place, trembling.

“I don’t have anything,” she said again and hunched her shoulders against anticipated blows.

He reached for her and grabbed her arms, stretched them wide and locked his hand around her wrist. He twisted as she grunted in pain, but she dropped the phone with a clatter on the countertop. He let her go and took it, slipping it into his pocket for later.

“You may proceed to clean up, but I am going to check you for a weapon,” he said and shifted to accommodate his growing cock. The thought of running his hand along her firm body was almost too much to contain. He wanted
to take her here, bent over the counter so he could see her anguished ecstasy in the mirror as he fucked her from behind.

He exhaled hard, put one hand on her shoulder and started at her waist. The elastic of her pants cut into her fles
h, his slipped his finger underneath and dragged it slowly from one side to the next. Her skin felt hot under his, she winced as he traveled along her lower back. This acted to thrust her ass out and it glanced against his hard cock. She felt him and pulled away, frightened or disgusted, he couldn’t tell without looking her in the eyes.

He slid his hand on the outside of her clothing, patting her down for any potential weapons. She was trembling harder now, her breath coming in light panting gasps. He finished by running a hand down each of her legs, coming back up along her inner thighs. She instinctively widened her stance to allow his search as though she’d been through this before. He ended at the top of her V, her wet heat penetrated the fabric of her pants and he felt it on his lingering hand. He pulled back and heard her gasp and exhale, then visibly relax.

“I want you to strip,” he said as he stood up.

“Why-” she began to protest, then flinched and stopped in mid sentence.

“I want to see if you have anything hidden on your body. In places I can’t see through fabric,” he told her. “You can take your clothes off, or I can cut them off. It’s up to you.”

He admired the stubborn set of her jaw as she weighed her options. She swallowed, tilted her head and said, “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you? You fucking perv!” The moment the words left her mouth she dropped back into a cowering crouch, expecting blows.

Dimitri looked at her there, cringing from his touch, and laughed. “Yes, I suppose I am,” he told her. “That’s only because it’s been so long since I had a woman. And even longer since I didn’t have to pay.”

She stood carefully once she realized he wasn’t going to hit her. That was one of the small trick
s Sergei had taught him when interrogating prisoners. Keep them on their toes, intersperse physical violence with good humour or amusing stories. Mind fuck them, as his mentor had once said.

“Why would you have to pay,” she asked, forgetting his earlier lesson of saying only yes or no. He would let this
slip; give her some confidence before knocking her down again.

“Many reasons, too many to trouble you with,” he told her. “Now let’s get you out of those clothes.”

She complied this time. She kicked off her boots, unzipped her hoodie and pulled it open. She was wearing a simple tee shirt underneath, black with a graphic of the planet that read, “Earth First.”

“We’ll fuck up the rest of the planets later, eh?” Dimitri said with a grin.

“What?” she asked as she shrugged off the hoodie and lifted up her shirt to expose the milky white skin underneath.

“Just an old joke, your shirt,” he said
, and noticed the scars. Across her beautiful flat abdomen were slashes of healed cuts, small dashes of puckered pink flesh in perfect criss cross patterns. He reached out and touched one, saw her flinch away, and pulled his hand back. “Who did this to you?” he demanded. His chest contracted at the thought of somebody attacking her smooth skin.

She hung her head and felt in front of her for the counter, then dropped her clothes on the surface. She slipped her fingers in the waistband and started to slide her pants over her hips when he noticed the same thing on her arms. He grabbed one and dragged it towards him. Holding it there, extending, he could see deeper gashes along the inner arm. A precise execution of torture. He wanted to tear the blindfold from her eyes and learn the origin of these defilements. “I said who did this?” he demanded again.

She moved her face away from him and continued to slide her pants down her long legs. She bent over to slip them off her feet and he was momentarily distracted by the wiggling of her round ass in front of him. She was wearing plain white cotton panties with small pink flowers on them. She had on a small white bra, both were startlingly bright and stood out against the lines of pink scars all over her body. He saw them on her thighs, her calves, her sides. It struck him as odd that there were none on her back. Most cases of torture he’d overseen started with whipping the back. Her body’s story confused him.

“I have
to know who did this to you,” he said, his voice ragged with his need.

She stood up and placed her pants on the counter on top of her other clothes. She took a great shuddering breath and simply said, “I did,” as she crossed her arms in front of her defiantly, as if waiting for his response.

He reached for her again. His burned skin with his
Bratva
tattoos no longer looking so foreign against hers. He pulled her around to face him, although he could not see her eyes, he could read so much in the rest of her. Her mouth was set in a determined grimace of self-loathing. He recognized that look; he had seen it in the mirror so many times since Sergei’s attack.

He held her shoulders and looked down at her. She was still beautiful to him, her imperfections only enhancing the absolute perfection of her face, her hair, her form. In a strange twist, her scars elevated her beauty to Dimitri. Burdened with his own physical testaments to pain, he saw her patterned slashes as a manifestation to her strength. She wore her inner beauty on her flesh, and it matched her outward perfection.

He stroked her arm, ran his fingers down and felt the bumps like Braille, as if trying to read the story of her life on her ruined skin. He stopped when his hand reached the fold of her arm at the crook of her elbow and settled there. He looked at her face, tears leaking from under the blindfold, and said, “Little dove, what are we going to do with you now?”