Breathless (7 page)

Your eyebrows curved up. “What are you thinking?”

I shook my head.

“C’mon, you were thinking something. Your face turned serious all of the sudden and your eyes glazed deep in thought.”

“I thought about how much different you look to me now – different from the first time I saw you.” I hadn’t felt the need to hide my thoughts, there was nothing else you could do to break me.

“And you to me.” You nodded in agreement with what you thought the intention of my statement was, but you thought wrong. “You are much more intelligent with your mind and more sensual with your body than I imagined you would be.”

I felt my eyes squint and my head shake, not wanting your statements to find their way into my mind and take root.

“How long have I been here?” I asked softly. “Please just tell me how long I’ve been here.”

Your head dipped and annoyance furrowed your brow. Your nostrils had flared with the inhale of a heavy breath. “One week, you’ve been home for one week today.”

My mind frenzied with disbelief, I’d only been here for one week. It had felt like months, how would I survive one year alone with you? I’d already experienced too much, changed too much in just a matter of days. I wondered who I’d be after an entire year.

“One week?” I heard the words leave my mouth of their own volition.

My eyes connected with yours as you nodded your head.

“May I go wash myself in the tub?” I asked as pleasantly as possible while pushing my panic below the surface.

“Yes, of course.” You didn’t pause in your response for even a second and a hot flow of excitement shot through my body.

“I think my sheets may need to be changed as well,” I declared brazenly, hoping you’d take the distraction I’d offered.

“I can take care of that while you wash up,” you stated.

I slid out from under the covers and timidly walked past you, trying to skirt between you and the bed frame when your hand collided with mine, stopping me in my tracks.

“You do not need to fear me, Annabel. I am sorry that I struck you; I had wanted to shield you from pain not cause it.”

I nodded because my verbal response would have had a much different meaning if I’d had the courage speak.

My eyes turned up to look into yours, I didn’t know what I was hoping to see, but for the first time I noticed how dull and desperate they were. They clung to mine like a moth searching for light to guide itself. I knew I was not your light, nor were you mine.

“Go on now, go clean up and I’ll take care of the sheets. You will find extra clothes in our room.”

My heart had stopped at the mere mention of
our room
. But I simply smiled and scurried out and down the hall, frantically seeking the comfort of solitude.

I had always thought that walking into someone else’s house was like walking into a foreign country, you never knew what you’d find. But walking into this unclaimed room was like discovering an uninhabited planet. Everything appeared alien – the bed did not resemble a bed but a possible torture device, the white shirts folded neatly in the drawer were tools to break my hold on reality, the plain brown rug on the floor was simply there for use in my disposal– everything was not what it seemed, it all bore shadows of hidden use and ulterior motives.

I ignored the burning in my stomach that shouted now was the time to run. The snow outside would hold me hostage for much longer than I cared to think about. As I pushed thoughts of escaping out of my head and hurried out of the dark room, I passed a large closet I had not seen before. Slowly my fingers pried it open, listening intently for sounds of you approaching. Inside were snow boots, large winter coats, camping gear, and much more hidden in the back.

My head felt fuzzy with excitement – I knew this would be the time to break free from my cage.

I grabbed snow boots and a bag full of supplies, slipped on snow pants and the largest coat I could find, and then pulled a fur-lined hat down over my ears. I started to turn and walk to the front door, but I paused to listen for you one last time. I could hear your feet slap against the dirt floor and hoped you were still busy with the bed.

The heaviness of the bag weighed down my shoulder as I flung it across my body and made my way to the front door. The air that collided with my body as I pulled it open stole my breath away and assaulted every inch of my exposed skin. There was a split second where I reconsidered my decision to run blindly out into the snow. I didn’t know where I’d go or how far I’d have to travel before I found help. All I knew was that I needed to be as far away from you as possible, as far away from my captor as I could get. I had paused to pull the snow boots on before I stepped into the blistering cold when I heard your voice.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” The sound of you had been too close behind me.

And I ran.

To be continued…

Author’s Note

The Caging: Week One
is a portion of a novel that I have been working on for months – eight to be exact. The journey of telling this story has weighed heavily on my heart and been fraught with adversity. However, in order to share a piece of this novel I decided to put the first week of “Annabel’s” captivity in the Breathless Anthology in the hope that sharing a small part would help launch the story even further – while also helping raise money for a very worthy cause.

I truly hope you have enjoyed the first week of this story and that you will come back when the novel is completed in its entirety. There is so much left for both characters to learn and I know you will be surprised by the growth that they will show you. My novels never end up exactly how I first envisioned them; luckily they always turn out better. So while I think I know what will come, even I can’t be 100% positive.

You can stay up to date on
The Caging
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Books By Emily Snow

Standalone:

Tidal

Wrecked

The Devoured Series:

All Over You (Book 0.5)

Devoured (Book 1.0)

Absorbed (Book 1.5)

Consumed (Book 2.0)

The Savor Us Series:

Savor You (Volume 1)

Coming Soon:

Violent Delights (Volume 1 to 3)

Damaging Me

Dedication

To to the Breathless ladies—Crystal Spears, Heidi McLaughlin, Tijan, K.A. Robinson, Ilsa Madden-Mills, Kahlen Aymes, Jessica Wood, Sarah Dosher, Skyla Madi, Aleatha Romig, and J.S. Cooper. You guys rock, and I’m so thrilled to be included in this anthology with so many talented women.

Prologue

Four Months Ago

“I might not be one of your sugar daddies, Gemma Emerson, but I’m someone you’ll want to listen to. You don’t want to end this call,” the man said before I could murmur a hello. His stab at my job, the mention of my
name
, caused my fingers to freeze around my phone.

“Everything you’ve been told about your story, your father’s story, is a lie. It’s up to you to uncover the truth.”

 Hearing the stranger’s voice rasping in my ear, I sat up straight on my couch, strands of my blond hair flopping over my face. The lazy grin still spread across my face from my last call gave way as a tidal wave of uneasiness washed over me. “What did you just say?” I whispered, receiving a response of heavy breathing, which creeped me out even more. “A-are you there?”

It wasn’t like me to stutter. Before I began working at what my best friend jokingly called, “half-naked concierge”, my line of work was solely phone sex. It hadn’t taken long for me to discover that the girls who couldn’t find their words were the ones who were hung up on instantaneously. My caller on the other end, however, was a different story. Something told me that my speechlessness gratified him.

“Hello?”

“I’m here.” This time he didn’t completely catch me off guard, so I tried to pinpoint his voice. It was unquestionably male, which I’d already surmised, and intentionally low and gruff. Other than that, though, I was at a loss. “And you heard me the first time, Gemma.”

I’d heard him—loud and confusingly clear. The mystery behind his words, on the other hand, had me desperate for him to say it one more time.
Everything you’ve been told about your story is a lie.
I couldn’t think of a single person who wouldn’t demand a repeat after someone dropped a bomb like that. Grabbing the remote to mute the
E! News
exclusive I’d turned on after my previous call, I pushed off my leather couch.

“Who is this? Ja—” But I swallowed hard. Saying the name of the client I’d spoken to a few minutes before this guy’s call came through was a big no-no. If anything, I was professional, even if the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. “Who is
this
?”

Tiptoeing quickly through my apartment, I checked the locks on the front door and wiggled the knob. Everything was secure, thank God. “Alright, have it your way. This has been fun, but—”

 The man spoke up, his satisfied smirk evident in his gravelly voice. “You don’t know anything about your father or his death. Up until now, you haven’t given a shit, but that needs to change. Tonight. Unless you want to be stuck in the loop you’re in for the rest of your life. Your body will only get you so far.”

Whoa.

His words were a powerful fist right to the center of my chest. I slumped against the white-painted steel door behind me, trying to gather my bearings.

If this guy hadn’t crossed the line before, he had just officially slithered across.

“You must have me confused with someone else,” I spat out. Infuriated, I crossed an arm under my breasts to stop the waves of red anger crashing through me. “Obviously, you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

If he knew me, truly knew me, he’d realize I thought of my father each time I passed the last photo I had of us together—the picture Dad’s driver had taken of us at the Empire State Building when I was eight. He’d know that I purposely avoided going to Los Angeles with my best friend every time she suggested it because it brought back memories and regrets that shattered me.

No, he didn’t know me, and for this man to accuse me of feeling any different pissed me off.

“Then why haven’t you ever looked into your father’s passing?” he challenged.

I scowled. “Are you a reporter?” My question earned an indignant snort from my caller, but I continued, “Is that what this is? Because if you are, here’s a story for you: Of course, I gave a shit about my father’s death.” My eyes flashed to the muted celebrity interview on the flat screen TV. “You just won’t ever see me in the news battling over an inheritance he didn’t want me to have. So, now that I’ve gotten that out there for you … I think I deserve to know who you are before I hang up on your ass,” I sneered.

“I’m not a reporter, but I’m also not giving you a name.”

“Look, asshole—”

“But, since you mentioned the money, do you really think your dad left you with nothing? Or is that something you convinced yourself of, because you became too comfortable with putting your past behind you, and you’re just too lazy to go digging around for answers?”

I flinched. Deflated, I slid my back down the door until my butt hit the plush Berber carpet, the overwhelming aroma of linen-scented carpet powder rushing up my nostrils. “My father died of a heart attack, and he left everything to his wife,” I whispered, nodding, attempting to assure myself all over again. When I was younger, I was bitter about my dad’s decision to name his wife his sole heir. At one time, my mother had been his wife too.
I
was his only child. Still, none of that had mattered.

When I stopped worrying about the hand I was dealt, I’d found equanimity —at least somewhat. I was
comfortable
.

But now, I was experiencing all those old emotions—doubts I hadn’t let plague me since I was a teenager were brought to the surface. It stung, and I knew I should hang up. Disconnect the call and immediately contact the phone company to change my number. For some reason, though, I couldn’t.

I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead. “He did leave everything to Margaret,
right
?”

“Figure out the truth, Gemma. Figure out what happened before
and
after he died.” At the sound of me opening my mouth to ask more questions, my ominous caller shut me down. “Good luck.”

“If this isn’t a joke, why don’t you just tell me what the truth is?” I questioned brokenly, squeezing my eyes shut, quelling the tears of frustration threatening to spill out. “Why don’t you stop insulting me for five seconds about what I didn’t do and—”