Freed (Bad Boy Hitman Romance) (39 page)

“Nope.” Dropping her hand, I crossed the room and grabbed a pair of handcuffs from the top drawer of my dresser and then dangled them in front of her.

Her brow furrowed. “Do you have handcuffs all over the house, Sir?”

“Pretty much.” I gave her a cocky grin that normally had women swooning at my feet. It didn’t seem to work on her – her expression remained in a state of confusion. “You never know when you might need some.”

Tossing the handcuffs on the top of the dresser, I made my way back over to her and began to undo the buttons on the shirt she was wearing. She didn’t cringe or shy away from my touch like she had in the beginning; instead she stepped in to me and laid her head on my shoulder. It surprised me, and I’ll be honest, it threw me off balance. A little over an hour before she’d been attempting to kill me and now she was holding on to me for comfort?

With the buttons undone, I slipped the shirt off her shoulders, leaving her naked before me. She wrapped her arms around my waist and I did the same, pulling her to me and brushing my lips along her temple. Tears dripped onto my shoulder and a part of me wished I could feel some sympathy or remorse for what I’d done. If I did, neither one of us would be in this situation, but I wasn’t capable of those emotions. I wouldn’t know what it felt like to feel guilty or regretful or have tears fill my eyes over some sort of loss.

I waited for her to gather herself, even though I was beginning to sway on my feet; exhaustion and loss of blood were getting to me. I’d play the good-guy role, though; she had stitched me up and not let me bleed out on the floor, so I couldn’t begrudge her the little bit of comfort she needed… “Go get a new shirt out of my closet, Emily.”

She nodded and sniffed, pulling out of my arms and walking over to the closet she’d ambushed me from earlier as I stripped, tossing my clothing into the hamper in the corner of the room. After a moment of rummaging through my clothing, she picked out a black cotton button-down shirt and slipped it on. I watched her put on the shirt. She looked cute.

“Come to bed.” I grabbed the handcuffs from the dresser and waited for her to get onto the bed. “Which arm do you want cuffed?”

She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, Master.” Grabbing the wrist that was on the inside of the bed, I cuffed her wrist and then the rail above her head and then pulled the comforter up to her chin, tucking her in like she was as fragile as a porcelain sculpture. She would be comfortable enough for the night.

“Good?”

“It’s good, Sir.” She forced a smile onto her face.

The keys to the cuffs were also in the dresser drawer, so there was no chance she’d get to them. The bed was made of solid oak, so she’d never be able to break free – this was just as good as her being downstairs, without my having to fear her getting some stupid idea in her head of hurting herself. It had been such an up and down emotional day for her I had no intentions of taking a chance with her.

That was my excuse anyhow, but there was a part of me that wanted her near me. My desire for human contact was minimal, aside from the intense drive for sexual release, but that wasn’t really human contact in an intimate way. It was simply a release of primal urges. For some reason I was desiring something more intimate with her, and given the way she’d held on to me a moment prior, I suspected she wanted and needed the same.

“Aren’t you scared I’ll wait until you’re asleep and then smother you with your pillow, Sir?” Her eyes followed me as I rounded the bed and slipped into the other side. She turned onto her side and propped her head on her cuffed hand, awaiting my response.

Turning to face her, I reached over and traced her jawline with my thumb. My beautiful, virgin church girl. And she was mine. After Victoria was sold I’d make her mine completely, letting my cock indulge in her pure, unclaimed pussy. The thought made my dick jerk alive and I found myself thankful for my exhausted state.

“Well?” she urged.

I smiled. “No, because if you killed me you’d still be stuck chained to the bed lying beside a dead body. I promise you, several days sleeping next to a decaying corpse will make you pray for your own death.” I tapped her on the tip of the nose. “So do yourself a favour, and if you’re going to try to kill me make sure you can get away first.”

She crinkled her nose up at me. “So you’ve seen lots of dead bodies, Master?”

“More than most people. Unless, of course, you’re a mortician.”

“Did you kill them all?”

“Some, not all.” I shook my head, my mind skipping back to the last time I’d killed someone, well over six months ago, closer to eight. Her name was Mia, a stunning Asian woman whom The Organization had held as one of roughly a dozen captives. She couldn’t be trained. She’d snapped and gone completely insane, painting the walls of her cell with her feces and decorating with toilet paper. Slitting her throat at that point had been more of an act of mercy than murder, although many would argue me on that.

She seemed to consider my words, although her expression was unreadable. I wondered what was going through her mind…disgust, surprise, fear. Maybe, but I suspected the past nearly two weeks with me were causing her to adjust to the horror that came with being with me.

“What makes you decide who to kill and who to let live? How do you decide what girls you want to take?”

I frowned, not sure where that question had come from; perhaps she was attempting to figure me out and put some order into my thoughts. “How about we discuss this some other time, baby?” I flipped onto my back and closed my eyes.

Sleep. Wonderful, blissful sleep. My mind would be clear in the morning.

My body froze in shock as she moved closer to me, cuddling tight to my side, placing her head on my shoulder. Once the surprise of her seeking me out wore off, I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and pulled her a little tighter.

“Good night, Master.”

“Sweet dreams, love.” When I’d abducted her a couple of weeks before, I certainly hadn’t expected to have her falling to sleep in my bed, cuddled next to me. But this was the plan; my variation of Lance’s technique in the works. I fell asleep thinking about how fucked-up this was right now and fearing the attachment I was beginning to grow toward her.

Chapter 11

Emily

“Mmm.” A smile formed on my lips as I pressed myself against the hard warmth beside me. I was just about to drift back to sleep when the realization of what the warmth was dawned on me. My body tensed and my eyes flew open and I surveyed my surroundings. My head was resting on Tanner’s chest, his uninjured side – and his arm was wrapped around my shoulders, holding me tight to him.

I had no clue what to do. He was sound asleep, snoring softly. I didn’t want to wake him, but I couldn’t go back to sleep – not when my body was pressed against his, my bare leg draped over his thighs inches from his semi-erect shaft. Sometime during the night Tanner had pushed his side of the blankets down, exposing himself from the mid-thigh up.

Shifting positions, I propped my head up on my hand, the chain connecting the cuff around my wrist and the bed post going taut, and I decided to take some time to look at him. Stupid, I know, but this was the first time I’d actually had a chance to really look at him without being scared or on edge. And it wasn’t like I could do much else tethered to the bed anyhow.

My eyes started at his thick, muscular thighs and moved up to his penis, where I paused. I was about to reach out and touch him, stroke his semi-erect shaft, but snatched my hand back. Really stupid idea THAT was – it had been more of an instinctual reaction than anything else. My eyes drifted up to his abdominals; he actually had an eight pack. This time I did reach out, my fingers tracing the hard lines of muscle. The muscle flexed under my fingertips and for a moment I was scared I’d wake him, but to my relief he remained asleep.

His chest was also impressive, but like his stomach and sides there were a number of scars of varying sizes and shapes. Part of his story was in those scars, and I’ll admit I wanted to know the tales – no matter how horrible they may be. Whether he’d actually tell me or not only time would tell. My eyes shifted to the bandage covering the stitches I’d done up for him; a hint of blood had managed to creep through. I’d have to re-dress them when he woke up.

I know it’s an odd thing to fancy, but one of my favourite features on a man is his shoulders. I love thick, powerful shoulders. To me, powerful shoulders represent a man who is honest and hard-working.

I snorted and my eyes wandered further up to his face. Sleeping, I saw in him what I’d seen at the nightclub. He was attractive. Everything from his strong jaw to his high cheekbones to his soft lips appealed to me. Sleeping like this, he reminded me of the image of St Michael – handsome and powerful and angelic. How many women fell for his looks and charms only to realize, when it was too late, that the devil lay beneath his angelic features?

The devil can take on many forms and faces. He uses beauty and charm to lure you in. Be very careful, baby girl
. Father’s voice rang out in my head.

But I could take comfort there wouldn’t be any more. As long as I kept him happy, he’d keep me and no one else had to leave their families. No other young women would be hurt. This certainly wasn’t the future I’d hoped for, but I was starting to see how it could be God’s plan for me. I’d spent years being trained to obey, to be respectful, to be the perfect woman to her man. I was starting to see how we could fit together and that the training and values instilled in me could be put to good use. My father had even prepared me for the lashings. My role in life was falling neatly into place whether I liked it or not.

My eyes lowered again to his chest and then over to his arm where I’d slashed him. Yes, it was making perfect sense to me. I just had to do my absolute best to make sure he never wanted to sell me. I would mold myself into what he needed and wanted and no one else would ever be hurt. I was willing to make that sacrifice. I just wished there was some way I could save Victoria. Maybe I could strike some sort of deal for her freedom? The problem was he already had what he wanted from me. I had no chips to bargain with.

“What’re you doing, slave?”

My eyes immediately lifted to meet his. His expression was unreadable. I forced a little smile onto my lips.
Gotta be a good little slave. I gotta make sure he’s happy
. I’d made him happy last night and he’d given me a shirt to wear, so he wasn’t completely without kindness in him. “I’m looking at you, Master.”

He was silent for a moment, lacing his fingers behind his head and staring up at me. “Why?”

My eyes swept the length of him again. “Your body is beautiful, Master.” I touched one of his scars. “And I’m wondering about your scars. And about you.”

“About me? What about me?”

I looked up to meet his gaze wondering how much he’d tell me. “Why you do what you do.”

“Because I can.”

His answer took me by surprise and I was rendered speechless for a moment. “I don’t understand, Master.”

Tanner sat up and slid from the bed. He walked across the room, pulled open the top drawer of his dresser and took out the key to my cuffs. Coming over to me, he undid the cuffs and set them, along with the key, on the nightstand.

“Thank you, Master.”

He shrugged and then flopped back onto the bed, stretching out beside me as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “What don’t you understand? By all means, I’m giving you permission to speak freely about anything you want. It’s not an invitation you’ll get often, if ever again, but I had a lot of fun last night and you pleased me, so I’ll permit it.”

Again, he left me unsure how to respond. What about last night could have possibly been fun?

“Come on, now.” He reached out and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear that had fallen over my eye. I didn’t cringe like I normally would. I had a sense we were on good terms at the moment and he seemed to ooze the calm charm he had that night at the club. It was almost relaxing. Admittedly, the fact that I was covered and my body wasn’t on display like it normally was also helped. “Let’s talk. If you’re going to be staying with me, then we’re going to be spending lots of time together, so we might as well get to know each other better.”

“What about last night was fun for you? My cutting your arm open? That’s perverse.”

He nodded, a grin forming on his lips. “I know.” He turned to his side, placing his head on his hand, and caught my gaze. “I don’t do this for the money, Emily. I have lots of money. I do this for the excitement. I responded by saying I do it because I can, and that’s the thrill. I don’t feel bad or remorseful for what I do. The only thing standing in my way of doing whatever I want is getting caught and locked up. I don’t experience much in the way of emotions, so when I take someone, when I train them, I feel the power of my control over another person. And that thrill is like a drug. So when you scream, when you cry, I don’t feel bad. If anything it gives me a rush, because I was able to provoke those things from you.”

“That’s messed up.” What he was saying… I was having a hard time wrapping my head around it. How could he not feel bad – for anything? It made no sense. And to feel good when someone else was hurt - it was sick.

“It is,” he confirmed.

There were so many questions, thoughts, emotions racing through me that I didn’t know where to start. “What made you like this?”

“You mean, growing up? What tragedy made me this way?”

I nodded. I guessed that was what I meant. I wasn’t sure, to be honest.

His smiling face went dark, sorrow filling his eyes and etched in his expression. “My father was abusive.” He motioned to his torso, littered with scars. “He beat me and my mother relentlessly. Violence is all I know. But my mother murdered him in his sleep and then attempted to kill me. She wanted us all to die together. She went crazy. I’ve been fucked in the head ever since.”

My eyes went wide and my mouth dropped open… How does someone respond to that?

After a moment he rolled onto his back and burst into laughter. I just stared at him. He laughed for a full minute as I watched, flabbergasted, and when he turned back onto his side to face me, he had to wipe a tear from his eye with the back of his hand.

“I’m fucking with you, Emily. That never happened. But everyone needs a story when they come across someone like me. They need a way to justify what I am and how I think, so they assume I must have had some traumatic childhood. I guess it’s easier to accept that I was made this way by society than to think God would create someone like me. But that’s not the case, not at all.”
 

“Then what? What was your childhood like?”

He shrugged. “It was good. I’m from a wealthy family from San Francisco.
 
My father was a venture capitalist – a real shark. He was like me, but he took out his…tendencies in business. The rush he got from fucking people over in business was much like I get from the abduction and training process.”

I frowned but didn’t say anything.

“My mother was a psychologist.” He gave me a wink. “Believe it or not.”

If he had a reason to lie, I’d have guessed not. But he didn’t and so far he’d never lied to me – aside from the night at the club – so I tended to believe him.

“She knew what I was before I did, although she never said it in so many words. She also knew what my father was and did her best to direct his tendencies into less destructive endeavours. She’d have long conversations with me, digging into my mind and thought processes. She loved experimenting with me – she even took me into a couple of labs and monitored my brain waves as I reacted to situations. Stuff like that.” He shrugged. “My father refused to be treated like a lab rat, but I was fine with it. She’d always offer incentives. After a weekend of tests and experiments I came home on my sixteenth birthday to a car sitting in the driveway.” He smiled, his eyes taking on a far-off look. “A Ford Mustang. I’ve driven a Mustang more or less ever since.”

“That’s horrible.”

He shrugged. “Not really. She’s like everyone else who doesn’t understand people like me. She tried to understand and ‘fix’ me, but Emily, I’m not broken. If anything I’m superior to other people, a brilliant genetic mutation, because I don’t have anything holding me back. I’m not saying this to sound conceited, but everything about me is superior, from my IQ to my ability to charm people into doing what I want, to being able to read people, to not having to be held back by useless emotions.”

“So what are you, some sort of sociopath?”

He frowned, annoyance etched in his expression. “I’m not a sociopath and I resent being called something like that. I’ve told you already what I am. Were you not listening the first time?”

My heart rate accelerated. He was pissed. I had to fix this before our chat session ended and I was thrown back into my room. Because, no matter how much he scared me, I much preferred his company even when he was acting all psychotic than having the shirt taken away from me and being thrown into my cage and left for days.

“I’m sorry, Master.”

He nodded, his expression relaxing. “It was an ignorant assumption, but I realize it’s not your fault.”

I think that was an insult, but I let it go. Not like I could pitch a fit and he’d care either way. “Then I don’t understand.”

He sighed and actually rolled his eyes at me. “A sociopath is a person who is largely a product of their environment, whereas a psychopath is a product of genetics,” he explained as if he were talking to a child. “Sociopaths can feel love, but they’ve just gotten fucked up along the way. They’re impulsive and sloppy. They’re intellectually inferior. Most can’t adapt to normal society like people like me can.”