Pieces of Autumn (5 page)

I turned around to look at him. With the lantern resting on a low table in the entryway, his features were lit eerily from below. I remembered the way my friends and I had once told ghost stories huddled in a circle, at sleepovers, holding a flashlight under our chins to create the atmosphere.

He stared at me, and I stared at him. A silent challenge, on both sides. The air hummed with tension, and I was desperate to regain control of the situation, to say or do something that would put him off his guard. If I didn't gain his respect now, I'd never have the chance.

His eyes flickered. Finally leaving my face, they roamed freely over my body. I shivered, feeling more naked than when Joshua had demanded I lift my skirt. The man's eyes finally settled on my collarbone, and I remembered my brand.

The dull ache throbbed back to life under his gaze. His nostrils flared in a sharp exhale, and then he made an abrupt gesture with his hand.

"Up against the wall," he said. "Palms flat. Legs spread."

He just wants to make sure you're not armed.
 

All the same, I was covered in goosebumps as I followed his instructions. I assumed the position, knowing exactly what he meant, having seen it done many times in many different circumstances. I wondered why he didn't just ask me to strip. As he'd said himself, he owned me now.

He stepped very close behind me, one solid boot coming down against my bare foot. So close he almost crushed my pinky toe - but only just grazed it. He was caging me in.
 

I felt his hot breaths on the side of my neck, his hands roaming down my sides, under my breasts, down my stomach and pelvis and then coming back to explore the space between my legs. Just enough to ensure that I wasn't hiding anything. But when his fingers brushed my inner thighs through the fabric, I gasped.

He ran both hands up and down the length of my legs, crouching down and rising back up, every time. My whole body was thrumming with anticipation - of what? I didn't want him to keep touching me.

Except that I did.

A moment later, the bulk of his body was gone. I breathed in, telling myself that what I felt was relief.

Not disappointment.

"Kneel," he said.

I turned around. He was standing with his feet about shoulder-width apart, arms crossed, waiting for something. Oh, God. Was this it? Was this the beginning of my life as a sex slave?

I knelt down in front of him, looking up at his face. Trying to read his intentions. Was I expected to just know? Would he strike me across the face if I didn't do as he asked, without hesitation, without questions?

He seemed like the kind of man who might.

"Boots," he said, finally.

My shoulders sagged with relief. He didn't want me to suck his cock - just take off his boots. I could do that.

He doesn't want you to suck his cock
yet
.

But he didn't want me. He didn't want me at all. Maybe I'd gotten lucky, and he didn't even like girls.

You know that's not true. He's looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, but something's stopping him.

I unlaced his boots, carefully, one by one. The laces were long and took some fiddling, and I could sense he was growing impatient with me. I hurried the process as best I could, pulling them off when they were loosened, setting them aside next to the door. Each one seemed as heavy as a cinderblock.

Looking up at him for a reaction, I saw something I didn't expect. Disappointment? Desire? Revulsion? It was some deadly cocktail of all three, inspired by a simple act of submission.
 

This man was more complicated than he seemed. If I wanted to survive, I'd have to understand him.

We were in a sort of living room, with a fire crackling against the far wall. Memories of my branding brought a wave of nausea, but I choked it down, focusing on the man who thought he owned me.

His eyes never left me, but he didn't say another word. I sensed he was still trying to read me. Figure me out. He seemed just as eager to understand me as I was to understand him - could he possibly perceive me as a
threat
?
 

The idea was almost laughable. He had frisked me, but I figured that was just a precaution. Even with a weapon, how could I possibly overpower a man like this? He radiated power and control. Nothing happened, if he didn't will it.

For the first time, I noticed he had a piece of paper crumpled in his palm. He stalked to the fireplace, threw it in, and abruptly disappeared through another doorway. I heard the sound of him climbing a staircase, and then, nothing.

Although the sight of the fireplace made my stomach turn, I had to draw closer when I noticed that the letter hadn't quite caught flame. The edges smoldered, and then burnt out. I could still read it.

Glancing over my shoulder, I reached in and gingerly retrieved the singed paper.

Tate -
 

As I write this, it's been two days since Daniela. Not a moment goes by that I don't regret what happened. I wish I had seen the signs earlier. I wish I could have saved you that heartache. I know you may never forgive me for what they're doing to you, but I hope someday you will understand why it's necessary.
 

I know there's a chance I won't make it to see your thirtieth birthday. A man in my position always has to consider these things. So I made my orders to Mr. Charles and the others. I made it very clear that on that day, they were to take the very best of the girls who came to them, and give her to you.
 

I made them promise a thousand times over. But I know they will do it. They're hardly superstitious men, but their fear of me stretches beyond the grave.

I know you'll never forgive me. I know that's impossible. But understand this is a token of my respect, of my eternal gratitude for your service.

- H

Heart thumping fast, I shoved the letter back into the fireplace, blowing softly on the flames to stoke them higher. Finally, the edge of the paper caught and began to burn. By the time he got back, it would be a pile of ash.

Tate. So that was his name. I turned it over in my head, silently rolling it on my tongue. Tate. He was human after all. He had a name. I would have to be careful not to call him that, or he'd wonder how I found out.
 

A token.
 

That's all I was. A gift, a tribute, for this man who obviously had deep connections to Stoker, no matter what his opinion of them. I'd tumbled straight from the frying pan into the fire, and I had no idea how to get myself out.

CHAPTER FOUR

Open Doors

I sat by the fireplace for a long time. A harsh, metallic noise made me jump, until I realized it was just the sound of water rushing through old pipes. I hadn't heard
that
in a long time.

Curious, I stood up and began to follow the noise. I took the stairs slowly, feeling the rich, polished wood beneath my feet. The banister was the same deep brown, as were most of the walls. The panels were intricately carved, and unmarred by a single speck of dust. Did Tate spend his days with a rag in hand, polishing his entire house?

I almost wanted to laugh.

Remarkably, the floors didn't creak beneath me as I reached the top of the stairs and began my journey down the dim hallway. Right away, I noticed one of the doors was open.

It was just a crack, but it was enough to make me curious. Tate didn't strike me as someone who would be so careless. Of course, the rest of the house was like a fortress - maybe he thought it didn't matter.
 

Still. It was strange.

I told myself I would quickly walk past the room, just enough to get a glimpse of what was inside. But when I reached the warm slice of light that cut through the gloom of the endless hall, my feet stilled.

Keeping my body out of the light, as much as I could, I peered through the crack. There wasn't much to be seen from this angle, except the corner of an ancient four-poster bed, and -
 

A mirror.

My heart was thumping very fast. I licked my lips, staring at the reflection of the other side of the room. Yet another door was ajar - this one, with steam pouring out of it.
 

Two open doors. It couldn't be carelessness, or a coincidence. There must be a reason.

Suddenly, the sound of the water cut off. My breath caught in my throat, but I didn't dare move. No matter how solid the floor was, no matter how silently Tate could walk, I was sure I'd give myself away.

I stayed frozen, my eyes fixed on the mirror.

The bathroom door swung open, and Tate emerged, in a cloud of steam. The mirror quickly began to fog. I could make out the shape of his body, but nothing more. He was holding a towel, ruffling it through his hair with a rough impatience.
 

I wanted the steam to clear. I wanted to see all of him.

The realization came on me suddenly, gripping tight, not letting go.
You're sick, Autumn. He's some kind of sadist. Or a psychopath. Or...

But my body ignored the protests of my mind, a slow burn of want creeping under my skin. For the first time in my life, I understood the desire to touch someone else's body. To
be
touched by them.

The main door swung open, so fast it almost gave me a black eye. I gasped, jumping backwards, but Tate's hand was already tight around my wrist. Dragging me forward. Dragging me in.

This isn't who I am.

This isn't me.

This is not happening.

This is not my life.

He was pulling the door behind him, but again, not all the way closed. Just ajar. I whimpered, but he just twisted my arm harder, pulling me close, only to throw me down on a chaise lounge that lurked in the corner opposite his bed. I only had a moment to be galvanized by the radiating heat of his body, before it was abruptly ripped away.

"You're hurting me," I whispered, furtively rubbing my sore wrist.
 

Tate's eyes bored through me, to my very fucking soul.
 

"No, I'm not," he growled. "Not yet."

He was slightly disheveled, in dark gray slacks and a white tee-shirt, but he still managed to look like he'd stepped out of the pages of a fancy magazine. One of those ones I used to find in old rubbish piles, and I'd page through, wistfully, trying to remember a time when those things mattered.

I tried to swallow, my eyes as wide as saucers. Why was I so focused on his fucking
outfit
, while his eyes glinted murder? Maybe it was just my mind trying to escape the confines of this utter insanity.
Focus on anything but him.

"You like watching people?" he demanded, prowling to the opposite corner of the room. I ought to have felt safer, but oddly, I didn't.

My eyes drifted over to the door. He still hadn't shut it. He didn't seem overly concerned with the idea that I might just jump up and run.

Where would I go?

A damn good question.
 

"I was just..." The words caught in my throat, and I struggled a bit before I could continue. "...curious."

"Curious!" A harsh laugh. Tate raked a hand through his still-damp hair. "
Curious
. Wanted to see what kind of man couldn't even
buy
a woman to fuck? Why on earth Stoker would pity me enough to send me one as a gift?" His eyes flashed. "Curious what kind of horrible deformity I must have?"

The thought hadn't even crossed my mind.

"No," I insisted. "I just..."

It was no use. I couldn't even rationalize it to myself, let alone give him an explanation that he'd accept. His mouth was twisted into a bitter smile as he paced the room from end to end, almost like he was measuring it with his mind.
 

"If you wanted to see it, all you had to do was ask." His tone was sarcastic and mocking. "I wouldn't have thought Stoker could turn you into a degenerate sex fiend in the space of a few days, but I suppose stranger things have happened."

I still didn't know what he was driving it, but I had the horrible feeling he was about to accuse me of something. Something I wouldn't be able to defend myself against.
 

"I'm not," I said, my voice growing fainter by the moment. "I just wanted...I just heard the noise and I..."

"Of course." He finally stopped, turning on his heel to stare at me. I shivered, drawing my knees up my chest, as if they could protect me. "You're a curious little pussycat, aren't you?"

A flare of heat went through my body, and I hated myself a little more.

"That is, naturally, what they're hoping for," he said. "I'll grow attached to you. Like my little pet. My kitten. And then, when the time is right..." Suddenly, he took a few rapid steps towards me, and I couldn't stop myself from flinching.
 

"Tell me," he commanded. "Tell me what the plan is. Or keep lying, it's your choice - but if you do, I promise I won't make this easy for you."

"The...plan?" I swallowed with difficulty. "What plan?"

"Fine. Have it your way." His smile was sub-arctic. He made a gesture with his hand, palm up, like he was giving an order to a dog. "Up."

I stood, slowly, my legs trembling beneath me.

From the look in his eyes, there was no question what was about to happen.

"I thought you didn't want me." My voice sounded so thin, so threadbare, that I wasn't even sure why I bothered speaking.

A single harsh laugh. "No. But you're here. So I might as well get some enjoyment out of it." His eyes raked over me. "Strip."

It didn't take much. Just two movements, really - untying the sash and pulling the shift over my head. It felt like it took a thousand years. Tears glistened in my eyes, but my stomach tingled, my nipples stiff peaks that stood out like beacons on my naked chest.

Tate was looking at me - well, probably the same way I'd looked at that plate of food when I walked into Stoker's boardroom. I wondered how long it had been since he did this. How long had he been living here alone? Had he ever done this before? Fucked one of Stoker's girls?