Deadly Captive (2 page)

Sitting up, I looked down at the bed. The mattress beneath me was thin and lumpy. Odd scratches marred the metal bed frame. The white sheets were threadbare and stained. The ends were torn. I fingered the frayed edge of the strip of cloth covering my breast. Someone had put a makeshift dress on me while I slept, but who? The man?

Why bother? He'd seen everything already.

Still sore, but bearably so, I perched on the end of the bed tried to reacquaint myself with the groggy body that did not feel like my own. My self-image was like a Polaroid picture taken without a flash. No colors, no lines. Nothing but a blur.

I touched my face. My fingers traced the outline of my lips, ran over my closed lids, and slid down along my sharp cheekbones to my chin. A dull throb started in the base of my skull, pulsing harder and harder as I fought to recall . . . .

The man touched my arm. I slid back and made a pitiful sound. Hand still outstretched, he watched me.

Tears burned my eyes as I looked up at him. "Please. I can't remember—I can't see it! I can't see my face!"

"Hush." He closed the distance between us and pulled me against him.

Stiffening, I debated fighting, but I couldn't. He was all I had. His voice, his body—I knew more of him than I knew of myself.

I sobbed against his chest and let him hold me for a while.

After soaking his grey T-shirt in tears, I looked up at him and touched his face.

Prickly, dark stubble on his chin, more on his shaved head. Hard features, grayish-blue eyes. And big. Much bigger than me.

"What color are they?" My question made no sense, even to me.

Gathering me in his arms, he whispered into my hair. "What?"

I arched my head back and gazed at him, unblinking. "My eyes? Please tell me. I know it sounds silly."

He hissed in a breath, let it out slow, and shook his head. "It doesn't sound silly.

They are green. A lovely, rich green." His lips curved into a soft smile, and he smoothed my hair away from my face. "Your hair is brown, but the highlights of it are red and gold." He touched my bottom lip with his thumb. "Your lips are swollen now, but even without the swelling they'd be lush." He drew back a little and continued his perusal.

"You've got good bones, probably some royalty in your background. High cheekbones, tiny nose, not too pinched, you don't look like a snob." He lifted my hand, kissing my fingertips. "Your flesh is soft, but your muscles are more defined than those of any woman I've met. You have strong thighs." He glanced at my bare legs. "Maybe you rode horses, or danced . . . ."

He was trying to jog my memory, and, though I didn't know him, I thought I might love him. He'd caught my terror. Not only was I stuck in this hell, but there was another hell, the one inside me. I had no image of myself, not even the familiarity of my own voice to comfort me.

I could change the last. "What's your name? How did you get here? What did you do . . . I mean before all this? You've got muscles too . . . big muscles." Now, I flushed. I hadn't meant it to sound, well, like I had noticed his impressive . . . size.

His lips curved as the humiliation played out on my face. "My name is Joe."

"Joe?"

Sitting back, he frowned, eyes narrowed. "Yes. Joe."

I nodded and tried to hide my doubt. "So were you into sports? Weight lifting . . .

." I stopped, but I couldn't stop my lip from curling. "Let me guess. You're a lumberjack."

Roaring out a laugh, he shifted closer and shook his head. "No. I was never a lumberjack. And I had no time for sport." He cocked his head. "Let's just say I had a good reason to stay in shape."

He didn't want to tell me. I could respect that. "And how did you get here?"

Bowing his head, brow furrowed, he shrugged. "Same way you did, I suppose. I caught the wrong kind of interest. You're as pretty as the other two, and I'm not too hard on the eyes myself."

His offhand remark sent a frisson of cold up my spine. "The other two?"

Grimly, he nodded. "More deaths attributed to me. They warned me what would happen if I defied them. The first girl paid when I did . . . ." He closed his eyes as his voice broke. "She was so young—too young. I wouldn't even consider touching her. If I had . . . ." Dropping his head, he let out a bitter laugh. "If I'd set my own misplaced morals aside, she'd be alive. They wouldn't have brought the second girl. You wouldn't be here."

My hand drifted up to my lips. "How young?"

He turned his head, facing the wall. "Don't ask me that."

Something jammed in my throat. The morbid question left me before I could stop it. "What did they do to her?"

Meeting my eyes now, expression neutral, he gritted his teeth. "You don't want to know." He raked his nails over his head, as though he'd forgotten it was bare. "But I learned from her. When they brought the next girl, I did as they asked. I fucked her. She was a virgin, so I was careful. Too careful. They saw she enjoyed it. They didn't even wait until I was off her before they slit her throat." I could see tears in his eyes, but they never spilled over. "I never saw them coming. She cried out. Then, suddenly . . .

nothing. When I looked up, I saw so much blood . . . ."

Wrapping my arms around myself, I shivered and drew my knees to my chest.

There was nothing I could do but accept what he said. I'd heard the crowd, their laughter, the things they had said.

This horror was my reality—my whole reality.

I felt his hands on my arms, then a pull as he tugged me until I submitted. He took me up in his arms to carry me to a chair where he sat with me in his lap. Relaxed in his embrace, I let him stroke my hair.

"You handled it well. Even with the fear, even knowing nothing, you survived."

He kissed my forehead. "We will survive. I promise you that." Resting his chin on the top of my head, he let out a weary sigh. "I don't know how, but I'll get us out of this."

Uh huh.
I found his assurance hard to believe, so I changed the subject. "Are you from around here?"

"Here?" His eyes widened a little. "Why yes, actually. A five-hour drive will get you right to my front door."

"Ah." Wrong question. I tongued my lip and tried to think of a better one. "Why don't you have an accent?"

"I work hard to fit in. I can mimic any accent when the need arises." He pressed my head to his shoulder and resumed petting my hair. "But you've got a distinctly American accent. Midwestern, I'd say."

"We're not in America." I didn't ask. I was tired of asking. Eventually I'd remember on my own.

"No. They caught me in Bremen and didn't drive long enough to have left the city."

Bremen.
I pursed my lips when my mind drew up another blank. I had a feeling he was hedging on purpose, and, though I
might
eventually remember, I needed the information now.

"Where are we, Joe?"

He chuckled and shifted me on his lap so I faced him. "Germany. The year is 2011—or was when they caught me. I imagine it's late spring by now. The flowers are in bloom."

Like I cared about stupid flowers.
I considered his words for a bit. "They let you go outside?"

Outside meant a chance to escape. Even if Joe hadn't, I would find a way.

"No, they don't let me go anywhere. I am either locked in a room or in the arena putting on a show." He sighed and cupped my chin in his hand. "Do not accept defeat, but you must understand there's no easy way out."

My gaze flicked to the door. "Between the two of us, we could probably—"

"I managed to break the lock my first night here. It wasn't hard—I think they wanted me to." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "This is a game to them. They will toy with you—break you if they can. Don't give them any more reasons to try."

"So we just wait and—"

"You wait. I'll figure out something."

Not likely.
I tried to push off his lap, and he locked his arms around my waist.

Wiggling got me nowhere, so I scowled at him.

"Relax. You can either stay with me and ask me all the questions you want or you can break out and have them maul you." His lips pressed together when I arched my brow. "And I mean that literally."

When I opened my mouth to argue—because I couldn't help myself—he prodded my side with the tips of his fingers. I gasped and stared at the bruised flesh over my ribs, amazed at the agony from that gentle touch. The chains had left long, black and red lines and a whole lot of damage.

Which could take weeks to heal. No. I refused to wait.

"I'll be fine." Really, the bruises hadn't hurt until he'd touched them. "How many guards are outside the door? If we catch them by surprise and make a run for it—"

"Try taking a deep breath," he said.

I did and instantly regretted it. Pain knifed through me like a fiery claw trying to rip my lungs out of my body. Damn him, he was right. In my condition, I couldn't walk farther than the bed or the bathroom, never mind run.

My options were limited. I sighed and drummed my fingers on his big, hard chest. "So, we have to wait."

He slid his hand down to my hip. "At least until you recover."

His thumb stroked the slope of my pelvis, going a little lower with each pass.

The muscles in my belly twitched, and I swallowed. Apparently, recovery didn't mean bed rest. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he wanted to do with our spare time.

The way he made me feel tempted me. But I refused to be distracted.

I grabbed his wrist when his fingers slid between my thighs. "Tell me more about those people." He shook his head, and I narrowed my eyes. "Tell me about Cyrus."

"You're not ready." He freed his wrist and put his hand back on my thigh. He caught the edge of my rag dress. "Why not forget about them for a bit and—"

Gritting my teeth, I snapped my knees together and glared at his hand. "Let me up, I've gotta . . . go

He set me on my feet, and then pointed at the door to the right of the wall covered in chains. "The bathroom's right there."

A bathroom. Maybe it had a mirror?

I headed across the small room, hoping I could lock myself in for a while—give myself time to think without him . . . .

Turning the knob, I swung the door open, but then retreated when the stench hit me. The small, cubical room was disgusting. Red and brown ran up the sides of the toilet and streaked the yellow tiled walls. The small sink was cruddy and grey.

There was no mirror.

I closed the door.

"Changed your mind?" Joe came up behind me and set his hands on my shoulders.

"I don't need to go
that
bad."

But I would
.

"I'll see about getting us some soap." His grip tightened on my arms, and I glanced over my shoulder at him. The far-off look in his eyes made me think getting anything from our captors came with a price.

"This isn't the room you were in before." I pried his hands from my shoulders, then turned and touched his cheek. "They put you in here because of me."

He gave me a curt nod. "My room wasn't exactly the plaza, but it was clean."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." He put his hand on my arm and nudged me towards the table. "You should eat."

Taking a step forward, I eyed the grey slop on the plate. "I don't know if I can."

His breath stirred the tiny hairs at my nape. "That's fine. There're other things we can do to pass the time."

I half-skidded to the chair, plunked down, then picked up the spoon to poke at the lumpy mess on the plate. "Is it edible?"

I had to look up to see his shrug. "It serves its purpose."

True enough. He certainly looked healthy. I watched him strip off his T-shirt as I brought the spoon to my mouth. He stretched his arms over his head and flexed. The spoon bumped my cheek.

Holy mother of . . . .
I shook my head and fixed my gaze on a deep scratch on the table. Methodically, I ate the bland food and considered the hopeless situation I'd found myself in.

Not hopeless. Just . . . difficult.
Hopelessness implied a kind of surrender, a passive acceptance of being at another's mercy. Granted, I
was
at another's mercy, but the opportunity to escape would come.

I scraped the last of the tasteless gruel from the plate, then lifted the spoon to my lips, eyes drifting over to Joe. I closed my mouth over the spoon and left it there.

On the floor, with his legs extended, arms braced shoulder-width beneath him, he lowered so slowly it was painful to watch. Rising just as slowly, he never released the motion, merely descending again without giving his muscles the barest reprieve. I couldn't imagine my body managing such torturous exercise without buckling or, at the very least, shaking.

He set one arm on the small of his back, and the other began to quiver. The fact that he was human—well built, strictly disciplined, but human—revealed itself in the hard set of his jaw and the rivulets of sweat that ran down his face. Not unaffected by the brutal training, only steadfast, driven by motivations that would not permit weakness.

With a light touch of one finger, I tested the solidity of the muscle of my forearm, eyes still set on Joe, but not really seeing him anymore. I touched my biceps, clenching so it stretched against my skin. Dropping my hands to my stomach, I smiled.

Maybe I should get down on the floor beside him and see if my arms would be as steady
as his.

"Lydia."

The abrupt way Joe said the name sent a frisson of fear straight through me. My eyes shot to the door. There was no one there.

Joe chuckled and deftly shot to his feet. "Well, that answers that question."

I bit my lip and shook my head. What question? Why suddenly say a name when no one was . . . ?

Lydia.
I mouthed the name, rolling my tongue around it, and waited for a spark of recognition. I felt nothing. But
he
would know my name, wouldn't he?

My eyes narrowed. "You were testing me."

Shrugging his shoulders backward in a lazy stretch, he nodded. "Yes, but you passed. Don't worry about it."