This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person,

living or dead, any place, events or occurrences, is purely

coincidental. The characters and story lines are created from the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

The Director: Copyright © 2017 by Lily White

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not
be reproduced, scanned, distributed in any printed or electronic
form or used in any manner whatsoever without the express
written permission of the author except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review.

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http://www.facebook.com/authorlilywhite
www.lilywhitebooks.com
A Dark Erotic Thriller by Lily White
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 Author Note and
Disclaimer:
This book is intended for entertainment
purposes solely. This novel discusses sensitive
subject matters. Readers who sensitive to
triggers are advised to proceed with caution.
The opinions given by the characters in this
novel do not reflect those of the author. They
are fictional characters with minds of their
own.
Other Books by Lily
White
Her Master’s Courtesan
(Book 1 of the Masters Series)
(Available on Smashwords)

Her Master’s Teacher

(Book 2 of the Masters Series)

Her Master’s Christmas

(Novella in the Masters Series)

Her Master’s Redemption

(Book 3 of the Masters Series)

Target This

Hard Roads

Asylum

Wake to Dream

Four Crows

Illusions of Evil (Illusions Duet, #1)

Fear the Wicked (Illusions Duet, #2)
 I'm not sure how to say this. How does one
go about calmly stating such a fact? Regardless
of the arrangement of words, the timber of my
voice, or my inflection and tone, the meaning
of that statement is still cutting.
Perhaps simply spitting it out will do. I've
discovered no other way.
In three days, I will die.
There, I said it - cast it out for you to know,
to understand, to roll over your tongue until
you have the exact flavor.
I will die in seventy-two hours. Or, I guess,
seventy-one since I discovered the truth and
found even a semblance of the ability to
process it.
I'm a young woman. Twenty-three years
old, with two months left before my twenty-
fourth birthday. I have reddish brown hair
that was once a sweeping cascade of silk
down my back. I have blue eyes, one that
tends to be lazy when I get tired. My body is
slim, but not skinny. My breasts are a decent
size, but nothing spectacular. I'm taller than
most women at five foot nine, but shorter than
most men. At least, the men I've known.
Prior to an hour ago, I had dreams of a
brighter future. I also had doubts - about
myself, about Ethan, about the one-sided
relationship I've had with him.
One day ago, I gave Ethan my best
performance. I screamed for the camera, bent
over so that every part of my ass and useful
places were on display. I'd begged for help, for
mercy, for the man on top of me to find it in
his heart to let me go. I fucked like a good girl
should, while pretending I didn't want it.
Ethan watched that performance with pride
shining behind his grey eyes, the glimmer cut
through with rage. As soon as my job was
done, he'd jerked me from the stage and
tossed me in a shower, practically scrubbing
the skin off my body to remove every hint of
the man who'd touched me.
After I was clean - not out of care, but of
proprietary right - Ethan reminded me that the
only man who could really scare me was him.
There's a time limit on girls like me and my
time, like those who have gone before me, is
up. I knew it was coming, but foolishly
allowed hope to dull the sharp, jagged edges
of my fate.
There's nothing I can say, nothing I can do,
and nobody I can fuck to keep that from
happening. My name has been written on the
clapboard, the top pulled up, held and ready
to slam down on my life.
The statement is simplistic. Six, one syllable
words that roll easily over the lips. Definitions
aren't necessary. It doesn't boggle the brain to
understand its meaning. Simple, ordinary, and
chilling, I repeat the truth in my head.
In three days, I will die.
Ethan, as always, will be watching.
 EMMA
(One year earlier)
The word STUPID should be tattooed
across my forehead. SUCKER, maybe. Or
EASY.
I'd considered the word IGNORANT, but,
to fit, the letters would be too small and
unreadable from a mile away. They needed to
be visible so that those who watched from the
shadows, the unsavory characters who haunt
the alleyways and crevices of the city, can
easily spot their targets.
Out on the town, I'd been on a third date
with a man who was interesting, but not
compelling. Rich, classless, a fraternity brother
who hadn't left his college days behind, he'd
been arrogant and slow-witted. Even still, I
agreed to that third date, and within a few
hours, after we'd enjoyed dinner and he'd
become handsy with the misguided belief that
I owed him anything, I'd climbed out of his car
at a red light on the corner of Fourth and
Knox. It wasn't the best part of town, but I was
angry.
I was young enough to believe I had
nothing to worry about. Finding a cab
wouldn't be hard, and showing that jackass in
his cherry red Mercedes that I wasn't a dumb
girl who would spread her legs for a steak
dinner was more important to me than safety.
He'd sped off, the wheels of his vehicle
spinning over the concrete leaving rubber
marks at the light where I'd denied him.
His name isn't important, nor are the details
of his appearance. Because he wasn't the
predator I needed to avoid on a clear, fall
night with the promise of cold, crisp weather
wafting beneath my nose.
I made it three blocks before they found
me. Following me for two more, they must
have laughed to realize I was walking deeper
into a deserted area, far from the high rise
condos and squished brownstones, far from
where anybody could hear me.
It would feel better to say I put up a fight,
that I caused some level of damage when I
was jerked out of my heels and pulled into a
dark pathway. But I didn't. I froze. Like an
animal stunned, like a child experiencing fear
for the first time.
 I froze. And I was the simplest of victims
because of it.
Bound, blindfolded and bounced around in
the back of a van of which I neither saw the
make, color or model, my shoulder hit the
knee of the man holding me in place, the one
who breathed heavily, anticipation a current
across his skin. With deep voices, two men
argued, one who was driving, the other at my
side. They spoke in a language I couldn't
understand, their tones angry and urgent.
Clipped words volleyed between the two, I
was lost to the foreign meaning, rendered as
dumb and as blind as any person would be in
my situation. But one thing was clear, I was
being taken somewhere nefarious, the reason
for which, I wasn't sure.
I hadn't noticed if there were windows in
the van that allowed light to beam in. It was
impossible to see beyond the strip of black
cloth tied over my eyes, but I still tracked the
turns being made, the smooth streets below
the tires becoming rough dirt bouncing me
harder. If I had to guess, I would say I was
being driven out to the docks, carried far from
the city with sleek glass and steel buildings
that glittered in the sun.
Just as soon as the van dipped, its tire
hitting a pothole in the uneven dirt road, a
hand slid up the back of my thigh, dragging
my skirt with it. His palms were callused and
rough, his voice jarring as he continued to
argue with his friend. A finger creeping
between my legs, he continued to shout as he
ripped apart the delicate silk of my panties.
It didn't matter that I was bound,
blindfolded or gagged, I tried to fight. But
poor odds being what they were, I lost. Pulled
up so that my wrists were bound together
beneath my chest, my forehead was pressed
tight against the gritty carpet, my hips hauled
up higher than my shoulders. I screamed into
the gag, attempted to kick out with my bound
feet, but it did nothing to stop what was
happening.
The men yelled louder, the driver issuing
what sounded like a warning. The man behind
me must not have listened.
I screamed again when he shoved his
erection inside me. Dry and unprepared, the
sensitive skin burned as if tearing apart. My
knees scraped over the carpet, my forehead as
well. Each thrust hurt me in several places,
most notably my heart. Bile shot up my throat,
but I forced it back down. If I vomited, it
would only be trapped by the gag. I would
have suffocated on my own sickness if I hadn't
swallowed it down - It wasn't the best method
of death.
Taking as deep a breath as I could through
nostrils stuffy from crying, I clenched my eyes
against the assault, waited patiently for him to
finish off and for it to end.
The slap of flesh against flesh was a
sickening beat. The men had stopped arguing.
The van continued moving, bumping along
the dirt path while my soul was shredded to
mere ribbons.
In the distance, I heard a ship's horn, the
loading docks finally drawing close. The man
finished, a sticky substance running down the
back of my legs. My stomach rolled and
heaved, but I forced my breathing to be
steady. It wasn't easy. I barely managed.
The doors opened and I was dragged across
the carpet, baggage treated poorly, a means to
an end. Pain exploded across my body when I
was tossed inside another place I couldn't see.
The sound of large metal doors slamming shut
was followed by the scrape of a lock being
shoved into place. Another blare of the ship's
horn clued me in.
Assuming I was stuck within a large
container, I lay there silently while whispers
erupted around me.

Is she okay?
 Should we help her?
Oh, God, where are they taking us?
It's so dark. I can't see.

All female. All frightened within an inch of

their lives. All crying as they kept their
distance from me. I didn't blame them. They
were as helpless as me.
I'll save the details of the journey across an
ocean. I couldn't tell you how long it took or
what direction we traveled even if I wanted
to. All I knew was that when we reached our
destination I was dragged out again, shoved
in another vehicle and driven over another
bumpy road. Several of the women in the
container were driven with me, their
whimpers filling the space of the van.
Arriving at some destination that was far
off from home, I was dragged out again, the
bindings at my feet were removed, but not
those cutting off the circulation to my hands.
Shoved forward, I walked blindly over
gravel, the small stones digging sharply into
my bare feet. A door opened, its hinges
screaming, and for the first time, I felt cool air
against my cheeks. Air conditioning, I
assumed.
The blindfold was ripped off once the doors
slammed shut, the gag removed, the bindings
at my hands cut, and I blinked my eyes open
to find myself tucked in a single file line
behind three other women.
Beyond the tops of their heads spread a
large empty room. The walls were a dishwater
white, scuffs and marks littering the surface,
what looked like blood pooling in one corner.
Darting my eyes away from that horrifying bit
of truth, I searched the bare cement floors
beneath my feet for any other indication of
where I'd been taken. More scuffs. More
gouges. Nothing significant could be seen.
Four men stood behind us, gruff, large and
dressed in black fatigues with automatic rifles
tucked securely in their hands. There will be no
escape, they didn't need to say, the expressions
on their faces said it all.
I wasn't sure if my heart was still beating, or
if the racing speed had destroyed it
completely. My throat felt swollen and raw,
part lack of water during the journey, part
crippling fear. My legs barely held me on my
feet, the shaking so violent that I knew it was
only a matter of time before I fell.
Turning my gaze back to the women in
front of me, I could see nothing but their
backs. Each was dressed differently, two with
bruises, one with undamaged skin. I
wondered if she'd given up quickly and
decided not to fight.
Their hair was as dirty and tangled as mine,
two blond, one a dark, velvet black. Quietly,
they faced forward, their arms tucked over
their chests, their feeble whimpers just barely
heard.
Beyond them were three doors spaced
evenly in the wall. Each the same. Each
painted a weathered, disgusting brown. Each
closed as we awaited our fate. It was a battle
just to take a breath, the air quality low with a
pungent scent of mold and decay, bodily
excrement and the metallic note of blood. A
shiver coursed through me, revulsion a tremor
over my bones.
"Step forward," a man called out from a
shadowed corner I couldn't see. Gruff and
booming, his voice offered no choice to resist.
"Form a line from left to right. Remove your
clothes and stand with feet slightly apart, arms
at your sides."
A steady drum, my pulse pounded in my
throat. The woman second from the front
collapsed to the ground crying, her face a
wash of red, light hair plastered to the skin by
her tears. A booted march rounded me, the
barrel of a gun pointed down at the woman's
head.
The center door of the three opened, a
finely dressed man walked through. From a
distance it was difficult to determine the color
of his eyes, but it was clear they were the only
light part of him. With jet black hair, tan skin
and a blank expression that was somehow
scarier than the guns at my back, he darted a
glance over the three standing women before
his narrowed eyes turned down to view the
one on the floor.
"I'm running out of patience," he said in a
deep baritone that shook the air in the room.
"You may want to get up before I determine
you're expendable."
She cried harder, the tip of the gun's barrel
pressed to her head. I wasn't sure if the lady
behind her was a friend, or possibly family,
but she pled with the woman to stand.
"Quiet," the man demanded, his tone sharp
and lacking patience.
Swallowing down the terror coursing
through me, I fought to will myself still, fought
not to watch what could possibly happen.
Tracking his gaze wasn't hard, he glared down
at the woman. As soon as his eyes lifted to the
brute holding the gun, a blast filled the air,
blood splattering against the legs of the
woman's screaming friend.
"Have I made it clear what will happen if
you do not do as you're told?"
 He raised his voice to be heard over the
woman still screaming, his eyes slowly
tracking left toward the gunman. The barrel
was pressed to the screaming woman's head.
Her cries cut off so suddenly, it must have
been painful, her body quivering visibly as a
choked sound crawled up her throat. I had to
remain still. Couldn't pass out, couldn't make
a sound, couldn't draw his attention my
direction.
Bored, the man stood in place, his hands
clasped behind his back, his feet planted
slightly apart. He was astute with broad
shoulders and perfect posture, handsome, if
not for the aloof attitude given to the women
whose lives were on the line.
"Form a line," he instructed, "as you've
already been told." His eyes shot to the
woman standing in front of me. "Be careful not
to trip over your friend's body." The corner of
his lip twitched with cruel satisfaction.
More whimpers and soft cries as the two
women in front of me moved forward. Like
them, I had to fight to control my muscles, to
will myself closer to the man.
"Clothes off. I shouldn't have to be
repeating this."
Warning delivered and understood, we
moved to strip the clothes from our bodies. I
nearly lost balance three times, the horror of
the situation stealing my ability to manage the
simple task of undressing with grace or
fluidity. How many times had I done this
before? Requiring no thought, it was an act of
habit, of routine. And yet, now, surrounded by
strangers, and a dead body on the ground at
my back, I could barely manage to unhook
buttons.
Footsteps approached me, slow, measured.
Staring down at the buttons, my fingers kept
fumbling, I'd only had time to catch a glimpse
of his shoes before he gripped my chin and
wrenched my neck pulling my gaze to his.
Lips tugging into a snide grin, he studied my
face for only a few seconds.
"Is there a problem with your clothing? The
other women have already managed to
remove theirs." His head canted to the side
just slightly.
Tears were a steady stream down my
cheeks. I hated shedding them, but the fear
was too heavy, too oppressive, to contain. "N-
no," I sputtered, unable to speak with a steady
voice. "I-I'm just struggling-" Unable to finish
the response, I fought harder to open them.
Still, my fingers fumbled, my hands so shaky
that my fine motor skills were lost.
He curled his hand over the open neckline
of my shirt. "Allow me to help." A hard tug
down jerked my shoulders forward, the sides
of the shirt ripping apart as buttons shot out to
land on the floor. Plastic against cement, they
settled quickly, rendering the room silent.
My eyes dragged up to dare look at his.
There was no warmth behind the grey, no
emotion, thought, concern or enjoyment. Just
impatience and the glaring threat of violence.
"Finish the rest. I expect you'll be fully
undressed by the time I walk back to where I
was standing previously."
He moved away, and I hurried to pull the
skirt down over my hips, dragging the tattered
remains of my panties along with it. They
puddled over my feet on the floor and I
kicked them away just as I finished pulling off
the shirt and my bra. So filled by terror, there
wasn't room for shame or modesty while
baring every part of myself to strangers.
By the time he spun back to look at us, I
was nude to his eyes. He didn't bother
glancing in my direction, his demeanor so
arrogant and sure that he had no doubt I'd
fought to fulfill his expectations.
Allowing only a few moments of silence, he
spoke and capsized the room beneath the
deep tenor of his sturdy voice. "The three of
you who are remaining may or may not be
given a choice today. After careful inspection,
I'll request you all to step right or left to stand
in front of the door on that side. It's my
suggestion you do so without complaint, tears
or any other such behavior." He paused,
allowing his words to sink in before adding, "I
believe I've adequately demonstrated what
occurs to those who fail to follows directions
as given."
It made me wonder why I was still standing
rather than lying on the floor bleeding out
from the head. I hadn't undressed as quickly
as the others, but, yet, he'd let the failure slide.
Stepping up to the first woman to the
farthest left, he reached forward, snatching
her chin between his forefinger and thumb. As
calculated as a man making a fine jewelry
purchase, or a scientist inspecting whatever
experiment he had running, he turned the
woman's face from right to left.
"Open your mouth," he demanded.
She did so, and after he finished inspecting
her teeth, he released her face to say, "Turn
around." His eyes roamed from her shoulders
to her feet, his expression unimpressed. "Bend
over."
She hesitated, but as soon as the shuffle of
boots headed her way, the rattle of a gun
being carried, she complied.
 The man peered down, scrutinizing the
most intimate parts of her. "Stand and face
me," he said, moving back one measured step.
Eye pinned to her, he asked, "Do you have
any diseases I should know about? Health
issues or concerns?"
"I," she choked over the word, the crack in
her voice betraying vocal chords gripped by
trepidation. "I have asthma," she managed to
explain, regardless of how soft her voice had
been to say it.
One corner of his mouth tilted down, mild
disappointment a note in his tone, "That won't
do," he murmured. "Not for the long run
anyway. Step to the left, stand in front of the
door."
Repeating the same inspection with the
next woman, he directed her to the door on
the right. Finally, it was my turn.
My breath caught in my lungs as he
stepped toward me, a chill coursing just
beneath my skin until I was trembling so hard
my teeth clacked together. Pain shot along my
jaw and I closed my eyes out of instinct more
than logical reason.
"Open your eyes. You can't hide from me."
Small muscle convulsions erupted over my
bones, the terror now so thorough that if this
man didn't kill me, the fear would. I could feel
my heart stuttering to maintain a rhythm
within its rapid pulse. My lungs burned for air
but wouldn't inhale. My knees knocked
together, the skin most likely bruised from
having been slammed together.
I opened my eyes to be pierced by
scrutinous silver-grey.
His voice was a touch softer, as if his words
were only intended for him and me. "You
should know that I will see everything there is
to see about you. Your body. Your mind. Your
soul. Not one thing is hidden from my view,
not one facet able to be covered or disguised. I
know people better than they know
themselves and I've run across hundreds of
girls like you." Pausing, he allowed his gaze to
roll down my body and back up. "Close your
eyes again and I'll consider that an act of
rebellion. You won't enjoy crossing that line."
My lips parted, my chest heaving with
breath while I struggled to pull in oxygen. The
room spun around me, tilted and swayed
before coming back to a standstill.
He watched me without a hint of regret for
what he was doing, without even a trace of
humanity or compassion. "Thank me for the
warning," he said.
Eyes wide, I stared at him in disbelief,
seconds ticking silently by before I processed
what he'd asked of me. "T-thank you," I
stuttered, my teeth clamping back together
just as soon as the words left my mouth.
With the slightest tug of his lips, he
answered, "You're welcome. Now, open your
mouth."
Doing as I was told, I ignored the sharp
pain of extending my jaw. It wanted to stay in
place, the muscles locked from having ground
my teeth together. My eyes closed again, but I
forced them open, not wanting to take the
chance of appearing rebellious. He tapped my
chin when he was done. Our eyes met again.
"Turn around."
I did.
"Bend over."
I did.
"What do we have here? Carlos," he called
out, anger a rolling thunder through his tone.
The sound of approaching footsteps answered
him. "Who brought in this girl?"
The gritty voice from earlier spoke next.
"Fadan and some kid named Scruff. Fadan
said the kid is new."
"Do you see this?"
The focused gaze of two sets of eyes were
burning into my skin, into the private parts of
my body I'd fought my entire life to keep
covered. Even on the two occasions I had sex,
I did so in the dark. It felt awkward when I
was naked - exposed. How I was able to stand
this treatment now, I wasn't sure. Perhaps it
was because the fear was so pervasive that
there was no room for anything else.
"She's been used," the astute man said, his
voice like smooth silk in comparison to the
other. "I'm very clear on what I want. This
won't do."
The semen left by the asshole in the van.
When I allowed myself to think clearly, I
realized that was what he'd found.
A minute or so ago, I would have denied
that the panic inside could be worse. But
hearing what he said, how easily I could be
dismissed for the way another man had
already raped me, it drove another spike of
panic through my body, my blood pressure
becoming so high that I could feel it pressing
at my veins and arteries begging to be
released.
"We can kill her now or direct her to the left
door-"
"No. Not yet. But ensure Fadan knows that
Scruff is no longer welcome as member on the
procurement teams. I want him dead before
morning."
"Yes, sir." Rough like the callused hands of
a blue collar man, his voice was unaffected by
the demand for blood. His footsteps trailed off
until I could no longer hear them.
"Stand up, straight," the silken voice
instructed. His eyes met mine. "Do you have
any diseases I should know about? Illnesses or
health conditions?"
I shook my head no.
He nodded. "Move to stand behind the
right door."
Unsure where either door led, I felt oddly
grateful for the right. The man walked through
the center door without another word, his
broad shoulders and dark grey suit
disappearing from view as the wood swung
closed.
"Time to move. Everybody through their
doors."
He said it like we hadn't become the doors
the moment we'd been directed to them. As if
our identities weren't just relegated to the
right or the left. The rattle of guns sounded
behind me, the cold metal pressing against my
naked back.
"Get going," he warned.
My attention snapped back to the threat, to
the urgency and desolation of my situation,
and I saw that the woman in front of me had
already walked through. To my left, the single
woman designated for the other door
hesitated as well, her expression bleak, her
hair matted at the back of her head, her
shoulders withered with surrender as a
gunman walked up behind her and shoved
her through.
As I stepped through my own door - my
new identity - I wondered if I would see that
woman again.
I didn't have to wonder long.
 EMMA
Stepping through the doorway, my view
was met by another blank wall, a bend in the
walkway leading right, far from the heart of
the building. Turning, I followed in the
footsteps of the woman in front of me, keeping
a steady pace so that the gunman behind me
didn't tap me again with the reminder that
death stood at my back.
It wasn't easy keeping my balance, not with
the tremor of terror flowing through me.
Violently I quaked, both inside and out, the
hostility of my own weaknesses and fears,
helplessness and disbelief a weighted cloak
that dragged me down further into despair.
Although I struggled to breath evenly, the
air coursing through my chest was sporadic at
best. And even though I willed my heart to
beat slower, it raced and left me dizzy. The
tears were endless, my eyes burning, my
cheeks chapped, but that discomfort was
nothing compared to the bruising of my body,
to the ache pulsing between my legs for what
the man in the van had done.
The gritty voiced man had labeled my
rapist a kid, but I found the term lacking after
what he'd done. A kid is innocent, that man
was a monster. A kid plays and explores life,
that man had set out to destroy mine.
I hadn't reacted to the assault as much as I
should have. I wondered if it was shock that
forced me from my body, if it was fear of the
unknown or worry about where I was being
taken. Now that a few answers had been
given, I thought back on what happened in
that van, remembered the sensation of being
bound and blind, unable to escape the
humiliation. It filled me as I walked this
barren hallway, a spark of anger finally
coming to life.
"The showers are on the left. Be sure you
grab soap and shampoo from the counter
when you walk in."
Spoken without inflection, the instructions
were delivered as if we were criminals being
delivered to a prison, animals being driven
into a pasture, victims being led to mass
slaughter.
The lack of emotion was more unsettling
than the environment, the absence of anger or
contempt pushing the moment into the
surreal. My mind told me to fight against what
was being done, but still my body turned left,
my hands grabbed the packet of essentials and
I stepped into the gossamer curtain of steam
within the showers.
It felt good to wash away the stain of lust
left dripping down my legs, felt good to ease
my locked muscles beneath the flow of heat if
only for a few seconds. While standing under
the strong spray, I could believe for that single
moment that everything would be okay. But
as quickly as I allowed even that inferior burst
of optimism to ignite, it was stripped by the
hand that gripped my shoulder and pulled me
from the shower into the cold interior of the
room.
"That's long enough." A towel slapped
against my body. "Dry off and follow me."
Appreciative for the towel as some means
of cover, I dried off quickly and wrapped the
scratchy material over my body to follow the
guard. He glanced over his shoulder as he
stepped into the doorway leading into the
hall, his motion stopping abruptly after he
turned to glare at me. "Drop the towel, leave it
in the room."
I didn't want to let it go, couldn't seem to
unlock my fingers from where they held it
closed over my body. It wasn't the best towel.
Rather, it was a dirty white, stained and
tattered, washed so many times that it was
like sandpaper against the skin. It had holes
and frays, stray threads and ripped corners,
but it was the only thing providing me
comfort, the only bit of modesty in an
unfamiliar place.
Shaking my head minutely, I wasn't sure
what came over me. That small spark of anger
I'd felt after being led to the right began to
pulsate and grow. It flashed and flickered,
rolled and glowed, beat and surged until it
was warm enough to bring to life a tiny speck
of my bravery.
The guard's lips curled at the corners, his
dark eyes flashing with challenge and
authority. Leaning over me, his large, fleshy
hands clung tightly to his rifle, as if the
amalgam of metal and explosive powder
somehow made him superior. My eyes darted
up to his, fear tracing my spine with frozen
fingers, but still I found the strength to stare.
"Drop the towel," he warned, his words
enunciated with aggressive care.
I clenched the towel as tightly as he
clenched his gun, our eyes locked in a battle of
wills I knew I would lose but fought anyway.
Something had snapped inside me, the
threads spun with fear, shock and trepidation
pulled taut until, one by one, they snapped.
A snide smile kicked up his lips, and before
I could smile back in challenge of my own, he
pushed out with the butt of his gun, slamming
it against the side of my head and knocking
me to the floor.
Reaching up on instinct to check for the
external damage that matched the horrendous
pulse of pain now coursing across my skull, I
released the towel only to have the guard
snatch my wrist in his meaty paw and jerk me
up from the floor.
I was shoved out into the hall before I could
make a sound in protest, my body just as
naked as it was previously without need of
one word of argument from the guard. Brute
strength won, and I was returned to the
pathetic victim as easily as I'd been stolen
from the street.
Turning a corner, I wasn't sure what to
expect, but what I found was the same woman
who'd been directed to the right like me, her
body perfectly still and marked by bruises
while she waited in front of another damn
door. I was getting tired of doors - more than
that, I was getting tired of not knowing where
they led.
I've never been a strong woman, have
never been tough as nails, ready to tackle
every problem thrown at me with style and
finesse.
I was more statistical than that, a daddy's
girl who expected to marry a man that was tall
and strong, smart and put together, someone
who could carry me though life one handed
while solving every problem tossed in our
path. I wanted a hero to help me through the
tough times, so I never bothered exploring
whether I could be a hero myself.
However, there were no strong men here to
save me now. All I had was myself, and if I
wanted to survive, if there was any hope for
possible escape, I had to shed the damsel in
distress mentality. I had to be smart. Had to be
strong. Would have to endure every horror
imaginable.
The door swung open and we were walked
through into a scene as surprising as it was
sinister, as unexpected as it was out of place.
A stage was set in front of us, the surface
raised three feet from the floor. The lighting
illuminated a bed positioned in the middle of
that stage, the iron headboard with shackles
dangling insidiously from the bars. Where we
stood was dark and shadowed, as if we were
an audience stepping in for the matinee.
Cameras were positioned in all positions
around the stage, director's chairs scattered
throughout, but no production crew lumbered
about, no other soul beyond the woman, the
guard and me.
Until he stepped on stage. The dark haired
man in the tailored suit. The one who had
callously ordered the execution of a frightened
woman, as well as the execution of a kid who
had raped me minutes after I'd been stolen.
Not for the rape itself, mind you, but for
having delivered damaged goods.
On measured steps, he moved to the center
of the stage, one click of the heel of his
expensive shoe closely followed by the other.
Unhurried, unconcerned, slow but steady, the
sound of his shoes against the stage floor was
a funeral dirge of sorts, a mournful beat for
lives that were lost, even if our bodies were
still breathing. The other woman and I had no
clue what would happen next, had gone
through so much already that we foolishly
believed it couldn't get worse.
I would learn quickly after meeting this
well dressed man, that no matter how bad
your circumstance, it could always deteriorate,
that Hell itself could rise up and swallow you
when you'd convinced yourself you'd
experienced it all.
"Fuck or die. Those are your two choices."
His silken voice traveled leisurely across
the room. Spoken as if he were offering a
dinner selection of steak or chicken, he faced
us, bored expression in place, hands tucked
casually in his pockets. Behind us, the guard
stood stock still, his fleshy hands most likely
clinging to his gun as if it were a vital part of
his body.
The man's eyes darted to my left where the
other woman stood, her posture painfully
tight, her face drawn into an expression of
exhaustion and dread. It may not have been
obvious to any person standing at a distance,
but once the man's eyes had locked on her, a
tremor ran through her legs. I worried she'd
collapse before answering him.
"I don't understand," she managed to
whisper just loud enough for it to be heard.
A mere tilt at the corner of his lips showed
his amusement. "Fuck," he repeated, "or die."
Pausing, he slid his gaze between us before
resettling those piercing grey eyes on the
trembling woman. "I'm giving you a choice
between one option or the other. I suggest you
make it before it's made for you."
"I don't want to die," she confessed, tears
cracking her voice apart, barely controlled
sobs a quake over her small body. "I have a
child. He's only a year old. I-"
"When will he turn two?" The man asked,
his question unsettling for its normalcy. What
did it matter when her child would have
another birthday? Would we be released after
he'd completed whatever it was he had
planned for us?
An illusive ray of hope beamed through me
at the mere possibility we would leave this
place. Along with that hope came a rush of
thoughts, facts I focused on as evidence that
perhaps they would free us eventually, my
mind finally settling on one.
They'd blindfolded us while bringing us here.
Perhaps that was so we wouldn't be able to lead the
authorities back to this place once freed.
"He'll be two in three months," she said,
dragging my focus back to the conversation
being held.
"Then you'll need to make a choice," he
reminded her.
Her throat visibly swallowed down
whatever toxic mixture of emotions choked
her. Fingers tapping at her thighs as the only
means she had to expel the terror, the chaos of
a caustic storm of horror inside her, she
blinked once before answering, "Fuck."
His grin tilted higher. "Excellent choice.
You'll be alive for your son's second birthday.
How old are you?"
"Twenty-two," she admitted, a new
strength to her voice after hearing she would
live following the decision she'd made.
"Then you'll be alive for his third birthday
as well. Congratulations."
The woman cried out in relief, almost
buckling over herself now that she had some
semblance of hope.
Jutting his chin in my direction, he called
out to the guard. "Secure her. We have a film
to make."
Grabbed by the shoulders, I was dragged
back, the sound of metal hinges scraping
before I was gagged and stuffed in a cage. The
door slammed shut just as the woman turned
to look at me. Fear crept in to diminish the
relief she'd once had.
His chin jutted in her direction next.
"Secure her as well. Let's get started."
Stepping down the three small steps I
hadn't noticed on the side of the stage, the
man rounded the front watching as the other
woman was dragged up steps on the opposite
side.
She cried as they led her to the bed, begged
to be let go as they pushed her to the mattress
and locked her arms into the shackles. So
focused on what they were doing to her, I
hadn't noticed the man approaching my cage.
He knelt down when my eyes peered up at
him, one of his hands folding over the top bar
as he studied me.
With a soft voice, he warned, "Pay close
attention to what happens here. You still have
a choice to make. But if you utter even one
small sound while I'm filming, I'll make that
choice for you. Do you understand?"
Nodding my head without hesitation, I
stared in stupefied shock. "Yes," I finally
answered, the word muffled by the gag.
"Good."
Back on his feet, he approached the stage,
standing in place behind the cameras as more
people rushed in to take their places among
the machines. One man carried a clapboard,
another sound equipment, and another more
lighting devices that were placed in specific
places around the room.
I was watching a film production - the
realization trapped me in its grasp. The surreal
quality about the scene warped my reality
viciously, twisting it and skewing it until I
wondered if death wouldn't have been the
better choice.
"Bring in the men," the man called out, and
for the first time, I understood who he was.
Astute, wealthy I assumed, well spoken, firm
and overly attentive, there was no other role
he would fill better.
 It took the stage and cameras for me to see
it, the frenetic activity as sound was checked
and lights were changed. It took watching him
stand among it all, his focus on the stage, his
body held in patient wait.
He was the Director, the man behind the
screen, the puppet master who pulled the
strings of every person around him. We were
not separate individuals and lives, we were
part of a whole - his whole - without need for
our permission. Characters aligned on a
storyboard, we were intended for his purpose
- a purpose I didn't yet know.
Pulling a pair of wire framed glasses from a
pocket inside the jacket of his suit, he read
over a stack of pages given to him by one of
the production crew. "Yes, that will do," he
opined. "Let's begin."
The room went silent after every person
took their place. The director took off his
eyeglasses, tucked them in his inside jacket
pocket and inclined his head toward a woman
now holding the clapboard. She raised the top,
her voice deeper than I'd expected. "Forced
Silence, take -"
"Wait," the director called out. The woman
paused with the top of the clapboard still
raised, her mouth hanging open on the last
word she'd intended to say.
 Stepping toward the stage, he trained his
gaze on the woman cowering on the bed. She
was crying by this point, huge body quaking
sobs that shook the mattress beneath her.
"For this particular film, I'll allow you to ad
lib your part. Fight as much as you want.
Scream. Cry. Beg. This is your introduction
into your new life - your debut to the world at
large. Make me believe it. Understand,
however, that this is only the first phase. Play
your role well, and the span of your time here
will go a lot smoother."
The woman on the bed nodded her head,
tears dripping from her jawline to soak the
mattress below.
He stepped back and flashed a look at the
woman holding the clapboard.
"Forced Silence, scene one. Take one."
The top of the clapboard slapped down, the
sharp noise ricocheting like a bullet through
the room. Three men entered from the right
side of the stage, each naked but for the hoods
they wore to cover their faces. Black leather
with eyeholes covered in mesh, nose holes
and a zipper at the back, the masks took away
the humanity - the soul - of the men who
approached her, leaving just the hard bodies -
the machines - that would do their worst.
A keening sound crawled up the woman's
throat. Soft at first, it grew louder as the men
drew closer.
She screamed when the first man struck
out, the shackles holding her wrists clanging
like bells against the iron headboard. He
tugged her forward by her ankles, the violence
of the shackles yanking her arms above her
head was obvious enough that I felt it within
my own tendons and bones. The woman
fought. She kicked out, writhed, her legs like
two pistons running a fast paced engine, but
the man overpowered her, pulling her so hard
that her body was lifted off the bed, held taut
between the shackles and his hands.
This wasn't fantasy pornography, wasn't a
practiced scene between two consenting
actors. This was raw footage of one of the most
demeaning acts a human being could suffer.
Her screams filled the room, bouncing off the
walls and colliding together as one echo met
the next. I watched in pure horror, my jaw
hanging open uselessly, my eyes unblinking as
I stared forward. The guard standing beside
my cage laughed softly when the man holding
the woman's ankles parted them enough for
the other two men to get a strong grip over her
thighs, helping the first man open her legs to
his eyes.
The first man released her ankles, crawling
up onto the bed between her legs, his erection
a hard threat between them. He waited as
another man rounded the bed to hold her
shoulders to the mattress, the last man moving
to the other side to pull something from a
nearby table. I couldn't see it clearly, couldn't
make out what it was, but after watching him
place it over her mouth and hook it to wires,
the breath caught on my lungs.
A deep, calm voice filtered through the
room, but I couldn't determine its source.
"Shhhhh, stay quiet, or else."
She screamed just before a light burst from
the device tucked over her mouth, her body
arching up as if driven by an electrical current.
It only lasted a second, but it felt like an
eternity. The beat of my heart stopped briefly
when I understood what they were doing.
When my pulse returned, it was frantic.
Forced Silence. The title repeated in my head
until the scope of the act was clear. For every
noise this woman made, she'd be punished by
an electrical current being driven through her
body.
It only took shocking her once to stop the
struggle, and the man between her legs edged
up to seat himself against her body. Pulling
my focus from the horror playing out in front
of me, I directed my attention to the puppet
master pulling the strings.
Silently, he motioned for the cameramen to
move in and find the best angles, for the boom
operator to lower the mic in order to catch
every sound the woman made. There was no
rush, no urgency, no concern or hesitancy, just
a man recording his story, a monster
documenting every second of the woman's
rape.
From the slap of skin against skin, from the
thrust of hips and the small sounds crawling
up the woman's throat, I knew the man was
using her just as I'd been used in the van.
The deep voice returned. Clear. Concise.
Cut through with heavy breathing. "You like
that don't you, slut?" His hands gripped her
hips, lifting her higher. "Fuck, you feel so
good. I'll fuck you until you cry." His hips
thrust harder. "More tears, beautiful. Keep
them coming."
Although it wasn't me on that stage, wasn't
my body held in place by three men, wasn't
my voice stolen by threat of pain, I still died a
little inside.
When the voice cut through the room again,
I realized there were mics within the masks
worn by the men, it was the only possible
reason their voices could be so clear. "Fuck
yes," he growled as his hips thrust forward
one more time, the cheeks of his muscular ass
clenching together as he finished off inside
her.
He dropped her hips, pulled free and
climbed off the bed. One man removed the
device from her mouth, only for her to scream
again. It wasn't terror lacing her voice, just the
deep, mournful bellow of a woman giving up
her will to live.
"Turn her over. It's my turn."
Dark laughter filled the room, the cameras
shifted, the boom operator running quickly to
the left of the stage to capture the woman's
cries as she realized what would occur next.
"Cut," the director called out. All
movement stopped. "Camera 2, I want a close
up taken from the side of the woman's body.
Use the handheld on this scene. Climb up
there, if necessary. I want another camera on
her face. Every expression must be caught. We
have one shot at this."
His voice was professional and matter of
fact, not an ounce of sympathy found within
the deep tenor. The production team took
their places, the woman whimpering where
she was held down on the bed.
The director's voice rang out again. "Be sure
to get a close up of the modified gag. I need
the viewers to understand its function.
Everybody in place," he commanded. The
room went silent before he nodded his head
toward the woman with the clapboard.
Lifting the top, she held it and said, "Forced
Silence, scene two, take one." The slap of the
clapboard cut through the silence.
It was no surprise as the poor woman was
tugged down, jerked sideways and positioned
over the side of the bed. And at that point, my
shock was numbing me to the degradation,
the violence, the horrid reality that she was
being used as a pawn in some monster's game.
I was helpless to assist, caged and gagged,
cast aside to sit and witness the consequence
of the choice she'd been forced to make.
Unable to process the scene, I watched as the
men positioned themselves to rape her again,
my eyes tracking the gag they shook in her
face.
"One noise out of you and this gag will cut
through your gums. I yank. It cuts. Do you
understand?"
She nodded her head, her eyes practically
swollen shut as they fit the device over her
mouth. From where I sat, it resembled the
same gag tied around my head, except for the
gleam of metal stitched into the cloth. I
couldn't clearly make out the design, but I
didn't need to. It was demonstrated a few
moments later as to its purpose.
With the gag placed just under her lips, the
man behind her held the ends at the back of
her head, his free hand working to position
himself at the entrance of her body. He thrust
his hips and the sound that emanated from
her mouth was inhuman. Covering my ears to
the shrill cry that sliced the air with the
horrendous truth of where he'd invaded her,
my eyes were still wide and unblinking to see
blood trickling down her legs.
My gaze tracked to her face, to the crimson
stain trickling down her cheeks that matched.
The man raping her laughed. "I told you to
be quiet," he scolded her, his hips now moving
at a rhythmic pace.
I couldn't watch anymore, couldn't fathom
how any person could stand idly by and
witness this.
Eventually the screams died down, the
sound of skin slapping against skin filling the
air as her voice turned to whimpers. She was
forced silent again, and just for watching, so
was I.
The man finished and pulled out of her
body, the director's astute voice yelling, "Cut!
That's a wrap. Get her to clean up and
medical. Everybody else, set the next stage."
 The next stage.
My stage.

My stomach lurched, bile creeping up to

coat my tongue while I fought not to vomit.
Trapped in a cage, it was useless trying to
escape. And that fact was never more obvious
than when the director turned to look at me.
While people moved around him, the ebb
and flow of activity somehow bending around
his personal sphere, he approached me with
no hurry to his steps. I counted each fall of his
foot as he approached, held my breath when
only a few feet existed between us, made a
bleak decision when he was close enough to
kneel down and look me in the eye.
"So, what will it be?" He asked, the silky
croon like sandpaper against my senses now
that I understood the type of monster he was.
"Fuck or die?"
My eyes locked on his face, on the dark
contours of his angled cheeks, on the stubble
running along his square jaw, on the dusting
of silver at his temples. He was mesmerizing
in both beauty and intensity, the picture
unsettling for the monster I knew existed
beneath the cultured and powerful facade.
Dragging in a breath despite my lungs'
refusal, ignoring the pain in my fingers from
being locked around the cold, metal bars of
my cage, fighting against the instinct implicit
to every living creature to survive, I made a
decision that was in opposition to what I
wanted.
It wasn't a cognitive decision at first, simply
a subconscious understanding that, when
floated to the surface of my thoughts, made
me rally against myself. Disbelief suffocated
me, the need to survive screaming and
begging while I knew it was the only decision
I had left.
I wouldn't willingly suffer the horror I just
witnessed.
I wouldn't subject myself to torture in order
to buy more time.
I wasn't strong enough to endure when an
easier escape was within my reach.
Perhaps I was a coward for the choice I
knew I'd make, but I made it regardless
because I refused to bend to the creative will
of a psychopath.
Locking my eyes to his clear, grey gaze, I
swallowed down the battle I chose not to
fight.
"I choose death," I answered, preferring the
quickness of a bullet to the pain of captivity,
abuse, and a long drawn out demise.
The corners of his lips tilted up, amusement
a flicker behind his piercing eyes. "Are you
sure?"
I didn't have to acknowledge his question
for him to know I wouldn't change my mind.
Silence beat between us, growing so thick that
its weight buried us both. Breaking it finally,
he cornered me with a response I'd never even
guessed he would give.
"Fine, then," he said, his words spoken
slowly - cryptically. "Allow me to show you
what that looks like."
 EMMA
"Open the cage. I'll be escorting this one to
Stage B."
He stood as he instructed the guard to free
me, his hands sliding into his pockets while he
waited for me to crawl out of the cage and
climb to my feet. Having his hands tucked
away had given me a false sense of security as
I approached him, the guard stalking behind
me, his gun held to his chest.
I should have known the imminent threat
wasn't the man behind me, but the one who
waited patiently for me to come within reach.
Between one second and the next he was
standing casually in wait and wrapping his
hand over the back of my neck, his fingers
digging into the tense, fear-laden muscle. I
cried out in both shock and pain, my body
hunching forward as if that alone would free
me of the aggressive hold. Jerking me up, he
dragged me closer to his body, not caring that
my hair was still wet from the shower and
would leave marks over his expensive suit.
His mouth was close to my ear, hot breath
brushing down my neck as he spoke. "You're
not going to enjoy this. Being the professional
that I am, I thought I'd give you the warning.
Are you sure you don't want to change your
mind?"
Closing my eyes now that being perceived
as rebellious no longer concerned me, I
swallowed down the desire to beg for my life.
It was a choice that was difficult to make, an
impossibility to process as I pondered whether
life was worth it if one had to live it enslaved.
Being raped, being tortured, being forced to
endure the agony I'd watched that poor
woman survive, I wasn't brave enough to live
through it. I preferred the easy way out.
"I'd rather eat a bullet than be a character
on your stage."
His head fell back, his lips parting on
boisterous laughter. Deep and vibrant, the
sound shouldn't have been something that
compelled those who heard it to smile. It was
carefree, warm, and it had no place in this vile
building filled with torture, horror and death.
How a sound like that came from a monster
was beyond me, but still his shoulders shook
with mirth, with amusement and an unsettling
display of humor I would have sworn was
impossible in a man such as him.
"A bullet?" He finally responded, still
chuckling as his hand gripped my neck
harder. "I'm sorry, but that option has passed,
my sweet girl. Because here, in my
wonderland of fantasy and film, there are so
many better uses for you. Come, I'll show you
one now."
The guard and his gun followed closely
behind, his booted steps beating behind us
and echoing off the walls. We'd entered a
small hallway that dipped left than right, only
to come upon another damn door. Where this
one led, I wasn't certain, but what I did know
was that the scene kept getting worse for each
room I entered.
The director reached with his free hand to
open the door and shove me through, the
guard closing the metal partition at our backs.
Even the slamming door hadn't been enough
to jar my senses and strip my focus from the
scene laid out before me.
A chain link fence ran the length of the
room, what lay behind it obscured by a black
tarp. No walls were visible from where I
stood, just a ceiling that was at least twenty
feet above my head. The floor was bare
concrete, much like the room where we'd first
been brought in upon arriving. Scarred and
gouged, it was a sea of grey stained with
brown splotches. It wasn't difficult to
determine what had caused those stains.
I swallowed down the anxiety I felt to focus
on the face of the woman currently locked to
the chain link fence with handcuffs around
her wrists and shackles at her ankles.
Recognition hit me within a split second - it
was the woman who'd been led to the left, the
one with asthma who, according to the asshole
currently holding me in place, wouldn't do for
the long run.
A chill coursed across my bones to become
a tremor through my arms and legs. Barely
able to remain on my feet, I darted my gaze to
the cameras set in place, the small director
chairs with their wood frames and canvass
seats, and to the props set aside from the main
scene, discreetly tucked away outside of view.
Metal gleamed beneath low lighting, the razor
edges of instruments intended for cruelty and
torture. My lips parted and a question flowed
out before I recognized I was speaking.
"Why? Why are you doing this to her? To
us?"
The skin wrinkled between his eyes as he
glanced down at me, his piercing gaze
capturing mine for only a split second before
he refocused his attention on the woman
bound and helpless against the chain link
fencing. The silence in the room became
deafening as I waited for an answer that never
came, my attention drawn to the labored
breathing I hadn't noticed before. Forcing my
eyes away from the man holding me and back
to the nameless victim waiting for whatever
sentence he'd determined would be her fate, I
understood that she was in the midst of an
asthma attack - one for which no help would
be coming.
The director's hand released me as quickly
as he'd originally grabbed me, his palm
slamming against my chest as he shoved me
back toward the guard. "We don't have much
time left, hold on to her," he ordered.
The guard wrapped an arm around my
neck, tightening my back against his chest. I
could feel the cool metal of his gun pressing
into my skin, the heat of his flesh the perfect
counterpoint to the icy hard surface of his
weapon. My senses magnified by fear, I could
count every exhalation of his breath, could feel
his languid pulse beneath his skin, could smell
the faint scent of laundry detergent on his
clothes. My eyes, however, could only focus
on one man, the man who stepped toward the
scene at the other end of the room, the same
one who turned his head toward a person I'd
not seen hiding within shadow, only the low
hum of the director's voice audible when he
gave his instructions.
Within minutes the room filled with a
production crew, much like the first, but
smaller and more intimate.
"We should begin," the director called out
as he waited patiently for each member of the
team to take their place, to ready their
instruments for sound, lighting and film. The
room around me darkened except for where
two spotlights beamed down on the woman I
wished I could help.
The hum of a machine rattled to the front
left of the scene, a pungent scent filtering into
the room as white fog filled the ground below
where the woman was tethered. Lifting just
slightly, rolling when any of the crew moved
around, the fog settled thickly at the woman's
feet.
Her face was absent of emotion, her chest
rising and falling with rapid, shallow breath.
The fog only served to make it more difficult
for her to draw in air. That alone was torture
enough, but when a door opened to the right
of her, when the hinges screamed as if rusted
and old, her head snapped up, her eyes
darting to the sound.
So focused on the victim, I failed to see the
woman holding a clapboard until she
announced that filming would begin.
"Breathe, take one." The top of the
clapboard slapped down, the ricochet of
sound ebbing off until only the low whir of the
smoke machine could be heard.
A man stepped in, his body covered head
to toe in a form fitting black bodysuit, his face
covered so that his identity was obscured. As
soon as the woman saw him, she opened her
mouth to scream, but her lack of breath left her
voiceless, her lungs coughing and spurting in
a violent attempt to draw in air. That alone
made me dread the title given to this
particular film.
After she ceased her efforts to cry out in
response to the approaching man, the stygian
silence of the room wrapped around me,
numbing me, holding me in place as focused
on the scene as every other person. I feared
my racing heart boomed through the space as
loud as in my head.
The way the man in black moved was
oddly graceful despite his size. Fluid and
boneless, his broad shoulders and long legs
swept along as if choreographed to music I
couldn't hear or interpret. Approaching the
woman, he stood within inches of her right
side, his neck bending as his face peered
down at her, his height dwarfing her from
how closely he stood.
He was a shadow that stood in threat, his
tall, broad form shockingly still despite the
small tremor over his shoulders. Softly
laughing at a woman much smaller than him,
he took pleasure in her inability to scream, in
the battle she fought to take a breath with him
at her side.
I didn't know much about asthma, didn't
know how long the attacks could last and if
there was a method to catch your breath again
without medicine, but what I did know is that
the woman's knees were buckling beneath her,
that her face had been drained of color, even
her lips taking on a blue tint.
The man brought his hand toward her,
opening his closed fist one long finger at a
time while her frantic eyes traced the
movement. An object he'd held was exposed
to light, but I couldn't see what it was. The
director motioned silently and a member of
the production crew holding a smaller camera
ran to get a better angle. With the cameraman
in the way, I couldn't determine what the
object was that the man held, but slowly the
cameraman moved away and I watched the
woman's eyes follow the object as the other
man stepped over to place it at the end of a
long table.
A light click as the room went silent, the
low whir of the smoke machines and slowly
rotating fans turned off all at once. My eyes
tracked the woman's gaze to the object she
obviously wanted.
When I squinted hard enough from the
distance I stood away, I finally realized what
is was.
A small, blue asthma inhaler.
Relief flooded me for only a second. I
allowed myself to believe they would help the
woman as she was unchained from the fence
to be led to the opposite end of the table. The
man positioned her, allowed her to splay her
hands on the wood surface and catch her
balance. Stepping back, he said nothing, did
nothing, as she darted a look around the room
before leaning forward to grab it.
Her lips fell apart as she struggled to drag
in a breath. Her eyes widening impossibly
more as she leaned so far her naked breasts
pressed against the table. Arms and fingers
fully extended, she'd almost reached it when
her fingertip tapped it, knocking it back more.
With both her focus and mine locked on that
small blue inhaler, the forgotten man in black
moved forward.
He'd removed a hidden codpiece that had
been fitted around his hips, his long, hard
erection the only flash of skin that poked out
from the bodysuit that disguised the rest of
him. Slamming a hand down on the woman's
back, he prevented her from moving forward
to reach the inhaler she needed desperately.
And without remorse for what he was doing
in front of a camera, lights and a production
crew, he kicked her legs apart, fisted her hair
and shoved himself inside her body.
Her mouth stretched into a barely
perceptible scream, only the high pitched,
breathless sound she struggled to force out.
The woman was dying, she was running
out of air while being raped from behind. My
knees locked beneath me in horror and anger.
I stepped toward the director. To do what, I
had no idea, but my body acted before I knew
what my mind was doing. The guard's hand
clamped over my shoulder.
Turning, I looked at him and found myself
unimpressed with his threatening glare. Eyes
narrowed, but with a snide, gloating grin, he
waved the gun he was holding slowly
between us. Behind me the room was silent,
except for the sickening slap of skin. I turned
back and wished I hadn't.
The woman's lips were blue, her body was
slumping forward and her mouth open and
closed like a fish trapped out of water. A few
more minutes and she'd die horribly, her last
memories that of a nightmare she couldn't
escape.
Panic gripped me in its icy fingers, the nails
digging down into my skin until I was
shivering and tugging at the guard's hand.
Unable to move, unable to surge forward and
at least attempt to help that poor woman
who'd done nothing wrong in life besides
being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I
made a decision that went against every
survival instinct I had. What did it matter,
anyway? I'd already chosen to die. There was
no way I'd choose to fuck as that monster had
told me.
As the woman's body slouched lower, as
the man behind her thrust so hard the legs of
the table holding the woman were scraping
over the floor, I broke the one fucked up rule
that bastard director had given me. I opened
my mouth and I screamed.
"Stop! You're killing her!"
"Cut!" His deep voice roared, his body
pivoting to face me, his silver-grey eyes
pinning me in place.
The entire room went still, the stage crew
darting shocked glances in my direction, their
bodies locked in such stunned disbelief that
they resembled mannequins playing the parts
of a once live production team. Staring at
them kept my attention off the director, until
he was creeping up on me, coming so close
that the heat of his body could reach out to
mingle with mine.
Not creeping. Not this man. No. His steps
had been a pounding drumbeat so in tune
with the pace of my heart that I'd missed his
approach entirely. At least until his fingers
were on me, at least until I felt them gripping
my jaw and sending a pulse of pain across the
bones and teeth.
Yanked forward, I barely stayed on my feet.
My balance was precarious, my heels pulled
up above the floor as the skin beneath my toes
was stretched taut by the manner in which I'd
been pulled toward him.
"What the fuck did I tell you about not
making a sound?"
I'd assumed he'd yell and roar, that he'd
demand a bullet being lodged in my brain so
far that it left a gaping, open hole on the
opposite side of my head. I'd assumed his
anger would bellow out of him to match my
fear and desperation. But instead, his anger
was cold, it whispered, it swept in on a low
voice that was more menacing than any loud,
powerful sound he could have made in
censure of my outburst. If given the choice, I
would have preferred that he yelled, because
the deep voiced, clipped whisper of words
was more terrifying than anything else.
He'd never intended for me to answer, and
without giving me even a second to process
his question, he asked another one...and
another.
"You've ruined this film, do you know that?
There is no second take, no possibility of fixing
what you've destroyed. Would you like to
replace that woman on the table just so you
can make it up to me?"
I couldn't talk around the way he gripped
my face, but if I'd had the ability, I would have
laughed like a mental patient and reminded
him I didn't have asthma. How the fuck
would I replace a woman they were killing by
using her own health against her?
"I should have you killed for your outburst-
"
Yes, please. Make it quick.
"But, I have better uses for a woman like
you." Leaning closer, his lips brushed across
my cheek when he said, "You won't like them,
but I will."
Releasing me as quickly as he'd struck out
to grip me in the first place, he watched as I
lost my balance, as I tumbled backwards and
landed squarely on my ass. The shock of bone
against concrete raced up my spine like an
electrical current shooting pain though every
part of me.
His gaze dragged up to the guard standing
behind me with his gun tucked to his chest
like a security blanket. "Take her to the cages.
I'll deal with her later."
Cages? What the hell did he mean by
cages? I didn't have time to voice the question
before the guard grabbed me and dragged me
away. The director was still staring in my
direction as I was escorted through the door to
find out just what he'd meant by cages.
 EMMA
Forced through three sets of doors, each
leading to something more horrifying than the
last, I was finally directed down another long
hall, past the showers and into another area
that was locked tight with electronic keypads
and pneumonic doors. The guard shoved my
face down practically to my knees as he keyed
in the access code, the electronic beeps
sounding in six different tones. Although I
hadn't seen the sequence of numbers he
pushed, I wondered if I could remember the
sounds and repeat them in an effort to escape.
Not now while this guard held me, but
possibly in the future, if I ever managed to run
down the halls by myself. It was a long shot, I
was sure, and the time it would take me to
find the correct sequence made that escape
impossible. I wasn't even sure that entering a
wrong code wouldn't set off alarms.
The door hissed open and a cold chill
reached out with frozen fingers to caress my
naked skin. Forced through the door, I was
allowed to straighten my posture, to see the
winding hallway with equally spaced single
bulbs hanging from the ceiling to light our
way. The guard didn't seem to mind the
drastic change in temperature, but then, he
had clothes to keep out the chill. I was
shivering so hard by the time we made a right
and a left that I almost missed when the solid
walls opened up and transitioned into the bars
of individual small cells.
These were the cages, no doubt, and
hidden inside the shadows of each one I saw
movement as whoever was trapped scurried
back to hide. I highly doubted hiding in the
shadows did them much good, but what other
choice did they have? It was still a natural
instinct to shrink away from a predator, to
attempt to disguise yourself from the probing
eyes of something much stronger than you
that only intended harm.
Reduced to animals, these women
resembled mutts trapped in a pound -
forgotten, unloved, and just waiting for the
day when their number was drawn for
execution.
We wound our way past three rows of cells,
both sides of the walls lined by them. I tried to
keep count, but lost the ability after twenty,
my attention unfocused as fear and hatred
flooded through me. Another turn led to
another dark hall where I was led to the end
and told, "Stand still."
It was hard to remain completely still as
he'd demanded since my body was shivering
violently and my teeth wouldn't stop
chattering. After pulling a key from a ring on
his side, he unlocked the door to an empty cell
and shoved my body inside. Slamming the
door closed, he peered through at me from the
other side of the bars. "Consider this your new
home. I hope you enjoy your stay with us."
I could still hear him laughing at his poor
attempt at a joke as he disappeared down the
hall on an unhurried stride. Spinning to glance
at the bleak seven by seven square space
behind me, I first noticed the steel cot that I
assumed was used for a bed and the single,
ten gallon bucket in the opposite corner. I
didn't want to imagine what it was used for. I
wasn't an idiot, it must have been a makeshift
toilet, but even the thought of squatting over
that thing had me dry heaving on an empty
stomach.
"Fuck," I mumbled, "what the hell have I
gotten myself into?"
I didn't expect an answer, so I jumped
when a small voice responded, "Hell being the
operative word."
Spinning to my right, I peered into the cell
next to me. A woman lay on the steel cot, her
body folded into a fetal position against the
grating cold. She didn't move or do anything
else to indicate she was alive, but I'd definitely
heard her pain-filled voice.
Padding barefoot over cement floors, I
wrapped my fingers around the bars, my eyes
squinting against the shadows to attempt to
see her features. "How long have you been
here?" I asked, my voice quiet for fear a
lingering guard would hear me.
She groaned as she shifted on the steel that
must have felt like ice. "I came in with you,
don't you remember? Apparently, I'm now a
star."
My eyes widened, my jaw dropping open.
She was the woman being shocked into
silence. "Are you okay?"
"No," she groaned again. "I'm not. And I'm
starting to believe I should have chosen
death."
My thoughts traced back to the second
studio, my expression tightening with dismay.
"Um, no. I hate to tell you, but that option is
even worse. Sure, you'd be free of this place by
now, but you'd go out the same way as the
film he made of you. The only difference is
they would torture you until you're dead."
She didn't respond immediately and when
I heard the soft sniffles, I knew she was crying.
Tears welled in my eyes instantly, her pain
reminding me of my own. I didn't know if it
was shock, adrenaline or something else that
kept me standing during the horrible events
I’d witnessed, but somehow I’d managed to
get through this place without falling onto the
ground into a trembling, screaming puddle of
flesh.
Not knowing what to say that wouldn't
hurt her more, I went with a simple question.
"What's your name?"
"Melanie," she answered, her voice
disjointed as she struggled to speak clearly.
The cold captured the soft brush of vowels,
the pain punctuating the clipped consonants.
Several seconds passed before she spoke
again. "Melanie Patrick."
Despite the lack of necessity, she'd given
me her full name. Perhaps, it was a polite
mannerism beat into her as a child, or the
woman lying in shadow just wanted someone
to know that she'd died here. Remembering
she had a son, I almost asked his name just to
keep her talking, but I decided forcing her to
think of the little boy she wasn't home to hug
would only cause her more pain.
"My name is Emma," I whispered back at
her. "Emma Hart."
She didn't respond and I continued talking
to fill the silence. I hoped my voice could be a
balm to the agony and fear that she was
feeling. It's what my mom had done for me
when I was young, always pulling out my
favorite storybook to read to me when I was
stuck in bed with some sickness. I wasn't
always awake enough to listen to the stories
she told, but just the sound of her voice
soothed me. It let me know that somebody
was near, that somebody valued me enough to
love me.
"I was stolen from a street in downtown
Boston. Stupid me had decided it was a good
idea to jump out of an asshole's car in the
worst part of town thinking I would be safe
long enough to catch a cab. Unfortunately, not
many taxis drive through that area, so I
walked a couple blocks hoping to get
somewhere better. I was snatched by the third
block, dragged into an alley and stuffed inside
a van."
My voice quieted as I readied a new story
to tell her. The first one seemed too
depressing. But before I could speak again, she
filled the silence with her tiny, tear filled
voice. "You don't sound like you're from
Boston."
Surprised by her response, I stared over at
her to see her shoulders shaking in the dim
light. "I'm from Florida originally. Orlando,
specifically. Down there is such a clusterfuck
of tourists that we really don't have accents.
I'm not really sure why that is, but it's what
my mom always told me."
Soft laughter floated between us. At least
I'd given her that much, the opportunity to
find some humor in this miserable place.
"I'm from Charleston, but I don't have the
accent either. I moved there with my fiancé a
year before he up and left me." The admission
must have stripped away all the humor I'd
given her. She was quiet for a moment before
saying, "But that's just another sad story in a
long line of them. I'm originally from
Colorado."
"I've always wanted to visit there. It's
gorgeous in all the pictures."
A beat of silence and then, "I guess,
depending where you are. It has good parts
and bad, just like any state."
My toes were going dumb from the cold
concrete at my feet, icy spears ramming up my
legs as that cold chased the network of nerves
through my body. Not wanting to sit down
where it was gross, I realized quickly there
wasn't a safe choice in this place. I highly
doubted the guards came in here after a
woman was dead just to sanitize. Giving my
feet some relief, I finally slid down to the
floor, a hiss of breath bursting over my lips to
feel the concrete rubbing against sensitive
places.
Still trying to avoid the topic of her son, I
asked a question to appease my curiosity.
"What was it like in medical?"
"Worse than on stage. They don't give you
anesthetic as they stitch you up. I think I
screamed louder there than I did when I was
raped."
Remembering back, I chose not to remind
her she hadn't really screamed that much. The
electric shock and razor lined gag prevented
it.
"Do you think we'll live through this?" she
asked, her voice soft and timid.
"I don't know," I answered honestly.
More silence passed and I thought she'd
fallen asleep. Hating how cold the floor was
against my skin, I decided to get up and move
to the cot - not that the cold steel would be
any better.
Before I could move, Melanie's voice
floated through the air again. "Did you
recognize who the director was by any
chance?"
My weight shifted over the concrete. "What
do you mean recognize him? He looked like a
monster to me."
It was like music every time I heard her soft
laughter, like a velvet lie draped over the skin
to hide the truth of the razor being dragged
across our lives.
"You must not get out much. He is a
monster. I agree with that." Drawing in a deep
breath of air, she released it slowly. "But I also
recognize him as someone else. I think he's
Ethan Cole."
"I don't know who that is."
She spoke slowly, taking a breath between
every third or fourth word she managed to
say. "Only one of the best directors known to
man. How do you not know? He's directed
some of the most popular horror movies and
thrillers that I've seen. He was a genius, but
then he just disappeared. People thought he
ran off to live rich and happy in the Caribbean.
Other people wondered if he'd committed
suicide or had been committed to some
mental institution. I always wondered what
happened to him. He was always so strange,
yet fascinating."
Melanie's voice was almost reverent on the
last few words, admiring a man who had her
tortured and raped so he could film it.
"Guess you can stop wondering. We both
know now." In afterthought, I added, "I wish I
didn't"
"Yeah," she agreed regretfully. "Me too."
 EMMA
I was not-so-gently woken later that
evening by a guard banging the butt of his gun
against my steel cot. My eyes shot open, my
body curling in on itself tighter. No matter
what position you laid in on the cot, it was
impossible to get warm. The guard's intrusion
only made me curl more, made me brace
myself for a violent assault.
"Get up. You're wanted elsewhere."
Being half asleep doesn't help the mind
process information. Being practically frozen
doesn't help much either. I'm sure many of the
women trapped in these cages would have
gotten up immediately, would have pushed to
their tired feet and plodded along behind the
guard to whatever destination awaited them.
But with my exhaustion, my lack of warmth,
and with my renewed adrenaline beginning to
trickle into my veins, I didn't simply get up. I
asked a question.
 "W - where?"
The butt of his gun slammed into my side,
blunt trauma against my hip, shocking pain
traveling up nerve endings that were already
tight and screaming against the unbearable
cold. Unable to contain the agony ricocheting
like a barrage of bullets inside me, I opened
my mouth to release that pain on a high
pitched, deafening scream.
The guard wasn't impressed. He simply
waited for the sound to end before hitting me
again. And again. And again.
Slow. Without concern for breaking me.
Without remorse for treating another human
being like an abused, mangy animal, the guard
finished his blunt assault with the butt of his
gun to wrap his fingers in my hair, drag me
from the cot and drop me to the cement floor
so that the fall would force the agony to
explode out from the opposite side of my body
and mingle with what was already there,
leaving me drowning.
"It doesn't matter where. Just get up and
follow me."
Although I knew that at least five other
women were in the nearby cages, none made a
sound. None cried out in my defense. None so
much as shuffled their feet over the concrete
or shifted over their steel beds. Quiet as a
mouse, each one was too caught up in their
own fear to make a single noise in defense of
me. I was on my own, even though I was
surrounded.
The guard stepped forward to grab me
again, but I moved in time to avoid the hit. I
pushed up to my feet even though my legs
were numb and were barely able to carry me,
even though each step across the cold,
concrete floor felt like jagged rocks were
cutting into the soles of my feet.
He led me down the dark winding halls,
past the cells, further until the bars were no
longer and I was being closed in by solid walls
on either side of me. We reached the door
with the electronic lock and he ordered, "Turn
around and press the front of your body to the
wall."
I did as he said without complaint, only to
have him shove his hand against my head so
that my face smashed against the concrete.
While holding me in place, he pressed the
sequence of numbers that would unlock the
door, the pneumonic hiss sounding as his
fingers gripped into my hair to drag me
through into another set of halls.
Had we turned left, we would have
approached the showers with their warm,
gossamer steam, but instead we turned right,
not that it looked any different than what I'd
already seen. More walls, more concrete
floors, more desolation and mazes leading me
deeper into the heart of this Hell.
Not bothering to pay attention, I followed
like the good little prisoner, my arms wrapped
over my naked chest, my legs shaking with
each step I took forward.
Left. Right. Right. Left. Ending at another
fucking door. Where did this one lead? What
nightmare would I find? I wondered if death
waited behind that door. How much torture
would I endure before my spirit slipped away
and escaped my body?
Would it be better than the cold of the
cages? Or would I be trapped forever in this
place watching silently as more spirits sprung
loose to stand beside me?
The door opened, but instead of a stage,
there was only a large desk with a well
dressed man standing behind it. "Come in.
Close the door behind you."
Assuming he was speaking to the guard, I
waited for the large, broad man to step inside,
but he shoved me around him and slammed
the door behind me. I was alone with the
director. Alone with Ethan Cole.
His cold grey eyes scrutinized me,
dedicating to memory each feminine curve,
each smudge of dirt and blooming bruise on
my body. A sound of disapproval burst from
his lips before he motioned toward a chair
facing his desk. "Take a seat."
Eyeing the plush leather seat, I actually
worried about messing it up with the state of
my body. Was I bleeding? Would the dirt
smudge? Would he get angry that I damaged
the expensive looking guest chairs that
perfectly complimented the old world style of
his office? The crackling of wood from the far
right of the room caught my attention. A large
fire roared in the hearth, the warmth reaching
out to comfort me, its dancing light reflecting
off the polished shine of the leather guest
chairs.
How messed up was that? Here I stood
before a man who was stealing women to film
their rapes and deaths, and I was worried
about messing up his furniture.
"I'm dirty," I whispered in excuse for not
doing as he told me. Daring to peek up at him,
I watched as an eyebrow arched over his eye,
as the corner of his lips twitched with humor.
Smooth. Cultured. Elegant to a point of
inviting, his voice swept in on a baritone wave
to fill the silence between us. "If you think I'm
worried about a three hundred dollar chair,
you must not have been paying attention
today. Your little outburst during filming
already cost me tens of thousands of dollars."
A pause and then, "Sit. I'm sure you're
exhausted."
Something was wrong with my mouth. It
didn't seem to understand that I was facing
death himself. "I'd probably be less exhausted
if I didn't have to sleep inside a frozen cage."
His brow arched again. "Do you have any
sense of self-preservation?"
"Apparently not," I answered, more to
myself than him.
His shoulders shook with quiet laughter.
"Take a seat, Emma."
My eyes shot up to his. "How do you know
my name?"
Without breaking our stare, he reached
down with long, elegant fingers to snatch
something from the surface of his desk. Still
watching me closely, he held it up. I was the
one to finally look away, to drag my gaze to
the laminated driver's license he held.
"Emma Hart," he said, "Age 22. Height five
foot nine. Resident of Boston, Massachusetts
where I assume you were snatched away.
Apparently, you're also a safe driver and an
organ donor. It's too bad that won't be
happening. I'm sure you could have helped
many people in your death."
 When I didn't respond, he spoke again.
"You're also a Scorpio. I'm a Leo. The sex
would be fantastic, but as emotional lovers we
would be a terrible match."
My brows pulled together in confusion. The
man was about to kill me after having horrible
things - violating things- done to my body,
and he was discussing our astrological
compatibility? What alternate dimension was
this?
"Are you planning on raping me before
having me killed?"
He dropped the license onto the desk. "No,"
he answered without emotion, "I don't fuck
actresses."
"I'm not an actress."
"You are now. Sit."
Crossing my arms over my chest instead, I
eyed him. Two could play this game. "Ethan
Cole. Director. You disappeared and
everybody thinks it's because you're insane.
Apparently, they're right."
His head snapped in my direction. "Where
did they find you? At the top of a building
about to leap? It's like you want to die."
"I'm sure a quick death would be better
than whatever film you have planned for me."
Cursing under his breath, he moved to his
executive chair with a long, sure stride, taking
his seat without so much as glancing at me. "If
you don't want to sit, that's your choice. As for
me, I'm exhausted after a long day and I'm
sick of being on my feet. Excuse me for being
rude, but I'm not in the mood to play games
with a child. Sit or don't sit. I don't give a fuck.
But you will listen to what I have planned for
you, and you will have a choice once you
understand what you're facing."
It was my turn for my head to snap in his
direction. "You had me abducted, raped, stuck
in a shipping container to cross the ocean, then
had me escorted into a building to be stripped
naked, beaten with butt of a guard's gun,
forced me to watch a woman be tortured and
raped, and another woman almost killed, and
you are now asking me to excuse your
rudeness for sitting while I stand?"
"I didn't order your first rape," he said
matter of factly. "And the woman was killed.
Not almost. Although her death was
meaningless to me because you ruined the
film with your outburst."
My eyes widened, breath dragged in
harshly by my lungs. "You killed her?"
"I didn't, someone else did. But that's not
the point of this conversation. You're here to
find out about the film you'll be making bright
and early tomorrow. I'm here to let you in on
the twist I have planned. If you're up for it,
that is."
"For the film?"
"For the twist. Do you remember the man
that raped you after abducting you?" His
probing gaze flicked up to me, his expression
questioning, but not harsh. There wasn't a line
to be found on his face, only the dusting of
dark stubble across his skin. The stubble suited
him, and I hated to admit that. Nothing
should suit this monster except for a knife in
his back or a deep, gushing head wound from
where someone bashed his skull with a
hammer.
"The one who used me, you mean?"
His lips tilted up, a dimple indenting his
cheek from the movement. "You were paying
attention after all. Funny you should
remember that and not my repeated warnings
to keep your mouth shut while I filmed."
Indignation flooded me, heating my body
so that the icicles that had formed on my heart
thawed and dripped down into my churning
stomach. Each drip only made my stomach
hurt worse. "How can you smile and be
charming? You're a monster that hurts
women-"
"I've never harmed anyone."
"You shot a woman right in front of me!"
 "I didn't shoot her. A guard did. And now
we're back to you not paying attention.
Perhaps your attention is selective."
"Perhaps it wouldn't be if I weren't trapped
in Hell."
"This isn't Hell," he answered mockingly,
"it's a studio. And it's my turn to ask a
question. How is it possible that you're
trapped in what you call Hell, with a man you
refer to as a monster, and yet you can stand
there and talk back like there won't be
consequences?"
"Because I know I'm a dead woman
already."
"You look alive to me. And it's the reason
I've chosen you for this particular film.
Congratulations, Emma Hart. You've become
my newest muse. Aren't you glad you decided
to talk back?"
That shut me up, my lips slamming closed
as my teeth snapped together.
"Finally, you've learned self-preservation.
Unfortunately, it's too late. Take a fucking
seat."
My body withered into the chair. With my
adrenaline tapped out, I lost the ability to
fight. Dizzy and screaming inside, I peeked
out at Ethan from beneath my heavy lashes,
my eyes narrowed toward a face that was
deceptively beautiful. I hated him. Hated that
face. And wanted nothing more than to shred
it and dance over the fleshy ribbons.
He must have intuited my resentment,
must have been amused by my simmering
rage. "Do you remember the man who raped
you or not? Were you paying attention when
that happened?"
"Yes," I practically growled.
"Excellent, because you'll be meeting him
again tomorrow on Stage B. I'll give him
another opportunity to take what he wants
while I film the encounter. I think the element
of your hatred of him will only add to the
emotional depth of the piece."
"I thought you ordered him to be killed."
"Like I said, you inspired me. I decided to
use him in a different way. I'd congratulate
you again, but you don't look too excited
about sticking out in a crowd."
"Maybe I don't hate him," I suggested.
"Maybe I hate you."
Fingers drumming over the surface of his
desk with a crisp thump thump thump, he
pulled his focus from whatever paper he'd
been studying and locked his steely gaze on
me. "I know you hate him. Any woman would
hate a man who rapes her. I know that because
I see it every day in their expressions. I hear it
in their cries. I see their body language when a
stranger approaches to get to know them
intimately without their desire or consent. It's
human nature to hate that. And I know it's
true of you because I remember the way your
body flinched when I found his dry cum
where it had dripped down your leg. You
can't hide from me, Emma. In time, I'll know
you better than you know yourself. And it
won't be a long time. I've practically figured
you out already. Which is why you've been
chosen for this film. Hate me all you want. Use
it for your performance tomorrow, but don't
try to lie to me. It's pathetic and tiresome."
"I hate you," I spit out.
"We've already covered that," he droned.
"We should cover new ground because I'd like
to end this conversation and get back to my
work. Planning a new film takes time and I
need to get the concept to my production
crew."
Fingers gripping over the armrests of my
chair, I spoke through clenched teeth. "I don't
care about your stupid film."
"You should. Because it's life or death for
you. I've given you a new option besides fuck
or die. You now have the choice to kill. If you
have it in you, excellent. You live to see
another day. If not, you die after being raped
by a man who won't give much of a fuck that's
he's killing you in the process. I've already met
the little punk who couldn't keep his dick in
his pants. He's prepared to fight for his life.
The question is: Are you?"
My heart stopped, my chest tightening at
the absence of a sturdy beat. The tremor
running across my body shook the chair
beneath me. "What are you talking about?"
Shifting his position, he relaxed against his
seat and kicked his expensive shoes up onto
his desk, crossing his legs at the ankles. "What
I'm telling you is that there will be a hidden
weapon on stage. Only you will know where it
is. Your male lead will attempt to rape you
and kill you. It's your job to prevent that from
happening. I believe there's a fire inside you
that's not present in many women. I'd like to
use that fire for my personal gain."
"What if I refuse?"
"You can't. Either way, you'll be on stage, as
will your male lead. If you decide to lie there
like a log while he fucks you and chokes the
life out of you, fine. I still make money off the
film. If you decide to fight, even better. Either
way, I profit. There's nothing you can do to
prevent that from happening. If you die, oh
well. I continue making films and you're a
forgotten sack of flesh and bones disposed of
with the rest of them."
This surprise meeting didn't make sense.
Why warn me of what was to come? Why give
a damn whether I live or die? He could have
just left me in my frozen cage, had me ripped
out in the morning and shoved on stage. Like
what he'd done to Melanie before her
performance in a film she had no desire to
make, he could have stepped forward and
whispered that a weapon was hidden in a
certain place, could have given me permission
to use it. Why the formality of this get
together?
I asked him the question before realizing I
was speaking. He lifted a brow in response,
his lips pulling into a thin line, the corner
kicking up with humor. Was there nothing
that failed to amuse him? Remembering back
to his reaction when I ruined his film, I
thought, yes, he hates to have his work destroyed.
"I brought you in here because I wanted to
personally tell you about the film's concept
and give you the opportunity to decide what
you will do onstage tomorrow morning. It's
not an easy decision. Killing is not an easy
feat. It takes drive, desire and a certain level of
heartlessness and lack of humanity that many
people don't possess. Most think it would be a
simple decision, but you'd be surprised at the
amount of people who have the ability to
protect themselves, but freeze at the thought
of taking another life. They die as a result,
both on film and in reality. I'd like to record
that moment. The decision of whether you're a
predator or prey."
Meticulous. Businesslike. Lacking warmth,
emotion, remorse or regret. His desire to
produce this film - his need to create his art -
was the only driving factor for Ethan Cole. He
may think he'd figured me out already, but in
turn, I was learning about him just the same.
Pulling his feet from the desk, he sat up in
his seat, the leather creaking beneath his
weight. He'd pushed up to his full height
before speaking again. "So, with that having
been said, and a decision laid out for you to
make, this conversation is over. I'll walk you
back to where you'll be sleeping tonight."
"Do you really think I'll be sleeping
tonight?"
Walking toward me, he reached down to
grip my bicep and pull me from my seat. His
skin was warm against mine, smooth and soft,
as if he'd never worked a manual job in his
life. My hands were the opposite, only because
of all the odd jobs I'd taken as a teen to help
support my family.
"With better accommodations, it's my hope
that you will. You'll need strength for
tomorrow. It's like I said: killing another
person isn't easy. It takes focus and the ability
to move, the strength to pull a trigger, or
plunge a blade into another person's body. I
haven't decided what weapon you'll be given
yet. Regardless of that, I know you'll need
sleep in order to use it."
Without giving me a chance to respond, he
led me out of his office, past the guard waiting
outside, and further down the hall in the
opposite direction of the cages. We reached a
non-descript door on the left. He opened it
and shoved me inside. Only when it closed
again, the lock clicking into place, did I turn to
survey my surroundings.
It wasn't five star accommodations, more
like a dive motel in the middle of nowhere,
but it was better than the frozen tundra and
steel cots of where I'd been kept previously. A
twin bed sat against a wall to my left, the
mattress covered by a drab, brown blanket
that looked scratchy. To my right was a steel
sink-toilet combo. Cringing at the thought of
how that worked, I turned away from it and
looked for anything else. Nothing. Just a bed
and a sink-toilet. I'd graduated from cages
hardly good enough for animals to a prison
intended for humans.
Yay for me.
 EMMA
Morning greeted me with a slap to the face
- literally and figuratively. A guard stood
above me, his eyes scanning down where the
scratchy blanket had dropped low enough to
reveal my bare breasts. I yanked it up out of
instinct and modesty, but then remembered
there was no point. He'd see me naked as a
jaybird in a few minutes regardless. But
instead of demanding I get up to follow him to
my next version of hell, he simply tilted his
head in the direction of the far wall and
announced, "Breakfast. You have ten minutes
to eat before you're taken to the showers."
My stomach rumbled at the thought of
food, and I assumed it wasn't poisoned or
drugged because Ethan needed me strong and
alert for my performance. The thought of it
scraped against my thoughts, the question of
whether I was willing to kill to save my own
life.
 You would think it'd be a simple decision,
but it's not. What kind of life am I saving in
the end? One where I'd constantly have to
fight? One where I'd be abused and probably
end up dead anyway? Why sully my soul with
having taken a life before I had to face my
maker? Murder was sin, just like premarital
sex, but that decision had been taken from me.
Or it would have been if I hadn't already
given up my virginity long before I was stolen.
Still, some religions and cultures believed that
to be raped was a sin on the part of the
woman, regardless of her choice in the matter.
The thought disgusted me as I crawled out of
the uncomfortable bed to pad barefoot to
where the guard had left the food tray.
Lifting the silver dome, (Seriously?), I found
a yellow concoction that looked like
scrambled eggs, some dry toast, a small plastic
bottle of water and a plastic spork. Damn, I
was hoping with the dome that these idiots
would have continued their room service
presentation by giving me actual silverware.
Like a knife I could shove under the guard's
ribs. Or a fork I could shove in Ethan's eye.
Either would have done, but I wasn't sure I
could cause much damage with a plastic
spork.
Grabbing the plastic utensil, I squatted
down, because I refused to sit on the toilet-
sink combo to eat, and scooped up some of the
eggs into my mouth. They were bland, lacking
salt or any seasoning, but the warmth traveled
down my throat and into my empty stomach
easing some of the fetid hunger that gripped
it. After finishing those, I forced the dry toast
down with the room temperature water. My
bladder called for attention next, and I used
the steel toilet after reminding myself it was
better than the ten gallon bucket in the cage.
My thoughts drifted to Melanie and I
hoped like hell she was okay. After what was
done to her on stage and in the medical room,
I worried about infection and death by cold in
the cages.
The guard entered the room as that thought
danced across my mind, holding his gun to his
chest like a good little soldier as he escorted
me to the showers.
"Take a bag of essentials -"
I held up a hand to silence him. "Yeah. I
know the drill."
The warmth of the shower was heaven
once again and I wished I could live inside the
gossamer curtain of steam for the rest of my
life. How much life I had left was anybody's
guess, so perhaps these few moments I had to
myself were the majority of it. I knew I was
being led to the set next, knew I would have
to make a choice of whether to kill or be killed.
If I'd known that lying there like a log and
letting the asshole kill me would ruin Ethan's
film, I'd have done it with a smile on my face.
But Ethan profited either way, so there was no
point in automatically choosing that option.
Could I really end somebody's life? Could I
make that choice and follow through with it?
Was there enough anger inside me to find the
strength to be so vicious?
Thinking about Ethan drove my anger to a
boiling point, the image of his face in my
thoughts enough to make me want to stab him
to death. But could I actually do it? It's easy to
fantasize about, but entirely different when
faced with the choice.
My stomach threatened to expel the
breakfast I'd eaten, my body jerked out of the
shower when the guard decided I'd had
enough time to get clean. I toweled off like
he'd instructed, dropping the towel before
leaving the room because I wasn't looking
forward to the butt of his gun meeting my
face.
We turned left instead of right and I knew I
was being led to set. My feet grew heavier
with each step, my stomach churning harder
as I ran out of time to make my decision.
Regardless of what I chose to do, I was
terrified either way. My legs were shaking so
badly by the time we reached a door that my
knees slammed together forming red marks on
the skin.
The guard opened the door and shoved me
in. What I thought would be a set staged for
my rape and torture turned out to be a kind
looking old lady smiling back at me.
"Welcome to makeup. We have you beautiful
in shortly."
Her broken English perfectly matched her
accent. I couldn't place it, however, so I still
had no clue what country I was in. I wondered
if I could squeeze the information out of her. I
also wondered how any woman could work in
this environment and not go to the police. She
had to know women were being raped and
killed after she have them beautiful in shortly.
Why did I need to be beautiful anyway?
They hadn't done that for Melanie or the
asthmatic woman. None of this place made
sense. Not that a film studio making rape and
snuff films should have made sense in the first
place. Not to me at least. Maybe to an FBI
profiler, or some other person used to
investigating human trafficking crimes.
"Come, come. Sit." The last word sounded
more like seet than sit, but I understood her
regardless. A light, soft fabric hit me in the
face, I caught it as it slipped off my chin. I
hadn't even noticed the women pick it up to
toss in my direction. Glancing down at my
hands, I saw that it was a slinky, white silk
negligee.
"Costume. You wear. Seet!"
She was way too enthusiastic about getting
me ready for torture and death. The slinky silk
was better than being naked, so I pulled it
over my head and seet in the chair like she'd
asked. After taking the seat and being spun to
face a brightly lit mirror, I squinted at my
reflection and wondered what was happening.
I was being led to the slaughter, but still taking
the time to let an old woman dry my light
brown hair into loose curls and apply insane
amounts of makeup.
Like most people in life, I'd envisioned how
I would die. All of those ideas never included
this version of events. Hell, I doubted even a
writer could concoct something so insane. It
went against everything we knew in life to
think that a woman would go through
wardrobe, hair and makeup just to be led to
her death.
The door burst open behind us and I
assumed it would be another lumbering guard
with his automatic weapon security blanket
tucked tightly to his chest. But when a deep,
cultured voice spoke in a foreign language to
the woman applying my makeup, my hatred
of that particular man bubbled to the surface,
my eyes narrowing into tight slits before I
focused in the mirror at his reflection.
Having neglected to shave the stubble from
his cheeks, jaw and chin, Ethan sauntered in
wearing a fresh, expensive suit in a dark
charcoal, with a lighter grey shirt underneath.
Then colors brought out the metallic steel in
his eyes, perfectly contrasting with his raven
black hair that was stylishly disheveled. The
top buttons of his shirt were undone revealing
a triangle of tan skin. An easy smile graced his
lips as he spoke to the woman and waited for
her to leave.
I didn't bother turning my chair to look at
him. As far as I was concerned, he was a
monster that deserved a painful demise. I
eyed the large scissors the woman had left
behind, wondering if I were fast enough,
could I stab him and run away to make my
escape from Hell?
"You could try," he said without my having
said a word. My eyes darted up at his
reflection to see him making a pointed look
between the scissors and me. "You'll need that
kind of anger and hatred for today. If you'd
like to practice on me, that's fine. But I'm not
sure you'll make it that far with a guard
stationed outside the door."
He'd read my mind. I wondered if I
thought he was a pompous ass that deserved
to be strung up and flayed, would he hear
that, too?
"You look lovely," he remarked, still
standing behind me as his focused gaze
scrutinized every delicately curled strand of
my hair, every sweep of pink blush across my
cheekbones, every stroke of dark brown
mascara weighing down my eyelashes. I hated
that my back was to him and yet the mirror
made it possible for him to see everything
about me.
"You would have been admired in
Hollywood back in the day. It's too bad
actresses have become so skinny and scrawny
lately. They used to be curvy like hourglasses
in past decades."
My eyes met his in the mirror. "I'd hardly
call my figure an hourglass. I'm about as
average as they come."
It wasn't modesty that forced the words
from my mouth. It was the plain, honest truth.
I had light brown hair and blue eyes that were
nothing spectacular. I wore a size six, my
breasts and hips only a slight curve from my
frame. There was nothing about me I
considered extraordinary or memorable. Just a
normal girl, who lived a normal life, up until
she was stolen away to become the plaything
for a monster.
"Hourglass, you are not. But average isn't
something to turn your nose up to. You've had
no plastic surgery, which is remarkable. A
natural beauty will always draw the eye faster
than a woman with plumped lips, pulled skin,
unnaturally large and perky breasts or
whatever procedures they throw their money
at. Average has become the new
extraordinary, and you have that in spades."
It was difficult to interpret Ethan, difficult
to reconcile how a man who seemed almost
ordinary could exist in a nightmarish
landscape. Monsters were supposed to be ugly
and contrite, bitter with jagged edges. But
Ethan, with his cultured, smooth voice,
charming mannerisms and compelling
features was a misnomer - a surprise element
that didn't fit the mold of what I considered a
rapist or murderer. It threw me off guard
when I took the time to pay attention. Like
now, when he'd said something that made my
heart swell with pride.
"Have you decided yet whether you'll kill
or be killed?"
 My heart deflated the second the words left
his mouth.
"No," I answered, my expression darkening
as he stepped up behind me, placed his hands
on my shoulders and rubbed at the knots in
the muscles. His hands were strong, and I
happened to love strong hands, but just the
fact that he was touching me made me want to
run to the bathroom to puke.
"Good. I was hoping to catch that decision
on film. It's an experience not many people
have had. Sure, it's happened in movies, but
it's never real. Actors can only do so much.
The genuine moments are what's important,
the ad libbed lines and emotions that nobody
saw coming."
My eyes flicked up to his through the
reflection. "And who exactly sees these films?
Is there an actual audience for your crimes? Or
do you do this for your own perverse
pleasure?"
"First, I've committed no crime. And
second, I have a large audience, but that's
none of your concern. The only thing you need
to worry about is your performance." Pulling a
hand away from my shoulder, he looked at his
watch. "Which, we're almost late for."
Purposely catching my gaze in the mirror,
he asked, "Are you ready for your close-up,
Ms. Hart? Very soon all cameras will be on
you."
 EMMA
Ethan left me in the room, only a few
seconds passing while I was alone before the
older lady returned to finish my makeup with
several streaks of bright red lipstick that was
wrong for my skin tone.
A guard entered a few minutes later,
briskly shooing me from the seat to lead me
down another winding hall toward another
nondescript door. I'd grown to hate these
doors, and I knew that if I had an hour alone
with an ax, I'd chop them all down. Then
again, I think most of them were steel and not
wood, so the physical effort would be wasted,
but not the satisfaction of beating against them
until they were dented and twisted.
Opening the door, the guard turned
sideways to let me walk through. He
remained at my back the entire time I stepped
forward, slowly and gingerly, as I took in the
surroundings. It wasn't until this particular
moment that the weight of what would
happen sat squarely on my shoulders, reality
whispering in my ear that, onstage, I would be
assaulted. A man would try to rape me and
kill me, and if I didn't choose to become a
killer myself, he would succeed.
Would Ethan even care? Or would he just
call cut, have the film taken to editing and call
for a new stage to be set for the next helpless
victim?
My senses were on high alert. So much so
that I could smell the hairspray in my hair,
and pick up the notes of pasty lipstick and
thick skin foundation. Every step of my feet
was a drum counting down my execution, and
my pounding pulse became thunder in my
ears. I stopped at some point, roughly halfway
between the door and the stage, the guard
reminding me to keep moving forward by
tapping me in the back with his gun.
When I was within feet of the stage, a door
opened to my side, Ethan stepping forward
with an expression that was the epitome of
professionalism and intense focus. He was no
longer the man who'd complimented me for
being average, no longer the man who'd
halfway joked with me when I'm been called
into his office. He was now himself, the
Director, the monster behind the boisterous
laugh. The artist who had no moral fiber or
concerns other than ensuring he caught the
right emotions on film.
His stride was long and sure, fluid and
graceful as he came to stand beside me. One
look at the guard sent the man and his gun
away, relegating him to the back of the room
while Ethan took his fun in baiting me.
His voice low, he spoke with no concern for
my emotional state. This was business, plain
and simple, whether I agreed with that
assessment or not. "I know you were taken
from Boston. What I don't know is how."
People milled around us silently as they set
the finishing touches on stage, as they
assembled their cameras and put them in the
precise locations necessary for capturing every
horrifying detail of the film Ethan was
making. Not one person looked in my
direction while I stood and spoke with a
madman about my abduction.
"Well, you see, I was having a normal day
on the farm when a tornado hit. My small
brown dog and I were swept up and brought
here to the land of Oz."
Ethan's lips twitched. "Excellent film.
Would that make me the Wizard?"
"Yes, except instead of being greeted with
song and dance, I was greeted by rape and
slaughter."
"Times have changed. They were far more
conservative in the 1930s."
Rolling my eyes, I fought not to cry. "When
do I get my ruby slippers?"
He didn't react to the question, his keen eye
studying the details of the set, analyzing it and
planning how to get the most critical shot.
"How did they take you?"
Resigned to my fate, I answered, "I was
walking down the street when they saw me
and took me. Dragged me into an alleyway
and shoved me into a van."
"Why were you on the street alone?"
Turning, I glanced at him, studied his
profile that was all sharp lines and strong
angles. He was very handsome, startling really
when you looked closely at his features. He
could have been an actor himself, the cameras
would have loved him. "I was out on a date
with a man who believed buying me dinner
gave him the right to do whatever he wanted
to me. As if a thirty dollar meal was enough of
a payment to make me spread my legs."
Ethan absently shook his head, his eyes still
focused on the set. "Some men have no
imagination. They'll use the same tricks over
and over again not realizing their methods are
out of style. So he kicked you out of his car
onto the sidewalk?"
"No. I kicked myself out, refusing to spend
another second with him."
"You were angry," he said, more a
statement than a question.
"Of course, I was angry."
"Good. Remember that anger. Some man
thought your body was only worth the price of
a two hour dinner and a thirty dollar meal.
There's a lot to be angry for with that. So, you
left his car. Stormed down the sidewalk. Were
you walking home?"
Swallowing hard, I ignored the tears
welling in my eyes as I looked up at the
bedroom being staged. The bed was large and
luxurious with silk sheets, a thick, white down
comforter, four posters that stood tall at each
corner, carved intricately until they formed
spires above the bed.
"No. I thought I would be able to flag down
a cab, but I didn't realize cabs don't normally
cruise through that area of town. It was at least
ten blocks from the businesses in one direction
and even farther from the neighborhood
brownstones in the other."
Raising his hand in the air, Ethan snapped
his fingers. "Put the table catty corner to the
right, not straight along the wall, I want the
reflection of the mirror visible, but not so
much that it's reflecting the cameras."
The crew hurried to follow his instructions,
replacing a makeup vanity from where it had
previously been positioned in order to
appease Ethan's demands.
Leaning close to me, Ethan whispered as
his cologne wafted up to tickle my nose. The
scent was divine, masculine and earthy with
just the right amount of musk to be desirable.
"You were alone and helpless in a bad part of
town. Seems like the beginning of some
ridiculous movie that follows all the common
tropes used in film. The procurement team
grab you, drag you down a dark alley, and
shove you in a van-"
"Procurement team?" I repeat, turning to
him and wishing I hadn't. Our mouths were
much too close, far too intimate. "They were
kidnappers."
"Semantics," he answered, brushing off the
ugly truth. "They stuff you in a van. What
happened next?"
"They blindfolded me and gagged me. Tied
my legs at the ankles and my arms at the
wrists. One man was driving while the other
stayed in the back with me. I was lying on top
of a nasty, crusty carpet that made me sick.
They started arguing in a language I didn't
understand. Then-"
 My voice trailed off, the memory of what
was done to me horrifying. A lump formed in
my throat as I watched the crew lay out rugs
over the stage floor beside the bed.
"Then?" Ethan's question dragged me back
to the conversation. Twisting just enough to
look at him, my breath caught when our eyes
met. His gaze always probed me, was always
so intense that it caught me off guard and
sliced me down the middle revealing all that I
had inside.
Speaking around the hard lump in my
throat, I answered, "Then I was raped."
His expression twisted with disgust. Not at
the rape, but at my feeble description. "Give
me more. How did he rape you? Were you on
your back? Did he touch you first? Did he
make you touch him? Did you come?"
"No, I didn't come! I was being raped!"
His eyes flicked between me and the stage,
his shoulder shrugging negligently between
us. "That means nothing. I've seen many
women orgasm while being raped. Their faces
can't hide the surprise, their expressions
twisting with more disgust at themselves than
the man assaulting them. It's the best moment
in the film, really. The moment when their
own bodies betray them. It's actually quite
common. Unless-" He pinned me in his stare,
ignoring the rage rolling behind my eyes. I
knew for a fact he didn't fail to notice the
anger. Ethan noticed everything. "Have you
never orgasmed, Ms. Hart? Is that the
problem?"
"That's none of your business!"
He grinned, turning his focus back to the
set. "That answers my question. It's a shame. I
hope you survive today. Dying before having
the opportunity to experience an orgasm
would be sad."
I didn't bother to dignify his statement with
a response. Of course I'd orgasmed before. At
least, I thought I did. Sex wasn't as heart
stopping as Hollywood or romance novels
would lead you to believe. It was nice, I
guessed. Messy sometimes, but nice.
"What happened when you were raped?"
Ethan asked again, refusing to drop the topic
as we waited to film.
My thoughts raced back to that moment. To
that van. To the crusty, disgusting carpet that
burned against my cheeks. To the tears that
spilled down making the crust of the carpet
slimy against my skin. "The men kept arguing,
but the one holding me in place flipped my
skirt and took me from behind. The weight of
his body crushed my face into the floor of the
van. The smell was horrifying. The carpet
filthy. He didn't care that he was hurting me.
Didn't care that I was crying."
As I described the moment, fury ignited
inside me, indignation a slow flame that
suddenly exploded into rage. Heat chased
across my bones, seeping from my skin until I
felt I would melt right there next to the stage,
setting the entire room on fire.
Ethan watched closely, his lips curling as he
witnessed the anger building inside me. Once
I was to a point where I thought the top of my
head would pop off from the pressure of my
blood, he leaned even closer until his mouth
was brushing my ear. "Hold on to that feeling
when you see your rapist again. I don't want
to watch you die onstage today. I think you're
better than that. The man who raped you is a
seventeen year old kid. A little punk who
didn't give a damn he was violating you. He
told me he liked it. That you were tight and so
wet by the time he was done taking what he
wanted without giving a damn about how you
felt. He's excited to do it again. He wants all of
you this time. Your tits, your cunt, your ass,
your mouth. All of it, Ms. Hart. And he won't
feel bad about it. You're not the only woman
he's taken like that. You're just another
tempting pussy in a long line of others."
He paused, his excited breath a warm,
pulsing caress down my neck. "He'll do it
again after finishing with you. He'll hurt more
women and he'll enjoy it, becoming more
sadistic with each encounter. If you want to be
a hero for yourself, or even for others like you
were yesterday when you ruined my film in
an attempt to save that woman's life, you'll use
the weapon I give you to end that little punk's
life. You'll bathe in his blood knowing how
many people you'll save from the same
horrible experience he put you through. Keep
that in mind while you're up there. If you can't
kill to protect yourself, do it to protect other
women who aren't as strong as you."
I lost my battle against my tears. Slowly
they broke free of my eyes to trickle down my
cheeks, a hot, wet stream of sorrow and fear.
"I'm not strong. I've never been a hero, nor
have I wanted to be one. I'm just a normal
girl."
His hand splayed over the small of my
back, the contact shocking and unexpected. As
the warmth of his hand seeped down into the
silk of my negligee and into my skin, he
whispered, "I've already told you not to rue
being normal. And you're stronger than you
think. Do you realize you're the only woman
who ever chose to die when I presented the
option? That's what made you stick out among
the rest. That is the hallmark of strength. You
would die before giving up your body to
strangers."
It was difficult to speak with trembling lips.
"That was before I knew that dying meant
being raped and tortured anyway."
"Yet, you screamed and ruined my film
regardless because you saw a dying woman.
With no concern for your own life, you spoke
up to save hers."
More tears fell as I admitted, "I was hoping
to anger you enough that you ordered the
guard to shoot me."
His laughter burst against my ear, the
sound melodic. "I wanted to strangle you with
my own bare hands, but I recognized the fire
inside you. I want to capture that fire, Emma.
Want to preserve it for the ages. Show it to me
when you walk on stage today and for the
love of film, quit crying."
My hands clenched into fists, the moment I
would be forced to make a horrifying decision
creeping ever so close. "Why does it matter if
I'm crying?"
He was silent for a second. "Because you'll
ruin your makeup and we don't have time to
get it fixed. Ready or not, my beautiful girl, it's
show time."
 EMMA
The large lights surrounding the stage
popped on with resounding flare, the bulbs
bursting with white heat, the umbrellas both
amplifying the light as well as softening it.
Above the stage, more lights came to life,
pastel in color to highlight each grimace, each
wide eyed moment of terror, each tear.
Ethan stepped away from me leaving me
standing in place as he marched around
yelling his curt demands about where each
crew member should take their place. My
heart picked up its beat, blood racing through
my veins punishing me with more pressure,
more adrenaline, more heat.
I swayed where I stood blinded by large
imposing lights that would chase away the
shadows hiding me. They would reveal every
imperfection, every line in my skin, every
pore, every freckle, every mole.
A hand touched my arm, the hard cruel
surface of metal pressing against my back to
remind me that the guards would always be
there when Ethan wasn't.
"You need to climb up the steps,
sweetheart. Today you get to be a star." His
tone was mocking and saccharine sweet, the
singsong croon making it obvious he enjoyed
leading me to my fate. I would have turned
around and raked my fingernails down his
face if I knew my shaking legs could hold me.
My mind raced with what had already
happened to me and what was to come. The
abduction, the rape, the films I'd been forced
to witness, the freezing cages, Ethan's
demands, hair and makeup - EVERYTHING.
It flashed and flickered, swirled and spread, a
fungus that was creeping until it threatened to
swallow me whole. Shock must have
prevented my terror, horror silencing me with
a non-existent gag, and now that the moment
was upon me that I would have to endure the
agony of rape again or choose to kill, could I
really force myself up those rickety wooden
stairs, climb on that stage and wait patiently
for a man to enter that had every intention of
hurting me?
"No."
The softly spoken word came out before I
understood that it wasn't just inside my head.
"What?" the guard spoke with laughter in
his voice behind me.
"No," I refused louder, more certain, ready
to deal with beating blows if necessary rather
than climb those stupid fucking stairs up to
that horrifying stage.
The tip of his gun poked into the center of
my spine. Slowly drawing in a breath, the
pressure of the gun against my back increased
as my lungs expanded, easing again as I blew
out the breath.
Leaning forward, the guard practically
growled. "Don't think I won't put this bullet
through your heart for not obeying me."
A bullet. One quick burst of pain, one small
piece of metal forcing itself through my body,
tearing through my skin, my muscles, my
spine and heart. How long would it take for
the blood to fill my chest cavity and compress
my lungs? How many minutes could my brain
go without oxygen before I fell unconscious,
sinking deeper and deeper into oblivion and
escaping this life? Would I know I was dying?
Would I even have time to come to that
understanding before my body collapsed?
Would my spirit break free into the ether,
walk away from this place and into the light?
I didn't know, but it sounded better than
what I faced walking up those three wooden
stairs onto a stage where Ethan would film his
newest masterpiece. I didn't want to be a star.
I didn't want to be a masterpiece. I wanted to
be what I was before this nightmare - normal
and ordinary.
"No," I repeated, tension running across my
shoulders, my mind accepting death, but my
body still bracing for it. Despite knowing you
were okay with death, there was still an
instinct to avoid it, to protect yourself, to run.
It took iron will for me to remain in place with
a gun to my back. It took a bit of insanity to
not work with my captor but against him. It
took the fire that Ethan had so easily seen in
me to draw in another breath, close my eyes
and wait for the guard to pull the trigger.
But instead of the soft click of the trigger
and loud explosion of gun powder, I heard a
smooth, deep voice ask a question with five
irritated words.
"What is going on here?"
The pressure of the gun was yanked from
my back, that small point where it had been
pressed against me still tingling over my skin.
"She won't go upstairs," the guard
answered, confusion and annoyance edging
his words as he responded to Ethan. His tone
was softer when faced by his boss, not as
abusive as it had been when directed at me.
"Go stand at the back of the room. I'll deal
with her."
My insanity bubbled over in a short burst of
sound across my lips. I wouldn't call it a laugh.
It was more bizarre than that. A sound of
resignation, maybe. A touch of madness that
clearly illustrated just how easily I'd lost my
mind. Ethan believed I had more strength
than others, but at this moment I would have
sworn I broke more easily than the rest. They
may have given up their bodies, but I'd
handed over my mind, my heart and soul on a
silver platter.
I felt him before I heard him again, the heat
of his body pressed against my back. His pants
brushing against the silk barely covering my
bottom. The soft caress of his breath against
my ear when he leaned forward to whisper.
"What do you think you're doing? We have
a schedule to keep, Ms. Hart."
There was a razored urgency lining each
clipped word, a time clock ticking down the
seconds towards the slap of the clapboard. I
was certain if I turned to look, I would find the
woman standing at the ready, her lips pursed,
her hand holding the top of the clapboard up,
her body still and waiting for when she could
slam it back down to announce that the crew
should start filming. It was difficult to find it
inside myself to care. He wouldn't force me up
those steps, wouldn't break me in my refusal
to obey. I was beyond that now, in a small
padded cell in my head, laughing with garish
delight at how easily my mind had snapped.
"I'm not doing this," I answered, “I can’t,”
my words breathless and matter of fact.
Ethan's palm touched my wrist, slid up my
forearm and over my bicep. The contact was
tender and elusive, a promise of violence that
didn't come with the sting of a beating. It was
seductive in its warmth, compelling in how
gentle it was.
His chest beat against my back on soft
laughter, the sound emanating from his lips in
stark opposition to the words of a monster. "I
have ways of convincing you, Emma. Would
you like to hear them?"
"Not really, but I'm sure you'll insist on
telling me anyway."
"I thought we'd learned self preservation
last night." His fingers tightened over my arm,
the backs of them brushing against the side of
my breast. My body shouldn't have reacted,
but it did, my lungs pulling in a deeper breath
to smell his cologne while my skin felt like it
heated where he touched.
"I must have forgotten already. Stress will
do that to you."
His cheek brushed against mine, not
intentionally, I assumed, only because of how
far he leaned into me, how closely our bodies
were to each other. "You're playing with your
life."
"Isn't that what you're doing? What's the
matter, Ethan? Didn't your mom teach you to
share your toys? Am I not allowed to play as
well?"
His breath rushed down my neck, his voice
a seductive croon that made me shiver. There
was no doubt about it now, I'd fully and
completely lost my mind and given up.
"Oh, you're allowed to play, little girl. Up
on that stage where all can see just how lovely
you are."
"I'm not doing it. You'll have to find
another woman who is willing...or not willing.
I'm not sure it makes a difference to you."
"It doesn't," he answered back, as if his
response was a given. "Here's the offer I'm
willing to make you, Emma. I think I have
your number by now, a knowledge of what
makes you tick. Either you'll walk up on that
stage and act out the little fantasy I have for
you, or I'll drag every woman I have in the
back cages onto the stage and let you watch
them beaten, tortured and raped, one by one.
Do you know how long it would take to get
through all of them? How many deaths do you
think you could witness before you break? My
guess is not many. Eventually you'll scream
your little lungs out and beg me to stop. I'm
sure I could send out my procurement team to
find younger ones. Teeny tiny little innocent
things that will die horribly because you
refused to play along."
I shivered at the thought, my pulse racing
beneath my skin. I was sure he could feel
every jagged beat beneath his fingers where
they clutched my arm.
"You wouldn't," I hissed out, horrified by
the thought.
His laughter shook against my back. "I'm
not a stupid man. And for as much as I've
been studying and learning about you, I know
you've been learning about me just as much.
So, knowing what you know, why don't you
tell me just how far I'd go to get what I want?"
While it was true I had been learning about
him, I had the distinct feeling Ethan was like a
sour onion with many layers that only made
you cry harder the closer you got to his core.
But for all of those layers, all the opportunities
he missed in life to show he had some
semblance of moral character, I found it hard
to believe that he was so lost to his evil that he
would get hard over the slaughter of children.
I said as much, he stilled against me to hear it,
his steady breath the only thing letting me
know he was alive and listening.
"First, you should know that I don't get
hard for just anything. Not children, and not
bratty little actresses that refuse to do as
they're told." Pressing his hips against my butt,
he made his point clear. There wasn't even the
hint of an erection poking me.
"Second, while I personally view
slaughtering children as something so
abhorrent it's beneath me, I'm willing to do
whatever it takes for my art. That is what
makes me hard, Emma, the completion of my
films, and if I have to drag little orphans in
with their wide eyes, chubby little cheeks and
filthy little sticky hands to flay them open
right in front of you, I'll do it just to watch you
squirm. So, tell me, are you going to climb
those stairs, or do I need to make good on my
threat?"
"I hate you," I growled between clenched
teeth.
"Good, use that to save your life on stage.
I'd hate to see you die so easily. Now walk up
those steps before I drag you up there myself."
Previously, in life, I never had many issues
willing my body to do something. It's an
inborn ability for every form of life, the
nervous system stemming from a brain that
travels down the body connecting to every
organ, every appendage, practically every
square inch of skin. There's no conscious
thought involved in the brain deciding it
wanted to move forward and accomplishing
that feat by sending a signal down that long
network of nerves to the leg, the ankle, the
foot and toes. As soon as the signal arrives, the
muscles move into action. The foot shuffles
forward, the leg lifting it and setting it down
again just in time for the other foot to follow.
Left. Right. Left. Right. Simple as that.
Perhaps when first learning, it takes
coordination and skill, but after twenty-two
years, it's a simple function. Brain to leg, leg to
foot, and the body is mobile.
Just not for me at that moment. My brain
was telling my feet to move, but in an act of
rebellion and fierce determination, my feet
threw up their rebel flag and silently
proclaimed that they were seceding from the
union of my body, creating their own
independent life separate from what my brain
wanted, and would not be answering the calls
to move.
However, despite my inability, I was
dragged regardless, my toes scraping over the
floor as Ethan clamped his hands over my
shoulders and forced me forward. My feet had
no choice at that point. I was going up the
steps whether I wanted to or not.
Ethan's fingers were tight across my skin,
bruising and punishing as we scaled the three
small steps, the wood creaking beneath our
combined weight. Once on stage, he released
me only to have to reach out again to keep me
from tipping forward. My entire body had
joined the rebellion of my feet and now my
legs and abdomen refused to hold up the rest
of me.
On a hiss of sound against my ear, Ethan
scolded me. "This is not how you prepare
yourself to fight. Grow a fucking spine and
stand up."
I wasn't sure why it mattered to him
whether I lived or died. From what I'd seen
yesterday, he was neutral in the matter, ready
and willing to allow a woman to choose one
horrible fate over the other. They could live
and suffer their abuse day after day while he
created his art, or they could choose the less
fortunate way out and be tortured into an
early grave. He had no soul, this man who was
now holding me up because my body refused
to respond to what my brain was telling it.
Understanding must have crept in to
Ethan's thoughts that my body was currently
fighting a war against itself. Rather than
letting me sink to the floor in a mess of panic,
mortification and pathetic weakness, he
directed me over the bed, sat me down on the
side and knelt down to look me in the face.
Silence surrounded us, the production crew
undoubtedly standing there slack jawed over
the amount of attention and coddling Ethan
was giving me. I didn't understand it myself,
but there wasn't much I could do either way.
His gaze was piercing in its focus, the steel
grey shimmering beneath the lights of the
stage. Mine, in contrast, was hazy and blurred,
every part of me now rebelling as I sat in
stunned disbelief. Ethan shaking my shoulders
didn't wake me up, but when his hand
released me to slap across my cheek, the
burning pain brought me back to the present,
brought me to life and set me aflame. I
narrowed my eyes on him and he smiled,
ignoring the blistering red mark that was no
doubt blooming over my cheek.
"Focus, Ms. Hart. In one minute a man who
violated you in the most intimate of ways is
about to walk across stage left to do it to you
all over again. Except, this time, he'll take
every part of you. This time, he'll wrap his
hands around your throat and squeeze until
you can't breathe. He'll watch your mouth
open to drag in air. He'll smile down at you
while capillaries burst in your eyes and over
your skin. He'll laugh as your lips turn blue
and your body convulses beneath him. And
while you're dying, he'll most likely rape you
again. You will leave this world in the most
brutal of ways and once you're dead, he'll
grow excited to do it to another woman on my
stage. I've promoted him in this organization
all because of you. It's your choice whether he
enjoys that promotion or dies as a result of it.
You. Nobody else. Just you."
"I'm not a killer," I managed to whisper, the
truth engrained so deep in those words that
my voice didn't shake while speaking them,
their meaning slicing across my skin until I felt
shredded and incompetent. I am not a killer -
a truth repeating over and over until I wanted
to spit it out again just to free myself of it.
"You are."
"I'm not," I repeated, my voice more
forceful, tears bursting out from my eyes.
Locking my gaze to his, I silently begged for
him to stop this. I begged the universe to shift
back to my normal life. I begged whatever
nightmare this was to end so I could wake up
in my bed, in my home, and seek counseling
for my mind having conjured up this twisted
scenario in the first place.
"You are now. You weren't an actress before
I had you stolen away so I could turn you into
one. And look at you. In wardrobe, with your
hair styled and makeup all over your face.
You're beautiful and sitting on a stage with all
the lights and cameras waiting to highlight
and record you. You can be anything I want
you to be, which at this moment is a killer.
Survive this, Emma. That's what I want you to
do. Survive and you can be a hero to every
other woman trapped in this place because
your lack of fear killed the man who would
have killed them. Keep that in mind when you
see him. Wrap your fingers around the knife I
have hidden beneath this mattress. And when
the time comes, you sink it deep down inside
him until you're shredding his heart."
 EMMA
Time is a cruel bastard.
Although it is something that should be
measurable and exact, time has a way of
choosing how long every second actually lasts,
every minute, every hour, every day. It
doesn't simply tick along at regular intervals,
like clockwork as many would say. It's more
irregular than that, more fluid, at least in my
perception, anyway.
Moments come and go in our lives, there
for a brief burst before dying and attaching to
your thoughts as a ghost of memory. You can't
hold those moments, can't cling on to them,
can't push them away if they were too
terrifying for you to endure. They are there,
whether you like it or not, and gone even
when you hoped they could last for eternity.
And that's where time comes in to cackle its
evil laugh, choosing just how much of the
moment it will grant you.
It's in happy moments that time chooses to
speed forward, to rush along like a tiger
having finally targeted and set off to catch its
prey. What feels like a second is actually
longer. You could be taking a much needed
nap, celebrating a birthday, seeing a friend
you haven't been able to talk to for a long
time. It could be a moment where a man
you've crushed on for many years of your life
finally notices you and takes your hand. It
could be after, when he leans over to kiss you
for the first time. What felt like just a second is
actually three thousand, six hundred seconds -
or sixty minutes - an hour. Then the moment is
gone, gunned down, killed off, and rolled over
the cliff of the present into the memory of the
past.
Not for moments like this one, however,
where time drags, where it slow downs to the
point of crawling so that I can study every
small movement of the man walking away
from me, descending the stairs, and taking his
place among the cameras and production crew
staring back while I sat numbly awaiting my
fate. What should have been an hour was only
a second, and time sat back, with its feet
kicked up, raising an eyebrow in challenge.
Take that.
Still sitting exactly where Ethan had left
me, I flinched when the woman announced
the title of this film, called out the scene and
slapped down the top of the clapboard.
A door opened behind me. And in Ethan's
voice I heard two words in my head: "Show
time."
Time slowed more, the footsteps
approaching, stretching from one to the next
so slowly that I could count every shallow
inhalation of my breath, could feel the
individual drops of sticky sweat drip down
my temple towards my chin. I could hear the
whir of the cameras, feel the warmth of the
lights, could smell the faint scent of cologne
left behind from where Ethan had been
kneeling in front of me. I felt my burning
throat fight to swallow down the acrid fear
churning up from my gut. I could count the
irregular beats in my pulse as my heart battled
to keep pumping despite the marathon it was
running.
One footstep, the list of sensations repeats,
another footstep, and another. Yet, I sat
frozen, as pretty as a doll, unable to scream or
flee.
I turned my head slowly, movement
apparent in my peripheral vision while my
direct gaze focused on Ethan. His face was
shadowed, his brows pulled together in
thought, his mouth thinned and stretched into
a taut line that screamed with concern and
disapproval.
Shifting my eyes just slightly, I caught the
small reflection of the stage in the lenses of the
cameras. I could see myself sitting there as a
tiny dot, could watch another dot approach
me on steps that time had slowed to a
crawling, threatening beat. I could feel the
vibration of those steps, the initial slap against
the stage and the crescendo of movement that
exploded out in waves around them.
I watched that dot move closer, stiffened
when it was within arm's reach, closed my
eyes and blinked away tears when, instead of
jumping at me from behind, it moved around
the bed to stand in front of me.
His anxious breath was a discernible hiss of
sound, replacing the beat of his shoes with
that of his lungs. As he inhaled, held the
breath and exhaled, my breath was caught, my
lungs failing to release, my heart racing so
hard I swore it would pop.
Opening my eyes didn't help, it only turned
the knob, pushed the door of memory from its
frame, and allowed the past to come rushing
in to smother me. I recognized that face, the
broadness of his shoulders, the leering eyes
and twisted mouth - the body of a seventeen
year old man that had already tasted me. He
stared down at me with a snide sneer, his
fingers clenching and relaxing in time with his
breath, the promise of violation and violence
rolling behind his gaze.
I was surprised he wasn't hooded like the
men I'd seen in the films I'd had the poor luck
to witness. Had that been an intentional
change on Ethan's part, or was he so sure I'd
kill the man to save myself that he didn't
bother with the disguise? Did this kid know
he was being used as a pawn? Or was he
ecstatic for the chance to rape and kill women
as a paid job?
His tongue peeked out to lick along his lips,
his brown beady eyes searching me hungrily.
Everything came back to me in that frozen
moment in time when I looked up at a man
who had every intention to kill me.
My walk down the sidewalk. The anger I
was feeling at my date. The crisp fall air
slapping my cheeks. The way I'd been jerked
to the side, dragged into an alley, and given
only a few rushing seconds to take a look at
my abductor's face.
The slam of the van door, the crispy, crusty
carpet, the feeling of his hand sliding up my
leg while his voice was raised in argument.
The pain of his entrance, the grunts from his
mouth, the way his chest pressed against my
body as his hips thrust forward and back.
The sticky slow drip of his orgasm down
my leg, the cold that rushed in to brush my
intimate parts when he was done taking what
wasn't his...

Fuck this guy.

Fuck Ethan.
Fuck this entire twisted nightmare from
which I couldn't wake.

Springing forward, he caught me off guard.

I didn't even have time to recognize that the
piercing scream filling the room had torn from
my lungs. His hands were on me, calloused
and rough, sliding down my arms as I
attempted to move, to break away, to run.
He was too strong.
Even without the blindfold, gag and
bindings he'd used on me in the van, he easily
overpowered me. His hands clenched my
wrists to pin them above my head, his body
pressing down on me over the bed until he
was everywhere at once. The whir of cameras
was replaced by the sound of his rapid
breathing, his hands shifting so he could hold
my arms with one, freeing the other to travel
down my body. Groping and petting, he
explored down my arm, over my shoulder,
tracing his fingers over my neck in a gentle
threat. Lower still, his palm found my breast,
his fingers squeezing until I cried out in pain
and bucked up with my body to attempt to
shake him free.
Hips pressing down harder, he showed me
just how excited my struggle made him. Tears
burst from my eyes, but not from sorrow -
from fury. Teeth clenched, I tried again, my
arms pinned and useless, so all I had were my
hips. Bucking and turning, twisting and
practically growling, I struggled to throw his
weight from my body, to gain some kind of
traction, find an advantage, get away. Despite
my best effort, I was stuck in place, and he
didn't waste the opportunity to grip the
neckline of my negligee and tear it down the
middle.
Pushing up, he held my arms in place,
placing a knee over my stomach, and pressed
down hard to hold me to the bed. Time was
on his side, the pain and pressure keeping me
still, his free hand pulling the silk apart to
expose me fully.
As if his eyes taking me in with great
greedy sweeps wasn't bad enough, a small
camera was suddenly beside us, stealing the
rest of my modesty. My attacker took his time
enjoying the view, as did the camera, the man
behind it, Ethan from his safe little space
among the larger cameras. Meanwhile, I was
made the helpless victim, the girl who
allowed shock to help her forget how dire the
situation was. The girl who took for granted
the danger she was in.
How could that have slipped my mind?
Why hadn't I screamed and wailed, fought
and flailed, slapped Ethan across his smug
face while I'd had the opportunity? Why
couldn't I have just been shot like the crying
woman in line? If we would all die regardless,
her histrionics had saved her this violation,
this pain, this horrendous agony. Why
couldn't I have been as smart?
The camera moved back as my attacker
leaned down and bared his teeth. Taking his
time now that he had me pinned at the wrists
and stomach, he opened his wide mouth,
laughed in my face, and bent down to grip the
nipple of my right breast between his teeth.
The scream that slipped from my lips was
grating and unholy, tearing apart the tissue of
my throat as it shot from my lungs, stretched
my mouth and burst out.
"Fuck," the bastard said, his voice gritty and
low, "I didn't think you could be so much fun
the last time I had you."
Bile followed my scream, painting my
tongue with its acrid flavor. My head fell back
against the mattress, the anger crashing
through me in such vicious waves that all I
could do was sob.
It was impossible to watch what he was
doing, impossible to ignore his hand pressing
down on my chest between my breasts to slide
down my body and around the knee still
holding me in place. Once his rough,
punishing fingers slipped further down
between my legs, I couldn't stand to keep my
eyes on the asshole as he explored between
the skin, found the opening and shoved his
fingers inside.
My chest beat with deep sobs, my teeth
slamming together and clenching tight. I
turned my head to keep from watching him
violate my body. Pulling his hand away, he
kept me pinned and I knew - I just knew - he
was unbuttoning his pants, freeing his erection
and readying himself for the first vicious
assault against me.
Struggling again, I only hurt myself more by
pushing up against his knee where it was
jammed over my stomach and just beneath my
ribs. The pain blistered through me, spreading
out like a spider's web, fracturing and twisting
until it consumed me. My eyes popped open,
the tears dropping away, the hazy focus
becoming clearer until my gaze locked and
held on the director standing there staring
back.
Time was a bastard again, speeding up,
slowing down, volleying between one extreme
and the other until I was dizzy and sick. The
head of his cock pressed against me, rubbing
up and down to work itself between the dry
skin. Blood burst in my mouth as I bit the
inside of my cheek. The metallic taste helped
ease the flavor of bile.
Arms crossed over his broad chest,
expression stern and feet planted on the
ground at shoulder width, Ethan didn't move,
didn't open his mouth, didn't bother meeting
my accusatory gaze as my attacker forced
himself inside me.
He pushed inside, each agonizing inch met
with my whimper of pain, each whimper I was
sure being picked up by a microphone so that
Ethan's film would be real. I died a little
inside, broke apart, watched my life being
shredded into nothing, and as the bastard
drove himself fully inside, he stilled before
pulling out to drive in again. My eyes stayed
on Ethan, begging for something he wouldn't
give: help maybe, sympathy, acknowledgment
of what he was allowing be done to me -
anything. He gave me nothing, his eyes
transfixed to the scene and not my face, his
forefinger cupping his chin as a thumb rubbed
over the stubble along his jaw.
When he finally moved from his studious
perch, it was only to direct a camera to the
other side of the stage, for the lights to be
centered on my expression.
They burned against my retinas, but still I
held my eyes open wide, my body moving
over the mattress as my attacker was fucking
me.
He grunted out his pleasure, calling me slut,
dirty whore and cunt. His hand tightened over
my wrist until I thought the bones would
break, his knee no longer against my stomach,
but that damage had already been done.
Catching the calf of my right leg in his free
hand, he lifted my leg, bent the knee and
spread me open. That's when the worst part
came, the part Ethan had warned me about
when I'd been too shocked to pay attention.
My body responded as the man kept
pumping, growing wet, finding pleasure.
That's what Ethan had meant by betrayal,
the moment where nature takes over and your
own body reacts to the forced mating like I
was some kind of animal. A groan rolled over
my lips, my eyes still wide and pleading, and
as that sound left my mouth, as my muscles
rippled over my rapist's cock, Ethan looked
over with the steel focus of his emotionless
eyes and locked them to mine. He smirked -
the bastard SMIRKED - because he recognized
the expression on my face, knew I was being
forced toward an orgasm despite the
screaming rage in my brain.
More fucked up than what was being done
to me, the horrible degradation I was being
made to suffer, was the stark, painful truth
that Ethan watching me made me come
harder.
It was an explosion inside me, a spark
lighting a rolling inferno, and with my eyes
locked to Ethan's, I opened my mouth on a
guttural moan, the orgasm a tidal wave
crashing until I couldn't keep my eyes open
any longer.
How? How could my body betray me so
thoroughly? Where could pleasure come from
while being violated so completely.
"Oh, hell yes," the bastard inside me
growled out, "fuck, baby, now I know you're
liking this." His hips pumped harder, his
breath beating faster, and as my orgasm
slipped away into memory, tears trickled
down my cheeks hot and hard.

I can't.
 I can't live like this.
I can't go through this over and over.

But then I remembered what Ethan had

told me before forcing me up those three
rickety steps: I wasn't meant to walk away
from this stage. My cold, dead body was
intended to be carried.
Life or death. Pain and humiliation. I had a
choice to make before my end finally came.
"Let's try this another way."
He ripped himself free of me, leaving me
soaking and sore, and before I could react to
the bit of freedom his movement had granted
me, he flipped me over, bent me over the
mattress and pressed the head of his cock to
my ass.
My hands were now free, my fingers
gripping into the blankets as he used his own
to spread my cheeks, positioning his cock to
force himself in.
"No," I attempted to speak, but my voice
was lost to my tears, my anger, my fear and
indecision. He couldn't hear me, didn't care,
spit on his hand to lubricate my entrance. I
didn't think for a second that was intended for
my benefit, it just made it easier to slip the
head past the muscles, to show me that what I
thought was unbearable pain was just the
beginning.
"No," I breathed out again as it felt like I
was being raped from behind by a red hot
spear, the skin stretching and ripping as the
bastard forced himself deeper.
No. No, no, no, no, no.
My cheek was pressed to the mattress, my
eyes clenched tight. Forcing them open
despite the searing pain, I dragged my gaze to
Ethan, found him standing with his hands in
his pockets and anger rolling behind his eyes.
His jaw ticked, his gaze meeting mine, and
then he did something I never expected from
him, he opened his mouth to silently remind
me I was stronger than this.
Kill him, he mouthed. Stab him. Use the knife.
Another burst of pain, the bastard laughed
behind me. "Take it bitch, take all of it, before I
bust your teeth out and move on to your
mouth."
Fuck him. Fuck this bastard. Fuck all the
pain he was delivering and laughing while
doing so. Fuck his excitement for wanting to
take every part of me, beat me, and then leave
me for dead.
No. I'm stronger than this. I won't just lie
here and take it. Not with this fucker enjoying
the torment. Not with him thinking he'll finish
with me and move on to another.
 Forcing my fingers to release the blankets
they clenched, I slid my palm down the
mattress, over the side and to the crease.
Another burst of pain shot through me, hotter
and more staggering than the first, the warm,
wet kiss of blood dripping down my legs from
where the bastard was tearing me.
No, I thought, I won't go out like this. I won't
be made a victim of some seventeen year old
fuck that thinks he has the right to do
whatever he wants.
My fingers slipped beneath the mattress
and knocked against the handle of the blade.
It took two attempts to grip it, my body
screaming through two more bursts of
agonizing pain. I dragged it with my fingers,
palmed the hilt and held on tight, and just as
the bastard pulled his cock to the tip, readying
himself for another deep plunge, I took
advantage of his misguided belief that he no
longer needed to hold on to me.
Despite the pain, the burning skin and
muscles, I used the fury teeming inside me to
move against the agony, push myself through
the searing pain, and flip over to face him. His
eyes widened, my hand struck out without
thought, he screamed as the blade sunk into
his stomach, and stumbled back before falling
to the floor.
 If I thought I'd lost my mind before, I'd
been wrong to jump to conclusions. It was
now, in this moment, that the final string
holding me to sanity snapped. Forcing myself
up, I pushed from the bed and fell down on
top of him, and while straddling his abdomen,
I raised the knife above my head, brought it
down as I roared out my anger and plunged it
into his heart.
Every horrible memory rolled through my
head, every terrifying moment since I was
stolen from the streets by this filthy monster,
forced to endure torture, humiliation and
slaughter. It all came out in the swing of my
hand, in the flex of my bicep in the screams
that tore from my lungs and filled the studio
with the truth of my uncontrollable anger.
Over and over, I stabbed, driven wild and
psychotic. I ignored his screams, the crunch of
bone, the spray of blood that was quickly
covering me.
Letting go to the killer inside, I shredded
the bastard until he no longer was breathing.
His eyes lost the light of life, his head lulled to
the side. With blood dripping from my skin,
and my chest beating with a racing heart and
heavy, labored breath, I looked over at the
cameras in time for Ethan to flash a beaming,
proud smile and yell, "Cut!"
 EMMA
The production crew went into a frenzy of
activity, most taking quick glances at me as
they passed by the stage running here or there
to do whatever it is they do. In the center of it
all, Ethan stood silently, his arms crossed, his
eyes shadowed, and the smile he'd worn after
I was defeated by the violence I didn't know
lived inside me was lost to him. His lips were
back to their cruel line, his scrutinous eyes
studying me from his safe perch amongst the
swirling cloud of people flitting about,
refusing to approach the stage.
A guard who had stood at the back of the
room moved forward, his shoulders broad, his
body dressed all in black, like a shadow
within the suits and ties, crisp shirts and shiny
shoes of the crew. I'd never really noticed
until now that despite the obvious
underground dealings of this godforsaken
studio, each person treated it as a professional
place - like something you would find beneath
the glittering lights of Hollywood rather than
Hell.
Ethan had set me up to become this thing
kneeling over a body that was nothing more
than meat, this demon covered in my
attackers blood, naked and highlighted by the
lights that still beamed down illuminating
every mark on my skin, every drop of crimson
death that dripped from my hair and face to
the floor beneath me.
My eyes shifted over the chaos, my mind
failing to comprehend the new atmosphere of
a film crew that had at one time written me off
but now feared me.

Where'd she get the knife?

How do we get her down?
Will the guard secure her so we can up the stage
and remove the body?

Whispers, so many whispers, filtered in and

out of my thoughts, whispers that no doubt
reached Ethan's ears but failed to draw his
concern or censure. He was too proud, even if
he didn't appear to be, too smug that he knew
what I would do even when I refused to
believe it myself.
As the guard attempted to move past Ethan
to approach the stage, Ethan shot out a hand,
splaying it over the guard's chest in a silent
command to stay back. What was he waiting
for? Why did he stand there silently after
achieving everything he'd hoped to gain from
me?
It didn't matter. In the end, he'd made a
mistake by neglecting to remember that
handing a girl a weapon when you've trapped
her in a hellish cage would require brute force
to take it from her again.
The hilt of the knife was still tucked snug to
my palm, the knuckles of my hands bleached
white by how tightly I grasped it. I would kill
the first person to approach, and I would force
the guard to finally pull his gun and put me
down like the rabid dog I'd become.
You never bring a knife to a gunfight and
hope to win, but for me, winning wasn't
walking away as the last woman standing,
winning meant dying a quick death and
escaping this place with at least some
semblance of my dignity left.
Is that why Ethan had failed to move, failed
to speak or even blink an eye? Was he
intelligent enough to realize that I wouldn't
easily relinquish the only ticket I had to
freedom?
He must have known. He wouldn't stop
staring me down.
 A crewmember found the bravery to climb
the stairs and step foot on stage, his eyes
pinned to me, his expression worried. I bared
my teeth, not caring that the only clothes I
wore were the bruises left behind by my
attackers hands and the crimson spray of his
spilled blood. Pain continued to pulse through
me with each beat of my heart and I had no
doubt I was physically damaged, but rather
than giving in to the burning thrum, I
swallowed it, absorbed it, allowed it to keep
me just at the precipice of the insanity I
needed to escape this place.
It was insane to wish for death, insane to go
against the natural instinct we all have to
survive. Perhaps that meant I'd been insane all
along, from the minute I stepped foot into that
drab white entryway and was told to stand by
a door.
I didn't recognize it, but Ethan had.
The son of a bitch had known what was
standing before him when I'd chosen death
and he'd used it to his advantage.
The crewmember stepped closer. I growled
and struck out with the knife. He jumped back
and almost fell off the stage as Ethan finally
raised his voice on a command.
"Stay away from her. Everybody out! I'll
take care of our little issue."
 Little issue Ha. I may have been a little issue
an hour ago, but I was bigger than that now.
The crew happily scurried off, unsure how to
deal with a woman who had so obviously
slipped the leash into the type of violence that
makes even serial killers blush. Knife still
dripping with the stain of my victim, I eyed
Ethan like a hawk, time slowing down again
as he pulled something from the belt of the
guard's uniform, whispered a few words and
stood silently watching as the guard march
off.
A door slammed. All noise and activity
stopped. I was alone with Ethan Cole.
His hand slipped in his pocket and my eyes
darted down to follow the movement. From
the distance we were apart, I couldn't quite
make out what he'd hidden from view.
Bringing his hands together in a slow clap, he
stepped forward as cautious and timid as I'd
hoped he would be.
"Bravo, my beautiful girl. You played your
role well."
My eyes widened, my breath held, my
fingers clenching tighter to the handle of the
knife. "You'll have to kill me this time. It was
stupid to send the guard away."
Ethan laughed. Not the grand, boisterous
sound I was used to hearing volley from his
lungs, but something softer, more sinister. The
kind of laugh that made you wonder what the
other person knew that you didn't.
Holding his hands up in feigned placation,
he approached the stage but didn't climb the
stairs. My shoulders tensed anyway, my body
shifting and my mind finally grasping that I
was still crouched over a dead body like I
would start eating it as soon as the other
predator in the room went away.
I wasn't a predator. Not like him. Yet, there
I was, protecting my kill, baring my teeth at a
man who inched ever so closer, thinking I
wouldn't notice the subtle movement.
Disgusted by what was done to me, by what
I'd done, I shuffled away from the body,
ignoring the pain that coursed through me
with the movement. I needed a doctor,
stitches most likely, some type of medical
intervention, but I remembered what Melanie
told me about the pain that came with the
repair as well as the damage.
Oh, God...was Melanie still alive?
"Let me help you, Emma. He hurt you
badly before you reacted. I saw it in your face.
I knew he damaged you. I was worried you'd
let him kill you."
My back pressed against the wall, the cool
plaster like ice on my heated skin. "You didn't
look too worried. You just stood
there...watching."
His hands slipped into his pockets after he
stepped on stage. Stopping his approach, he
stared down at me without any discernible
emotion written into his blank expression.
"Watching is what I do. Would you condemn a
tree for sprouting leaves, or a dog for burying
a bone? You can't blame me for watching
when it's in my nature to do so. Just like I can't
condemn you for holding that knife out at me.
The fire burns too hot inside your body,
especially when you feel the need to protect."
"I am NOT A KILLER!"
The words tore from my throat with the
violent volume of a battle cry, shredding the
flesh, shaking my body, bouncing off the
ceiling and walls like the hail of bullets in war.
Any person would have reacted to that
horrifying screech of sound with shock,
censure, rage or some other reaction that gave
away their emotional response. Any
person...but Ethan. He merely smiled, pushed
out with his shoe to softly tap the body now
lying at his feet.
His eyes dragged a clear line from the body
back to me. "I beg to differ. You not only
killed, Emma. You slaughtered. I should
know. I watched it. I'll edit the film that
recorded it. You can watch it yourself when
it's finished."
Rage sliced through me, cutting a clear line
up my spine, fracturing out across my ribs and
filling me until it consumed my heart. "I won't
watch that disgusting film."
He visibly flinched. "Disgusting?"
Expression twisting with disbelief, the corners
of his mouth tilted up. "How can you call that
disgusting? It was brilliant. A true record of
human emotion, of desperation, of a scorned
woman's fury. You don't get that in scripted
movies. It's impossible to pull that from
trained actors. Nothing hits closer to home
than the actual event as it happens. No,
Emma. It's not disgusting. It's art. It's the
preservation of memory, the unveiling of
honesty about human nature. Don't you
understand that?"
Fingers tightening over the hilt of the blade,
I screamed, "It's a snuff film! A dirty,
despicable, humiliating recording of a
disturbing crime!"
He stilled, his eyes moving as they
searched my expression. Head shaking just
enough to be barely perceptible, his full lips
pulled into a tight line. "No, Emma. It's no
more disturbing than a documentary on war,
on animals in nature, on the blooming of a
rose in a garden. It's truth. That's what you fail
to see."
The rage inside me simmered and sparked,
seeping out of my skin in patches of crimson
heat. "What purpose does that serve? So sick,
perverted assholes like you can watch it and
get off?"
The negligible shrug of his shoulder was
the gas poured over my flames, the oxygen
fanned through the roaring fire of hatred and
rage that I couldn't contain.
For as hot as I felt, he was cold, uncaring,
completely numb to the effect his actions and
words had on me.
"I didn't get off. My dick may have
twitched a little to finish the film, but I
promise you, that wasn't enough to excite me
in that way. As for others..." Waving his hand
through the air as if he were brushing off a
minor inconvenience, he grinned, "That's
simply economics. Do you understand how
much money you just made me? How many
more films can be produced because of your
performance? I simply direct the film. How
people react to it is on them. Art is subjective."
The body has an interesting way of taking
over. Before this film - before I'd undergone
the violation of rape and the insanity of taking
another life - my body had refused my mind's
commands. It revolted, gave me the finger
when I'd ordered it to move forward, to climb
the stairs, to stand on stage like a pathetic
starlet presenting myself for scrutiny.
Now, however, my body was revolting
again, except this time, it was launching into
action when I'd given no such order. My legs
were pushing me up, my feet carrying me
forward, my mouth opening and my lungs
and vocal chords working in tandem to force
out a guttural scream. My fingers were
tightening down on the hilt of the knife, my
bicep flexing as my arm swung out. I was
made a killer again. Not by pain. Not by
humiliation and the threat of defeat. No. I was
reacting to the flippant words of a man who
had no regard for what his art did to me.
Time smiled again to hit fast forward. In
one second, I was crouched against the wall.
In another, I was flying toward my captor
ready and willing to shred his heart as
thoroughly as I'd shredded another. It was too
bad that time didn't work the same both ways.
Where I was feral and unfocused, Ethan was
calm and collected. Where I thought I had the
advantage, Ethan had refused to show his
hand.
White hot, the blistering pain that assaulted
me was like a thousand daggers being driven
beneath my skin, the scorch of fire across my
weary bones, the agony of electricity coursing
across my muscles until I fell convulsing to the
floor, my teeth cutting into my tongue, my
hand releasing the knife that had become a
conductor of Ethan's attack.
The pain stopped, but not the paralysis it
gave me. My vision lost its focus, time slowed
and a blurry image hovered over me. A hand,
I realized, a small black box held to the palm.
It shook in front of my eyes like a victorious
dancer, mocking me with the truth that it had
been stronger.
The sound of knees popping, a larger figure
now leaning into my view. And as a hand
brushed over my hair to direct it out of my
face, I struggled to breathe past the confusion,
fought to remain conscious as two grey eyes
watched me lose that ill fated battle. A deep
voice now, smooth, yet with the echo of a
cavernous hole.
"Sleep, Emma. In time, you'll grow to
understand."
Darkness. Rest. An escape from the here
and now. I obeyed the voice when there was
no other option, falling because I no longer
had control.
 EMMA
One of my favorite memories of winter was
the crackle of fire in the hearth. Warmth
would carry out from the dance of shadow
and flame to heat my body, sparks would
erupt as the logs broke apart, the embers a red
glow dotted by white ash over the brick of the
fireplace. It was where I could toast
marshmallows, where I could drink a
steaming cup of hot cocoa, the sweetness
chasing over my tongue and down my throat.
Snapping and popping that blistering wood
became a soft lullaby promising me safety,
serenity, the love of the family and friends
that would arrive on Christmas Day to spend
time with me in front of the next roaring fire
my father built.
Hearing that sound dragged me from
oblivion into the present, it kicked at my heart
rate, pulled a large breath into my lungs. It
flicked at my eyes begging for them to open. It
seduced me from my peaceful sleep only to
drop me into harsh reality. Pain became a
pulsing rhythm, my body recognizing its
condition as my mouth opened on a groan.
Finally, my eyes fluttered open to see that I
wasn't alone.
Ethan sat in a large, brown leather chair, his
legs crossed at the knee, a crystal tumbler held
in his hand where the dance of firelight could
glisten against the amber liquid of whatever
liquor he was drinking. But rather than staring
back at me, he gazed into the fire, lost to
whatever thoughts consumed him.
Shifting over the couch where I lay, I drew
his attention. He didn't smile or speak, just
watched me struggle to sit up, the blanket
lying over me slipping down to reveal a
threadbare t-shirt covering my body to the
knees. Shocked that I was given something to
wear, I glanced up at Ethan in question.
"I didn't want to risk you ripping your
stitches and bleeding. You would have
destroyed my couch. I figured the t-shirt
would help prevent spotting should blood
weep out."
His couch. He wasn't worried about me,
about my injuries or my comfort, just the soft
upholstery of his stupid fucking couch. Voice
groggy and rough, I replied, "Last night you
told me you didn't care."
 He sipped from his drink and swallowed it
down. "That was a cheap chair. The couch
costs significantly more. And I happen to like
it. I often rest there after a long day filming."
Several minutes passed in silence. Not
exactly silence, really. The fire continued to
crackle, the logs breaking down into heaps of
embers at my right. It must have burned for a
while to reach that point already and I
wondered how long I'd been asleep. Whatever
Ethan had done to knock me out couldn't have
lasted that long. Could it?
"What did you use on me?" The question
sliced through the peaceful quiet of the room.
At first, Ethan didn't appear as if he'd heard or
cared to answer, but eventually he turned his
head to look at me. The firelight danced across
his face to cast shadows down his cheeks
making them appear sunken and hollow. Even
still, he was gorgeous with a strong, square
jaw and cheekbones that swept up so high
they were the perfect frame for his grey eyes.
Against the soft flicker of the fire, his eyes
were luminescent, glowing like a cat's would
when caught in a beam of light.
"I'm not sure what you mean," he finally
answered, the baritone depth of his voice lazy
and tired. It only made him sound more
charming, as if this moment revealed a truth
to him beneath the cold, uncaring exterior. It
was unfair, really, that a monster like him
should have a hidden spark of humanity. His
good looks didn't bother me as much as that
spark - that potential for vulnerability calling
to parts of me that would have been attracted
to him if circumstances were different.
Even now, knowing what I know, and
having experienced what was done to me on
stage, I found myself relaxing in his presence. I
was the stupid girl letting her guard drop
when faced by a complex man who had soft
sides to him that were unreachable without
fear of being shredded by his razor sharp
edges.
"On stage. What did you use to knock me
out for so long?"
He finished his drink, a quick tilt of the
tumbler to his lips as the amber liquid poured
down his throat. Setting the tumbler on a side
table with a soft clink, he slid the tip of his
finger around the rim. The silence stretched so
long that I assumed he'd ignored the question.
It surprised me when his deep voice finally
filtered across the space between us.
"I used a taser, but that didn't knock you
out for long. Just long enough for a sedative to
be administered. While you were out, we
patched you up and brought you in here to
sleep off the effects."
"Why here and not my dive motel with the
sink-toilet combo?"
His mouth stretched into a small grin, the
corners twitching with humor. "Did you like
that? I found it monstrous when I first saw it,
but you can only make due when dealing with
small spaces."
Discontent narrowed my eyes. Aggravated
by how blasé he was over treating women like
animals, I couldn't hide my sarcasm. "I guess
it's better than the plastic buckets in the
cages."
"Ah, well -" His voice trailed off, his gaze
dragging back to the fire as he brushed off the
inhumanity.
While he appeared at ease with the not-so-
comfortable silence between us, I was
practically gnashing my teeth. "Why am I
here? You didn't answer me."
A flash of a smile before his face was hard
lines and sharp edges again. I must not have
processed how near we were to each other,
how quickly he could close that small distance
to grip my cheeks with his hand. Lips pushed
out until they puckered, tears welled in my
eyes at the sudden pain. Bringing his face
down until we were nose to nose, he stared at
me with sleepy eyes while mine had rounded
into saucers.
"Never mistake the power dynamic
between us. You have no right to demand
anything in this place, especially answers from
me." Ethan was practically lifting me from the
couch by his grip on my face, the sweet smell
of liquor bursting across my skin on a warm
cloud. "I do not answer to silly actresses
whose egos have outgrown them."
My heart stuttered beneath the pressure of
my sudden fear. Stunned so that all I could do
was stare at him unblinking, I wasn't prepared
for him to release me as quickly as he'd
grabbed me. I fell back against the couch,
reaching up to rub at the burn across my
cheeks as he stalked off to his desk.
Slamming down his finger on the button of
a console sitting on his desk, he demanded,
"Send me a guard." He released the button
before anybody had the chance to respond, his
weight dropping into his executive chair.
It was obvious when Ethan Cole made a
demand, he expected everybody to be sitting
there waiting to hear it so they could jump to
fulfill it immediately.
"Why you're here doesn't matter. You're
awake now, so you can go back to wherever I
decide to put you."
The door burst open before I could say
another word.
"Take her to the cages," was Ethan's
snapped command.
The guard approached me with the
rhythmic pound of boots across the wooden
floor, each beat vibrating with more strength
as he drew closer. Reduced to the victim once
again, I curled my fingers around the blanket,
dragging it up to cover myself as if that thin
and flimsy barrier would somehow protect
me. Needless to say, it didn't, the guard
snatched my arm with his meaty hand and
yanked me to my feet before I could utter a
sound in protest.
"Drop the blanket," he barked.
Caught in the rush of time between the lazy
stillness of waking up by the fire and this
moment where I was being forced from the
couch, I'd refused to release the warmth of the
blanket. Its end dragged on the ground behind
me, the edges still gripped between my
fingers. I tilted my chin to look up at the guard
to find his teeth bared in anger that I hadn't
immediately obeyed his curt order.
Still, I couldn't let it go, couldn't make a
connection between my brain and my hands
to uncurl my fingers and allow the blanket to
drop entirely to the floor. The guard,
obviously unhappy with my refusal, lifted a
hand to slap me across the cheek. I flinched
and braced for the violent strike, clenching my
eyes shut and waiting for my head to snap to
the side from the blow. It didn't come, and
after several tense seconds, I peeked out from
beneath my lashes to find Ethan standing at
the guard's side, his hand wrapped over the
guard's wrist preventing it from swinging in
my direction.
"I'll say this one more time," Ethan crooned
with a dangerously slow and deep voice. "This
particular woman is not to be damaged unless
it's on stage and on film. Disregard my
instruction again and I'll make you a star on
that stage. Do you understand me?"
The guard swallowed and nodded his
head, several more seconds passing before
Ethan released his hand and stalked away.
Tripping over my own feet, I followed after
the guard, being half dragged in the process,
while Ethan stood at the side of his desk
watching. The edge of the blanket slid over
the floor behind me like my own little captive
in this nightmarish landscape.
"Wait!"
Ethan's booming voice stopped us both in
our tracks. He was going to take my captive. I
just knew it. The son of a bitch couldn't even
give me that small comfort in the cages where
he was sending me.
Why? Why the hell was he dismissing me
back to that cold tundra of a prison after I'd
done everything he wanted? What kind of
cold, heartless dick does something like that?
The kind named Ethan Cole, apparently.
Striding forward, graceful as a stalking cat,
he stopped within inches of me, the scent of
his cologne mixing with the scent of liquor on
his breath. "I'll let you keep the t-shirt and
blanket on one condition: that you behave like
the good little girl you're supposed to be and
stay out of trouble until such time as I need
you again. Do not overlook my generosity, Ms.
Hart. It's not something I do often. What the
director giveth, the director can taketh away
just as easily."
Despite my hatred of him, I thanked him
with my silence. It took effort on my part, my
teeth clamping down on my tongue to keep
from barking out a bitchy response. It would
have been more of a fuck you to toss the
blanket to the ground and refuse his supposed
kindness, but I also knew those cages were
small freezers that sucked the life out of you as
soon as you stepped inside them. I would be
shooting myself in the foot to give up at least
this small comfort just to prove a point.
"And you will be watching your film once I
have it edited and finalized. Birth is the
beginning of a new era in this industry, and I
believe you'll be more compliant once you
understand what it means to me. Until that
time, however, you'll be sitting and thinking
about how you can avoid angering me in the
future. There are rules and you will follow
them."
Breathe in. Breathe out. Think before speaking. I
was learning quickly that I had to temper my
responses with this man. "I'm sorry. Nobody
told me any rules, so I wasn't aware."
His lips stretched into a knowing grin. "Ah,
there she is, the actress I've come to know and
love. I'd say it's good to see you're learning
how to speak to me, but I don't believe it for a
second. Although, I do appreciate the attempt.
For that, I'll let you keep the blanket...but not
the shirt."
My jaw dropped as Ethan's head shot over
to look at the guard. Silent command given
and received.
The blanket was yanked from my grasp
without much effort on the part of the overly
muscled meathead dressed in black fatigues.
And before I could utter the words I can
undress myself, he was yanking the thin shirt
from my body, pulling my arms up above my
head with the sudden and forceful tug. My
arms slapped back down at my sides, my
breasts jiggling from the movement, Ethan's
eyes fixating on them for only a brief second
before he bent down in front of me to grasp a
corner of the blanket between his fingers and
present it to me like a participation trophy that
was as important to him as a fly he'd swat to
death to stop its buzzing.
Who was I kidding? He wouldn't swat the
fly. He'd order somebody else to do it. The
task was too demeaning for someone of his
stature.
Leaning forward to speak against my ear
once I wrapped my hand over the edge of the
blanket, he whispered, "Despite our
misunderstanding, I still hold strong in my
belief that your idea of average is quite
beautiful."
He stalked off, returning to his desk and
taking a seat in his leather chair. Kicking his
feet onto the surface of the desk, he crossed
his legs at the ankles and relaxed back to fold
his hands together behind his head. "Have a
good night, Ms. Hart. I hope you sleep well."
The guard grabbed me to lead me from the
room, but a thought occurred to me after
thinking what Ethan has said. It had
completely failed to grab my notice before this
moment, but I couldn't exactly blame myself.
I'd been forced through hell. That had to have
some effect on a girl's psyche.
Reaching out, I grabbed the doorframe and
gripped hard to keep from being yanked away
from it. My head snapped in Ethan's direction,
my mouth opening on a question that drew his
attention up from the paper he was reading.
"Birth? What do you mean Birth?"
A faint smile stretched his lips, a deep
dimple indenting his cheek that was made
darker by the stubble that covered it. "It's the
title of the film I made of you."
Holy shit. It hadn't occurred to me that I'd
been so frozen with fear onstage, my mind
had failed to understand the title the woman
with the clapboard had called out. "I don't get
it. Nothing was born in that film. Death would
have been more appropriate."
Amusement glimmered behind Ethan's
cold, grey stare. "That's where you’re wrong.
But I'm not surprised by your failure to see it.
A killer was born on that stage today. A killer
that has been inside you all along and was just
waiting for the opportunity to come out."
 EMMA
As was standard for this place, I was
marched naked down the halls with a
lumbering guard at my back cradling his gun
to his chest as if it were a threat. At first, it had
been, but now that I knew Ethan had decreed
his protection order that I not be harmed
unless it was on his stage, I knew that no
matter what I did, the guard couldn't shoot
me.
Not that the knowledge made me feel any
better. I was still of the opinion that a bullet to
the brain was better than the nightmares this
place had in store for me.
My bare feet padded over the floors as we
approached the pneumatic door, and I turned
to face the wall like the good little prisoner I
was. The guard grunted his dissatisfaction that
I didn't give him an excuse to manhandle me
and went to work punching in the code. The
door hissed open like something you would
hear on a science fiction movie, the freezing
cold sneaking out to scrape at my skin
welcoming me back to the tundra.
Goosebumps raced over my skin, my muscles
instantly tightening until painful as I was led
inside to walk the shadowed halls.
Clutching my blanket to my chest, I tried to
ignore the women scrambling to hide in their
cells as we passed, my focus having been
redirected to a question that had come to
mind several times already between the time I
left this place last and now. Worried about
Melanie, I hurried my steps down the halls,
taking the turns I remembered from last time.
The guard was none too happy about my
increased pace, but matched the speed of my
steps regardless.
Reaching my former cell, I stood at the door
waiting for the guard to open it, but my eye
caught sight of movement in the deep
shadow, that of another woman curled up on
the steel cot folding herself tighter into a fetal
position. The guard laughed at my back.
"Sorry, sweetheart, but you've been evicted.
New arrivals came in today while you were
sleeping."
Panic struck a path through my heart. How
would I check on Melanie if I wasn't beside
her? Before I stepped away, I peered into the
shadow wondering if the new girl in my
former cell had already been used for one of
Ethan's films. Unfortunately, the answer to
that question would remain a mystery. Before
I could utter a word in protest, the guard
grabbed my arm, dragged me past Melanie's
cell and planted me by the door in front of the
cell on the other side.
I grinned. "Looks like I didn't have to move
far."
The guard grunted. "That's because only
one girl passed the examination. I'm sure you
know what happened to the others."
Oh, God. I was sure they'd been led
through the left door instead of right, which
meant they were in the fast lane to the snuff
stage. "How many?"
Reaching around me, the guard unlocked
the door, pulled it open and shoved me inside.
"Wouldn't you like to know?"
The cell door slammed shut ending the
conversation. I watched while the broad
shouldered guard stalked off, his gun tucked
to his chest, his black fatigues disappearing
into shadow. From a distance the electronic
notes of the keypad filtered back to me, the
soft hiss of the door opening, the quiet click as
it closed.
I rushed over to the wall beside Melanie's
bed to find her sitting up, her legs bent in front
of her, her arms wrapped around her knees
tucking her legs to her chest.
"Are you awake?"
Although she was seated, she wasn't
moving much. Just a small patch of her face
was visible beneath her matted hair, her cheek
resting against her knees and her lips
chapped. "Yes," she answered, the word gritty,
but not shaky. Whereas my teeth wouldn't
stop chattering against the cold, she didn't
appear bothered by it. Only sad and defeated.
My thoughts rushed back to what she'd told
me the last time I was in the cages, how she
claimed medical had stitched her up without
painkillers or anesthetic. Why they hadn't
done the same to me was anybody's guess.
Even now, knowing that I had stitches, I still
felt no pain. Perhaps they'd given me
something to dull the sting, something that
would eventually wear off.
"How are you feeling?"
"Sore," she whispered. "Upset."
Asking her why she was upset would have
been stupid. Who wouldn't be upset in this
situation? "Did they leave you here all day?"
Not answering at first, she simply shook her
head, the curtain of her hair moving over her
legs and down her body where it hung at the
side of her head. "No. They took us to the
showers. They fed us. And then..." Her voice
hitched over that unfinished thought. I
watched her arms tighten around her legs, the
muscles flexing against her skin. "Then they
took us to the theater room."
My heart dropped into my stomach and I
clutched the blanket to my chest. The theater
room. I didn't have to guess what it was, but I
didn't want to think about why the women
were led in there. Fighting my curiosity was
impossible, the question tumbling from my
lips even as I regretted asking it. "What
happened in the theater room?"
It's odd how silence can sometimes carry a
beat. Not during times that are comfortable
and relaxing. In those times, the silence is
welcome. It soothes you, brushing its warm
fingers over your eyes until they are closed. It
hums against your ear as a lullaby gently
leading you into sweet slumber. It's a friend
that cushions you against the maelstrom of
sensation that pelts you in the outside world.
When you're happy, silence reminds you of
the womb, comforting you with the white
noise of amniotic fluid or the rhythmic thump
thump thump of your mother's heart. Safe.
Secure. Hidden from all the monsters that
would eventually devour you.
Silence didn't work the same in times of
terror or sadness. Instead of a comfort, it was a
ticking bomb that counted down the passing
seconds while ratcheting the tension inside
you. It mocked and scorned, poked and
prodded, left you exposed to the elements that
tear at your skin and strip away whatever
happiness you have inside you.
The beat is no longer a welcome rhythm, it's
a curse that reminds you that no matter how
horrible your existence was before it started,
after the silence passes, your world would
only get worse.
I wished for the happy silence while
waiting for Melanie's answer, but all I
received was the horror.
"They make us watch the films. All of us,
watching what was done to each other, to
ourselves, to the women who never made it
back to the cages after they were taken." A
tear dropped from her cheek to slowly trail
down her leg. It didn't make it far before the
temperature of the room dried it, stealing its
warmth to replace it with another cold, stark
reminder of this place against Melanie's skin.
She shivered against it, whether from fear or
pain, I wasn't sure.
"I can still hear the screams, Emma. And
the laughter of the guards standing at the back
of the room. We tried closing our eyes against
the images, but you can't escape. The volume
is so loud that you can't block out the sound of
what's been done to us. It echoes."
My eyes closed, the memory of Melanie's
screams echoing in my head. The stage was
visible in my thoughts, the bed, the men who
abused her body for Ethan's art. I highly
doubted they regretted having to act out the
scenes. It wasn't their bodies being shocked by
an electric prod or cut by a razor lined gag.
"I don't think I'll ever see my son again."
Sobs broke apart her whispered confession,
the fear so forceful that it had burst from the
confines of her heart to seep out on labored
breath and tremulous words. Pure sorrow sat
beside me on the other side of the bars, the
embodiment of bitter agony and
insurmountable remorse. What's worse is that
I knew her worries were true. She never
would see the child she'd given life. She
would never hold him again, and he would
never hold her. My heart clenched at the
thought.
"Tell me about him."
I wasn't afraid of hurting her by bringing
him up, not like I'd been the last time. In truth,
if there was any possibility of adding just a
touch of happiness to her now, it would be by
blanketing her thoughts in her memories of
him. The power of her love for her son was
stronger than her hatred of her present
circumstance. In a world where she'd lost
every shred of joy she once had, the love of
her son was the last bit of warmth they
couldn't steal from her.
Her lips tugged into a sad smile. "His name
is Kyle, after my grandfather who raised me.
His eyes are a warm brown, like chocolate
struck through by caramel. And his smile," her
mouth stretched wider, "his smile is the most
beautiful thing I've ever seen. It's pure
sunshine beaming out from his chubby face."
Settling down on the concrete floor, I rested
my head against the bars. I wouldn't invade
her memories with my voice. If it took hours,
I'd wait patiently while she swam in the
deluge of her son's image, of the films playing
in her head that were powerful enough to
drown out the films she'd been forced to
watch today.
"Kyle loves animals," she finally breathed
out. "The same can't be said for people, but
who can blame him? He's so shy, but then
again, he's young. I thought he would
eventually grow out of it. I used to tell him
that he shouldn't be so quiet, that he should
get to know people and other children just in
case they could be friends." She paused, the
memory rolling over in her head. "Now I wish
I hadn't told him that. After what's been done
to me, I hope he hides forever in a place where
he’ll be safe."
Sighing, I shifted my weight over the cold,
hard floor. My eyelids were growing heavy,
weighed down by the low hum of the air
conditioner that never stopped blowing. The
cold in the room perfectly matched the hope
dying a slow death inside me.
As if reading my thoughts, she said, "I'm
tired of being so cold. I'm tired of feeling pain
every time I move. Those films today, they
showed me what happens to women who
choose to die. No matter what choice you
make, you're destined for agony. Ethan
shouldn't ask us fuck or die. It's deceiving."
Forcing my eyes apart, I fought against my
own exhaustion to listen to her talk. "What
should he have asked us?"
"How long we want to suffer."
Life doesn't always offer you the
opportunity to lie and make it believable. Like
now when I couldn't argue that anything she'd
said was untrue. Our situation was a thick
stew of bad choices and worse ones, the only
common element being the suffering that
came with all of them.
"I'll never see my son again," she repeated,
as if the thought were still boring a hole into
her mind to settle among happier memories.
"But then again, he never claimed I would, did
he? Ethan has a silver tongue, the deceit easily
slipping off it. No, he never told me I would
actually see my son turn two, he only said I'd
live long enough for it to happen."
Cursing under her breath, she sighed. "I
guess it doesn't matter. It's getting late and I'm
falling asleep. Here's hoping I don't wake up."
I would have agreed with her, but I liked
Melanie. If she died, it would destroy me,
leaving me alone to navigate this place
without the friend I'd found in her. How
selfish was it to want another person to
endure torture just so I could find a few
moments of peace? The thought chilled me
almost as much as the air.
Stretching out her willowy frame, she laid
down on the steel cot only to curl over herself
again. Even in shadow, her lithe frame was
obvious. It had only been two days and
already she looked like she'd lost weight.
Behind me, the screws holding her cot to the
wall rattled, the shivering of her body more
violent now that it was pressed to the icy steel
of her makeshift bed.
"Hey," I whispered, lifting the blanket from
my skin to press the end through the bars.
"You should take this."
Her eyes fluttered open, widening when
she finally saw the blanket I held. "Where did
you get that?"
I stuffed more through the bars. The end
dropping and brushing over her hip. "Doesn't
matter. But you're cold and you need it to
sleep."
Arm uncurling from her chest, she shoved
at the blanket, directing it back in my
direction. "I can't take it. You need it, too."
"We'll share," I whispered, insistent that she
accept it. "You take it tonight, I'll take it
tomorrow night. Back and forth, so we both
have a little bit of comfort in this place."
After shoving the last of it through, I
watched Melanie vacillate between taking it
and shoving it back. She must have given in to
the cold in the end, and when she wrapped it
over her body, I smiled.
"Thank you," she breathed out.
"You're welcome. Good night."
Her eyes closed but she still managed to
answer, "Good night."
 ETHAN
The night was running long, the fire in the
hearth dying off an hour after Emma was
taken from my office. A burst of laughter fell
over my lips at the thought of her - of the fire
she harbored that eluded her own
understanding.
Even if she had no concept of who she is or
what she could become, I saw it, recognized it
in her the instant I stepped through the door
to examine the new arrivals in that entry
room. While the other women trembled and
cried, she stood silent, her thin shoulders
rolled back in defiance, her eyes tracking my
every movement.
Emma is a predator despite her assurances
that a violent bone cannot exist inside her
average body.
How any person could be so blind of their
own self confused me. Intelligence and
beauty, fire and remarkable strength, that is
the woman who will become my greatest
accomplishment. I wasn't simply building a
character, I was coaxing out the beginning of a
legend.
For the first time in a long time, I'd found a
person who excited me.
Picking up the screenplays for the films I
would produce in the morning, I scrubbed my
hand across my jaw, my finger sliding over the
stubble. No matter how hard I attempted to
read over the set designs and concepts, I lost
focus, my mind drifting back to one particular
film that had become my obsession. The final
touches were being put on it, the crew
working late into the night to have it ready so
that I could present it to a late night guest I
was expecting.
Would he see the genius behind the film?
Would he understand that we'd stepped away
from the old and repetitive to venture in a
direction that no director or studio had yet
gone? I could only hope, and as the hours
dragged on, I found myself standing by the
dying fire with a glass of scotch in my hand,
having abandoned the scripts for the next
day's films after rereading the same tired lines.
My mind was fixed on the thought of
Emma when a knock sounded at my door.
Regretting the disruption, I turned, but
refused to move to open it.
 "Come in."
The door popped open, my production
assistant, Brent, stepping through. In his hand
was a silver disc encased in plastic, my hands
clenching and flexing, my feet carrying me
across the floor. Snatching it from his grasp, I
left him standing mid-step with his mouth
open on a word that never quite made it past
his tongue. I was already behind my desk,
slipping the disc into my computer by the time
he finished that last step.
"This better have all the cuts I made to it."
My gaze snapped up to pin Brent in place.
"You made every correction? Do not throw
shit at me and pretend I won't notice."
"Everything that you requested has been
done." He spoke like he was standing in front
of a firing squad, even holding his hands up
like I'd launch myself across the desk in his
direction if he so much as gave me a funny
look. "We didn't deviate from any of the
instructions."
Satisfied, I clicked play and stood to my full
height, crossing my arms over my chest as the
image faded into view. A bokeh effect blurred
out the extraneous details to highlight the star.
Emma sat on the bed, her body so still, yet
powerful. Even as she glanced at the camera, a
tear slipping down her cheek, I saw the spark
of hatred inside her.
The scene came into full view, the bokeh
fading to reveal the makeup table on her right
reflecting the man walking up behind her. His
face flashed in that mirror for only a second
before the cameras panned left to his stalking
body, Emma was a silent figure to the right of
the screen, the curves of her body a perfect
shadow beneath her negligee where the light
caught it just right.
In him, I felt the hunger, the drive to hunt.
In her, it was indecision, fear, but just a hint of
the acrid emotion.
Emma's head turned, and the expression on
her face was meant for me. I remembered
locking eyes with her in that moment, fighting
to keep my face blank in an effort not to
interfere with the decision she would make.
Fire flamed behind those eyes, utter, blinding
hatred shining through.
She was perfection on stage, a living,
breathing incarnation of human desire, hope
slashed through by betrayal, of the avalanche
of complex emotions that every person faces
when danger stands at their back.
I'd lied to her after filming this, lied while
trying to get close enough to subdue her. It
wasn't finishing the film that made me hard as
a fucking rock, it was the effect of watching
something as raw and feral as her while
filming it.
Her nightmare was standing in front of her
- no, not her nightmare, no man but me could
be that to Emma. But he was a man she
despised, her breathing picking up as color
chased across her cheeks, draining again to an
ashen white when he launched forward. The
man's performance was mundane and boring,
the same old movements, the clichéd words
he'd used to taunt her. I remembered being so
angry with her at that point that I wanted to
march up on stage to force the knife into her
hand.
Where was the girl who'd questioned me
like she had the right? Where was that fire
that rolled behind her crystal blue eyes every
time she locked her gaze with mine and fired
back some ridiculous accusation or comment?
For a moment, I’d feared I'd misjudged her,
that she would die violently because I was the
only person who could find her buttons to
push.
The frame became a close up of her body
once the rapist had shredded the silk negligee.
I watched the rise and fall of her chest,
admired the marks and imperfections of her
skin. I found myself reaching to the screen to
run my fingertip over the perfect curve of her
heaving breasts. So much anger in that small
body, so much barely contained rage that I
would have sworn it would burst out to set
fire to the stage.
He was inside her, but her face was turned
to me, the guilt and confusion flooding her
when her body responded to his cock like I
knew it would. I'd felt her orgasm while
ignoring the spark of jealousy that came to life
inside me.
It had always been my rule to avoid fucking
actresses. They were petty and contrite, little
polished dolls that could play the part of
something more when, in truth, there was
nothing inside them. They were chameleons
taught to imitate, but when push came to
shove, they didn't understand how their roles
were always bigger than them. I had no desire
to become part of their fantasy, no inclination
to indulge a spoiled brat by promising her she
was just as pretty as she hoped she could be.
But yet, with this woman...
No. I couldn't go there. If I touched that
flame, I'd lose the ability to shape it into the
roaring inferno I knew it would become.
Her screams tore through my office, a
chorus of pain, of humiliation, of insufferable
injustice. But it was in her screams that I knew
the transition was happening. Just a tiny
inflection in the voice that clued me in to the
fury rolling inside her.
His mistake had been pushing her too far. If
he hadn't mocked her, hadn't ripped her open
while promising he'd enjoy doing it to others,
she may have never made the decision to grab
the knife and shred his heart.
How glorious it had been to watch her fight
him in the end. Human nature stripped fully,
she'd shirked the veil of civilized behavior to
unleash the warrior within.
This wasn't just a film, it was a one of a
kind diary, an intimate recording that could
never be duplicated because a beginning this
divine could only occur once.
The film stopped and I stood silent for only
a second. My heart raced beneath my ribs, my
cock a noticeable weight against my leg. Even
now while she was nowhere in sight, she
affected me like no other.
But I would never allow myself to go there.
To have her would be to lose her. To lose her
would be a travesty I could never forgive.
"Is Mark Hale waiting for me in the theater
room?" Head snapping up, I volleyed the
question at Brent.
Caught off guard, he stammered for a
moment before answering, "Yes, he's been
here for a few minutes already. I wanted to let
you see the film before we prepared it for the
theater."
On a long stride, I left the office, the door
slamming against the wall as I passed through.
Destiny awaited me in that theater, a future
pushing toward creation rather than dreadful
repetition.
Brent practically ran to keep my pace, his
labored huffs comical. For a man so out of
shape, you would think he'd take the
opportunity to tame his own addictions. I
would have told him a long time ago to put
down the fucking donuts and get out of my
studio if his chubby, sticky fingers weren't so
brilliant with edits. He was a genius at a
computer, one of the only crewmembers who
didn't require my constant oversight and
direction.
Reaching the theater room, I slowed my
pace, tugged the cuffs of my jacket into place
and ran my fingers through my hair. Mark
Hale was a big money bastard that had only
one concern: his bottom line. If a film wouldn't
earn, then it wouldn't be released, but he'd
never refused one of mine.
Not that it meant anything. There weren't
award shows for the films we made. It wasn't
like the dark web was full of fancy film critics
watching with pens furiously scribbling out all
the critiques they would give in the Sunday
paper. It was a poorly kept secret only
accessible to those perverts and sickos that
had gained access either through learning
from a friend or navigating the dark tunnels
themselves.
Still, without Mark's funding, the studio
would close and I'd be cast back to the drivel
produced in Hollywood. I couldn't stomach
directing another pathetic imitation of what
true sorrow and fear looked like. The pretty
bitches with their practiced screams, the
poorly crafted bad guys with their cliches and
fake weapons, the muscle bound hero who
always sweeps in at just the right moment
with some common quip of a line that makes
me want to stab out my eyes.
It was all so useless. So fake. So patronizing
to a commercial crowd that starved for beauty,
sex and the bullshit ideals of how women and
men should behave.
None of that garbage was what life was
truly about. And it seemed that every time I
attempted to introduce truth to film, the
producers jabbered their tired mouths droning
on about how the crowd wouldn't accept what
hadn't already been done to death.
Oh, that's too graphic. That's too horrible.
Nobody will allow that type of ugly truth to
disturb their happy little bubbles. They want the
fantasy, Ethan, not this type of filth shoved onto
the television screens of their perfect fucking homes.
Fuck them all. I'll do this my way.
Speaking over my shoulder, I ordered,
"Have the film ready to go when I give the
signal. This needs to be perfect, Brent. No fuck
ups. No equipment malfunctions. Nothing of
the sort."
"On it, Boss."
He stalked off, well, as much as he could
stalk off with that extra weight hugging his
thighs making his cheap pants rub together so
furiously I was concerned they'd burst into
flame. Turning back to the door, I slammed
my palm against the wood, pushing it open.
Mark Hale spun around, his round face
tugged inward by his severe expression.
Brows pulled together, he narrowed his dark
brown eyes in my direction. Thinning blond
hair was combed over to hide his bald spots
and several small areas of discoloration
marred his skin.
Beneath his wide nose, a poor excuse for a
mustache rested atop thin lips held in a tight
line. He was pissed I called him out this late
and he hadn't bothered to change into
something more snappy than a white polo
shirt and tan khakis that had gone out of style
ten years ago. His gut tested the strength of
the front pleats that ran down those poor
pants and I had to bite my cheek to keep from
commenting on the cruel abuse of cheap
fabric.
"Mark, normally I wouldn't admit it's good
to see you, but tonight will be something
special." Extending a hand, I almost laughed
when he gripped it and squeezed in challenge.
I knew his type. Somewhere deep down, he
questioned his own masculinity and felt a
show of strength would prove his testosterone
levels were higher than mine. Rather than
proving to him the truth of my superiority, I
pulled my hand away first, allowing him the
illusion that he was somehow more of a
predator than me.
In truth, he was just another sick fuck that
could only boost his ego by asserting his will
on the bodies of helpless women. Pathetic.
"This better be good, seeing as how I had to
come out here in the middle of the fucking
night. Don't you ever sleep?"
"Artists rarely have nine to five hours, and
those that do need to remove themselves from
the business. Their inspiration is lacking.
Would you like a drink?"
Brushing off the offer by cutting a hand
through the air, he shifted his weight to walk
down the center aisle steps. Taking a seat, he
turned his face to peer back at me. "Are we
watching this or what? I have to get back to
the house before my bitch of a wife wakes up
and finds me gone, and I'd like to visit the
cages before leaving. Might as well make the
most of my time here since I've been dragged
out at this ridiculous hour."
Above my head, I could hear the team
preparing the film in the projector room. The
lights in the theater dimmed once they were
ready. I took the seat next to Mark, but on the
opposite side of the aisle. His cologne was so
heavy the cloying scent threatened to choke
me. "Before starting this, I want to explain -"
"It's another snuff film, Ethan," he barked,
cutting me off. "If you've seen one, you've
seen them all."
My lips curled into a smile. "You haven't
seen this one. Which is why I needed approval
before it was released. I think this particular
film will make us far wealthier men than we
could ever hope to become."
Beady eyes narrowing on me, he huffed out
a dismissive breath. "Let's just watch the thing
and get it over with."
That wasn't exactly the attitude I preferred
for those about to embark of one of my artistic
journeys, but what could be done with a
person who didn't have it in them to
understand the meaning behind each film I
directed? Lifting a hand into the air, I snapped
my fingers. The theater went dark and the
screen came to life, my beautiful Emma
coming into focus where she sat atop her bed.
She was even more magnificent on the big
screen, every detail of her expression
magnified until you'd be blind to miss each
thought, each impression, each staggering
emotion that filtered through her head while
the man approached. Time stood still for me in
that moment, my heart leaping into my throat
at the very second the man launched in her
direction.
Screams filled the theater room, my mind
so entranced by the film, I failed to look over
to gauge Mark's reaction. By the time Emma
was straddling the body of the dying man, at
the moment she glanced up to stare into the
camera with blood dripping down her cheek
to dot the floor beneath her, my heart was a
staccato rhythm of desire and possibility, of
achievement and glorious satisfaction.
My Emma had performed magnificently.
The lights in the room brightened and Mark
failed to look away from the frozen image of a
feral woman where she stared back at us
covered in the crimson evidence of her rage.
 "What the fuck was that?"
"That," I explained with awe in my voice,
"was a new version of the snuff film. One
wherein the viewer doesn't know who the
victor will be. Almost as if watching the
gladiators back in the days of the Romans."
Mark's head swiveled in my direction.
"Why did you allow that woman to kill the
man? How could you be so stupid? Nobody
wants to see that. Our audience has a taste for
weak women who are helpless to their dicks
and to their weapons. Why would they want
to see the woman winning in the end? What
the fuck were you thinking? How much
money did I lose staging that shit show?"
Closing my eyes for a brief second, I
tightened my fingers over the armrest of my
chair, redirecting the violence I wanted to
commit against someone so ignorant.
"We have two audiences, Mark. One who
enjoys simple rape and dominance. The other,
however, prefers the kill. It is to that audience
that this film is intended. Blood is blood
regardless of which body spills it."
His face took on the hue of a ripe tomato,
the skin discolorations fading beneath the
heated color. "Our audience wants to see
pretty bitches slaughtered. They fantasize
about being the man taking her body in any
way he damn well pleases and then doing the
bitch until she's no longer breathing. They
don't want to fantasize about the bitch fighting
back and making mincemeat of them with a
fucking butcher knife. We're not releasing
this."
"We are," I stated firmly, "or you can find a
new director." My head snapped in his
direction, my eyes locking to his arrogant
gaze. "And when you see the money pouring
in on this film, you can thank me later. I'm
holding firm to this, Mark. My finger is on the
pulse of a new twist to the same tired crap you
have me directing and I'll be damned to step
back and let you bury it."
Red skin deepening to purple, he glared at
me from across the aisle. "And what happens
when we get complaints? What happens when
we lose their business and they move on to
other sites offering films the way they're
supposed to be done? What will you do then
to make it up to me?"
Laughter shook my shoulders. "You mean
the amateur crap produced in dirty basements
and staged garages? Let them watch that crap
if they want. Although I suspect we hold the
market in this because we've moved past the
mundane and boring and given the audience
something far more developed and
entertaining. They come to us because we
aren't like all the others and with this
particular film, we'll launch ourselves onto a
new level that will have them begging for
more. Trust me on this, or find someone else.
I'm not bending to your fear of change. We
either continue exploring new films, or we
become as stagnant as those idiots still filming
in their seedy little apartments."
Grunting, he slammed his hand on the
armrest, damn near breaking the thing in the
process. "I'll give you this one just because I'm
too tired to argue at this hour. But if it fails, I'm
taking it out of your ass. You got me? One
week, Ethan. That's the amount of time you
have to prove to me this film is as
revolutionary as you claim it is."
My smile stretched wider. "One week is all
I need. It'll take less time than that for the
money to come rolling in. As soon as word
gets out, curiosity alone will have men
throwing everything they have at us just to
view it."
"It better." Standing up, he brushed his
hands down the front of his pants, for what
purpose, I didn't know. His efforts did nothing
to remove the wrinkles. "Take me to the cages.
I need to work out some of this frustration
inside me."
 The last thing I wanted to do was stand
back and listen to this pig fuck some poor
woman trapped in her prison, but he'd given
me what I wanted, it was only appropriate I
return the favor.
Standing from my seat, I grinned in his
direction. "Some new women were brought in
today that may meet with your approval.
Normally, I like them to have their first
experience on film, but I'm sure I can afford to
lose one in order to appease your hunger."
Inclining my head in the direction of the exit
doors, I said, "Come, I'll take your there
myself."
 EMMA
Sleep eluded me in the cage that night.
Unsure how much time had passed, I was in
the only position I could find that made me
slightly comfortable. My butt was frozen
against the steel cot, my back pressed against
the bare concrete wall, and my teeth were
clenched so tight the enamel probably
cracked. But if there was a light to be found in
this long dark tunnel, it was the cot at that
moment. Yes it was hard and painful against
the skin, but it felt like ice, and ice was exactly
what I needed.
Whatever medication they'd given me in
medical had worn off and the pain of my
stitches was a constant radiation up my body,
a burn that was only soothed when I sat with
my ass planted firmly against the steel. When
you're stuck in a situation as hellish as mine, it
was the small comforts that mattered, and for
that one moment at least, I'd found that
comfort, no matter how truly depressing it
was.
After an hour, my eyes had adjusted to the
lack of light. Nobody stirred within the
shadows, but it was easier for me to make out
the balled up figures in their cells. Only able to
see three cells down on either side of me and
the four or five cells on the opposite wall, I
realized just how many women were kept
here.
Hours passed as I wondered why so many
women were needed. I assumed most had
chosen fuck instead of die, but if they could be
reused for new films, what was the purpose of
abducting more? We were like a small prison
of hopeless souls, ones who hadn't done
anything wrong to deserve being here - we'd
just been in the wrong place at the wrong
time. How many films were made on a daily
basis? Where were the films viewed and what
was their purpose?
Money, I assumed, but how? It wasn't like
Ethan could distribute to a wide audience. I
was sure anybody would question how real
the films seemed. Plus, if any of these women
had been reported missing, I was positive
seeing them being used as prey for rapists and
murderers would clue in law enforcement to
our existence.
I wasn't an expert on crime or human
trafficking. Perhaps, over time, all of us are
forgotten. The thought made me wonder what
my parents were going through at that
moment. I knew them well enough to know
they'd probably already gone to the police.
My mother was the type that even twenty-
four hours without hearing from me was too
much. She'd always been paranoid, but now I
was starting to understand why. The world
was a cruel place full of monsters, and if you
weren't constantly on guard, eventually one
would sneak up from behind to drag you into
the shadows. It was a bleak way to live your
life, but if I'd listened to all the warnings she'd
given me, maybe I wouldn't be here now
using a steel cot as a painkiller.
The silence was welcome, I couldn't
complain about that. After everything that
occurred since arriving here, I hadn't had
much time to myself to think.
Everything falls down on you in the silence,
all the crushing fears, the loss of happiness,
the bleak understandings that your life has
changed so significantly that nothing will ever
be the same again. I was one person that night
on the sidewalk in Boston, and now I was
someone else entirely, a girl whose skin was
stolen and replaced with plastic, my smile
wiped away by a crappy eraser so that the
former smile showed through even when
drawn over with a frown.
I was a killer now. No longer the carefree
girl who cringed at the sight of spiders, I was
now one of those few who knew how it felt to
take a life. It was the strangest of feelings.
Once, there was a man. His heart beat and his
lungs pulled in air. He felt pain and he felt
pleasure. And now he did none of those
things because of me.
I'd never wanted to be that person, the
person who could look a man in the eye and
remove the soul that stared out from behind it.
While drowning beneath the surface of
what I'd once envisioned my life would be,
voices were a low murmur in the distance, the
electronic key pad beeping out its tune before
the pneumonic hiss of the door echoed
through the winding halls. My head spun in
the direction of the sound, my arms tightening
over my legs where they were pressed to my
chest.
The voices grew louder once the door
popped open, one of which I recognized
instantly.
"Is there any fucking light in this place? I'd
like to actually see my selections. Why fuck an
average looking woman when you can find
something much prettier to be with?"
 Lights flared on in the hallway and cells,
the white beams blinding my eyes. Reaching
up, I tried to block out the glare while still
keeping an eye on whoever was coming
around that corner. I knew Ethan was with the
man, his laughter and voice hadn't stopped
echoing in my mind since I first met him. It
didn't matter where I was or what I was
doing, I would recognize the sound of him.
Despite not being able to see where they
were standing, I could guess fairly accurately
where they were by the sound of their voices.
The man spoke more than Ethan, his voice
deep and gravely, harsher somehow than the
smooth cadence of Ethan's tone. I hated him
instantly, my stomach churning over each
syllable he spit out. To hear him speak was to
feel slime rubbed against your most intimate
places. My skin was crawling, bile coating my
tongue, by the time they turned the second
corner.
"Where's the girl from the film you just
showed me? I wouldn't mind having a taste of
her. Although I still doubt the film will be
successful, I must admit seeing a woman lose
control like that left me hungry for a piece. Is
she just as feisty without the weapon?"
Ethan hesitated to answer. "She's down in
medical. The male lead had an opportunity to
hurt her pretty badly before she fought back.
She won't be appropriate for your tastes. Not
tonight, at least."

He'd lied.
For me.
I couldn't understand why.

By now, the voices had woken up some of

the other girls. They merely lifted their heads,
blinked against the light and then shrunk
down over themselves again, prey doing their
best to camouflage themselves against the
predators. I turned my head to look at
Melanie, but found she was still sleeping
deeply, rolled up and warm in the blanket I'd
given her.
"That one should do, the little blond thing
that hasn't even woken up. Surprises are
always fun, wouldn't you agree?" His
lascivious laughter caused me to dry heave.
"I'm sure she'll be thankful for the
sentiment," Ethan answered dryly.
A lock slid out of place, hard and cold. The
metallic sound was appropriate in this
freezing place. The swinging door dragged a
scream from the hinges, the creak sending
shivers chasing up my spine. The mood was so
ominous it suffocated me, froze me in place
like I was the blond little thing unaware of a
pervert's surprise.
"I'll just walk around the corner and give
you some privacy. When you're done, shut the
door on your way out and call for me."
A piercing scream tore through the halls
next, cutting the silence as sharp as a surgeon's
scalpel. It was so shocking it became a living
thing inside of me, a force so severe the pain I
felt was everywhere. Not only that, but her
scream disguised another sound I should have
feared, the rhythmic fall of expensive shoes
against concrete.
Ethan was in my line of sight before the
woman's scream had time to die off. Calm,
collected, without concern or any noticeable
reaction to the sound still cutting through me
like I was warm butter, Ethan approached on
lazy steps. His eyes caught mine immediately,
his expression blank and unreadable. He was
simply here, but not affected by what here was
to us.
Stopping when he stood just outside my
cell, he leaned against the other side, not
caring that he had a frightened woman
cowering on her cot at his back. I wasn't
planning on talking to him so I guessed it was
a wasted effort on his part to press a finger to
his lips to tell me to be quiet.
 The slimy voice joined the woman's cries,
saying all the terrible things men will say to
frightened, helpless women. I wanted to
vomit, but found myself staring at the devil
himself.

No. Not the devil.

The Director.
He didn't create Hell, he only timed it
perfectly, ensuring that each moment of
heartfelt terror was as meaningful and painful
as it should be.

My life was simply a movie when he was

around, a film I didn't like watching, a
collection of moving images that meant little
to the man after he'd had his say in how one
moment would transition into another. My
current soundtrack was that of violence
against a woman who had done nothing
wrong but attempt to sleep in the cold cage
she'd been assigned, only to wake up to abuse
that was far colder than the air conditioning
could ever make this place.
Glaring at the man standing across from
me, I ignored the way his eyes slowly traced
down my body and back up again to my eyes.
A question wrinkled his brow as that
intelligent gaze slid left to where Melanie lay
sleeping wrapped in the blanket Ethan had
given me. When his eyebrow arched and that
gaze slid back to where I sat, I understood
what he'd noticed.
He didn't have to talk for me to know what
he was thinking. We could speak through
facial expressions alone.
Why give up the advantage? he didn't say.
Having a heart is my advantage, I didn't
answer back.
Ethan shrugged my response away,
unconcerned that I chose to freeze in my cage
rather than cling tightly to the only comfort
he'd given me.
A frenzied rhythm of skin slapping skin
and hips slamming against steel overlaid our
unspoken conversation, the occasional grunt
sounding from the throat of a pig. Although he
hadn't moved so much as a finger to stop it,
Ethan didn't appear impressed either. He
simply stood staring at me, bored and
leisurely as he leaned against the cell at his
back.
The heat of anger colored my skin.
Sweeping down from my cheeks, it spread
over my shoulders and into my arms and
fingers, down further past my breasts and my
stomach into my legs and down to the tips of
my toes. So fiery was that anger, I could barely
contain it, tears seeping from my eyes as that
poor woman continued suffering the man's
abuse, her cries now lost to his savagery, his
lust. Unable to bear the weight of it, I volleyed
that anger toward the man staring back at me,
only for him to deflect it with his superiority.
The woman meant nothing. I meant
nothing. Not in his kingdom, his magical
world of fantasy and film.
The soundtrack stopped, delivering us back
to insufferable silence, our stare down
disrupted by the click of a cell door closing
and the grinding slide of a lock.
"Ethan," the man called, spreading his slime
against me again just for having heard his
voice.
And as quiet as he'd entered my hall, Ethan
walked away from it without so much as
another unspoken word. I listened to his
departing steps, counted the beat of them until
the lights turned off and I was returned to
darkness. I said goodbye as the code was
punched into the keypad, the pneumatic hiss a
snake slithering down the hall before the door
closed again.
 EMMA
Does it make me an awful person to admit
that I didn't hate Ethan as much as I should?
Despite what it made me to realize my
feelings, or lack thereof, they were still there,
or more accurately absent, the weight of them
becoming more crushing with each passing
day I spent in the cages and was rotated
through a routine common for the women
kept here in this prison.
It had been silly to think I'd found some
connection with Ethan Cole. Over the first few
days, he'd paid me special attention. He'd
allowed me to read him, to know his thoughts,
to take an educated guess about how he felt
for me while he sculpted me into a monster
who would kill as easily as give up. But as the
days wore on and I neither saw him nor heard
from him, I understood the stark truth that I'd
underestimated Ethan - or overestimated him
I guess I should say. I'd given him a heart that
wasn't actually there, a warmth that didn't
deserve even the passing notion that it could
exist inside him.
Where he had once filled my hours, I was
now drowning in routine. Each morning we
were woken by the guards, told to use our
buckets if we had to pee, and then marched
off toward the showers where we took our bag
of essentials, scrubbed our bodies and dried
off. We were led to a cafeteria after, sat in
front of trays filled with unpalatable food,
given fifteen minutes to manage the task of
forcing our throats to swallow it and begging
our stomachs to keep it down. We couldn't be
blamed for the sickness; after one day of the
routine, we knew well where we were headed
next.
Melanie had failed in her explanation of the
theater, her words leaving out the true depth
of horror that faced us each time we were led
down the long hall leading to its intricately
carved double doors.
Much like one would expect of a
wonderland of film, the halls were painted a
deep crimson red, the color contrasting
sharply against white floorboards and vaulted
ceilings. Chair rails ran the center, above
which hung the images that began the
nightmare you faced while being marched
into a theater that was a comfortable viewing
of Hell itself.
Posters lined those walls in equally spaced
gilded frames, each image depicted beneath
some bold title more disturbing than the last.
The word "Stretch" scrolled across the
image of a woman held down by two men, her
arms tugged above her head where they were
clearly pulled from the sockets of her
shoulders while a third man enjoyed the fruits
of their labor.
Another bore the title "Pretty Puppet" and
showed a woman bound by marionette
strings, the pink of her cheeks were actually
bruises, her eyes dead where she hanged from
those strings in a childish dress that was lifted
from behind while her puppet master had his
feast.
In yet another, the title "Symphony"
overlaid the haunting image of a woman on
her stomach over a bed, her legs bent up so
that the thick strings of a cello or bass could be
tied at her wrists and pulled taut down her
back to be secured at her ankles where they
rested just above her ass. While one man
pulled a bow across those strings, another was
nestled between her legs, his hands clenching
her thighs as he conducted his own type of
cruel music.
I didn't want to look at the posters as I
passed, but curiosity has a way of dragging
your eye to some vivid tragedy, your body
pausing while your heart races, time once
again slowing so that you catch every horrible
detail of that violent crash of pure evil against
humanity. I could hear the screech of tires, the
crunch of metal, the shattering tinkle of glass,
but it wasn't cars or trucks or trains that
collided together - nothing as inhuman as that
- it was people who crashed to become blazing
infernos, their souls crying out against the
horror of vicious speed and poor timing.
In the week that I spent enduring the
routine, the posters never changed, but the
films did, as well as the order of women in our
line. At first, I hadn't noticed the subtle
placement of who would lead us into the
theater, but after a few days it became
apparent that whoever's film was featured
that day were given the front spot, made to sit
front row center to witness their torture on the
big screen.
They cried while we fought to avert our
eyes from the films in a feeble attempt to spare
them that one humiliation of being watched
by dozens of curious eyes. Melanie had been
right about one thing: the screams did echo
once you left, they were carried inside you
from that theater as a petulant lullaby guiding
you into fretful sleep. There was no escape
from the horror, not even in the moments you
could sit silent in the darkness to remember
what had been done to you and others on
stage.
I've forgotten one thing in this recitation,
one glaringly obvious part that perhaps was
the result of my mind shielding me so I
wouldn't be driven insane. The selection, I
liked to call it, the beginning of our day when
we were woken to the begging and pleading
of panicked voices. They were always pulled
from their cages first thing in the morning, the
women whose stages were set for whatever
movie was being filmed that day.
How the women were rotated, I wasn't
quite sure, but I did notice they were given
time to heal from whatever wounds were
inflicted during their films before being
chosen again. By the week's end, Melanie was
already out of her stitches and I was being
gathered from my cage to be led to medical for
the removal of my own. However, unlike
Melanie, I wasn't immediately led back to the
cages. Instead, I was walked down a familiar
hallway to be pushed through a familiar door.
"Ms. Hart," a cultured voice crooned as
soon as I stepped foot inside his office, a note
of satisfaction or possibly joy lacing the words.
"It's good to see you again. Have you been
enjoying your time in the cages?"
"Thoroughly," I answered, not willing to
bend the knee to this man by lamenting my
dire circumstances.
The quick answer pulled a grin from his
lips. "I see the actress has walked in and not
the woman hiding behind the obstinate mask.
Very well. I'll deal with actress. Take a seat."
Rather than repeating the first night in his
office when I'd refused to sit, I slid into the
chair allowing my exhaustion to dictate my
behavior. One would think hours of wasting
away in a cell would leave you with a surplus
of energy, but in truth, it zapped you out
faster, the cold shivers depleting what wasn't
stripped by the lack of physical exertion. It
was like sleeping too long and waking to find
that your body only wanted to sleep more. I
was dragging and hadn't realized it, not until I
was planted in the seat facing Ethan's desk.
"We have a date tonight," he announced,
lowering his body into the leather executive
chair. Grinning slyly, he fiddled with a pen
atop his desk before peeking up at me. There
was such a boyish charm to him that made it
difficult to recognize the beast behind the
facade. "Dinner and a movie."
Having a date with Ethan didn't strike me
as a fun time. Dinner and a movie were just
fancy words for torture. "Are we leaving the
studio for this date?" I glanced down at my
naked body to make a point. "And will I be
given clothes?"
A wolfish grin lit his face, the dimples I
remembered now buried beneath a week's
worth of stubble that was quickly growing into
a full beard. The facial hair suited him, made
him appear harder somehow. "I have your
favorite t-shirt available. And no, we'll be
dining in."
"Well," I answered, "then it won't be much
of a date. The cuisine in this place leaves
much to be desired and I'm not a particular
fan of the movies, either."
His laughter could fill a room, the way it
burst forth with such ease to dance past your
senses, seducing a smile from the lips. It calls
to you with a crooked finger, daring you to
fight against the true humor and mirth. A
colorful bit of warmth in a freezing, grey
space, his laughter was only part of his
eloquent deceit.
Leaning forward, he glanced at me with
twinkling eyes, a myriad of colors dancing
through the silver. I was beginning to believe
he'd been honest about watching being a
natural part of him, because it was in his eyes
that I saw a reflection of every beautiful and
horrible thing he'd witnessed. He not only
watched, he absorbed a bit of the soul from
every scene that played out before him,
became part of the events around him,
orchestrated the minuscule details that drove
your heart to race or your stomach to drop into
your feet.
"You do have a way about you that amuses
me, Emma. I won't deny you that. But your
stubbornness is growing tiresome." Pausing,
he allowed the music of his laughter to die off,
to compress into a sharp thorn he used to
scratch my skin in warning. "Continue, and
the behavior will only get you in trouble."
Pushing to his feet with the grace of a
panther, he rounded the desk to stand in front
of me, the material of his pants brushing my
knee on a delicate tease. Sitting back against
the wood, he crossed his arms over his broad
chest, the shoulders of his pressed, black shirt
straining against his hard body. Everything he
wore only added to his allure and I wondered
again how he'd ended up behind a camera
instead of in front.
Angling his head down so that he could
lock that mysterious stare with mine, his lip
twitched with dark humor. "Don't you want to
know why we're going on a date tonight?"
 Swallowing down the odd sliver of
attraction that had lodged in my throat, I
answered, "Honestly? I'm not sure that I do. It
seems that from one experience to the next,
this place just gets more horrible and cruel."
Eyes sparkling, he reached out to run the
tip of his finger along my jaw, the touch so soft
it was impossible to believe it had come from
a man so vile. "You should take care to watch
what you say and do, Emma. I gave you the
first few days to become acclimated and to
learn your place, but I can't allow
disobedience or back talk. How you behave
will influence the others. You'll only give them
false hope through rebellion, and that would
be the worst cruelty of all. Those women have
no hope, just like you. I want you to
understand that so that your spirit isn't
crushed by the illusion."
Hating the way my voice trembled, I
confessed, "My spirit is already crushed."
Sorrow was the line of his smile. "Not yet, it
isn't. I would know." Sitting taller, he was
matter of fact in tone, absent of the emotion
one should have when announcing death. "On
the day your spirit becomes crushed, I'll
dispose of you like all the others. But until
then, I'll use you for what you're worth."
Rubbing his hands together, he bounced
from sorrow to excitement, giving me
whiplash in the process. "Back to our date, the
reason we are going is to celebrate. You, my
lovely little rebel, are in demand. Not only
that, you've helped prove to the studio heads
that my visions are the key to the future of this
industry."
Blinking my eyes slowly, I tempered the
anger bubbling inside me. "And what exactly
is this industry? Or am I not allowed to know
that?"
I wasn't so blind as to not have guessed
what the movies were for, but it didn't mean I
wasn't hoping to have my suspicions
confirmed.
Standing up from the desk to cross the
office and pull something from a closet, Ethan
turned to me with t-shirt in hand. Tossing it
my direction, he stood watching as I shrugged
it on. "We distribute illicit pornography on the
dark web. It's not a new business, this kind of
thing has existed since video cameras were
cheap enough to be affordable to the public.
We simply fine tuned an old idea and gave it
fresh life by producing the films
professionally."
Waving an arm, he moved toward the
office door, "The night's wasting away. Come,
we'll talk while walking."
 Knowing better than to argue, I pushed to
my feet...and swayed. The room spun around
me threatening to topple me over until a
strong arm wrapped around my waist to
prevent the plummet. The spicy notes of
Ethan's cologne tickled my nose, seducing me.
"Careful, Emma."
If I were told he was speaking from inside a
deep tunnel, I would have believed it. His
voice echoed as I crashed apart, my muscles
withering and unbalanced beneath the
dizziness. "I think we need to get some food in
you. The cages have weakened you faster than
they should."
Nothing surprised me in this place, not
after a week spent enduring it. Yet, to feel the
compassion of Ethan lifting my body to crush
against his chest was a startling shock to my
weakened system. My heart attempted to beat
in panic, a sigh escaping instead. Enjoying the
heat and smell of him was wrong, but I was so
tired of everything - the cages, the movies, the
inhumane treatment. I just hadn't realized
how tired until I relaxed in Ethan's arms.
Delirious with the sudden exhaustion, I
forgot the rules about overstepping my place
and allowed curiosity to power my tongue.
"Why the cold, Ethan? Why do they keep it so
damn cold?"
 To that question, as well, I thought I knew
the answer, but confirmation was important to
me. For no other reason than satisfying my
insatiable need to understand why my life had
to be so unbearable.
"Exactly for the reason you're
demonstrating now," he answered, his soft
voice laced with affection. I must have been
worse than I thought to believe I heard it.
Ethan wasn't an affectionate man. "The cold
keeps the body shivering and drains the
frustration that can lead to desperation and
violence. It makes the women more docile,
more compliant. But that's not just for our
convenience, it's for the safety of the women
as well. The guards have been known to go a
little far in their discipline."
"Who cares? We're all dead anyway."
"Not until I say you are." Turning a corner,
he motioned with his head for a guard to
follow. We approached a set of double doors
at the end of the hall. "Open the door for me,"
he called out. The guard rounded us to do as
ordered, his expression pulled taut in
confusion to see Ethan carrying me. To his
credit, he didn't say a word.
My body bounced in Ethan's arms over his
long-legged strides. Lifting my head took
effort, but I managed to take a look around.
"Where are we?"
"My suites. I won't eat in the cafeteria. It's
too -"
Lost for the word, he paused. I filled in the
blank for him. "Disgusting? Basic? Utilitarian?
Heartless?"
"Those will do."
My weight was dropped down onto a
couch. Although it was cozy, it wasn't as
warm as Ethan's arms. "I'll see when we can
expect to eat. And also find something that
will perk you up."
While he was off seeing to the food, I was
struggling to sit up. Managing the feat, I shook
my head to clear my vision, my eyes rounding
at the luxurious details of Ethan's suite coming
into focus. The ceilings soared at least ten feet
above my head, the walls textured in red and
gold tones emitting warmth, but still
providing a neutral background as a back drop
for framed movie memorabilia, signed posters,
autographed costumes, and shelves of
glittering awards positioned beneath track
lighting which highlighted each individual
piece that deserved notice or admiration.
White floorboards cut a bright border
between the walls and the shiny, black stained
wood floors, the crown molding drawing the
eye up to the vaulted ceilings. Despite the
chandeliers that hung glistening from hidden
wires and the furniture that was large and
imposing, the room was understated in its
simplicity making the room appear larger than
it actually was.
But it wasn't the glamor of the interior
design that stole my attention, not when
compared to the floor to ceiling windows that
lined one wall, a view of a distant city
sparkling against the evening that teased me
with a reminder of the world to which I no
longer belonged. Reality existed outside those
panes of glass while I was trapped in here, a
character in illicit films that Ethan treated as
one of his favorite dolls.
"I managed to find you a soda." A glass full
of clear liquid and fizzy bubbles was shoved
in front of my face. He shook it just enough for
the ice to clink against the glass. "Drink this. It
should help with the exhaustion. I think you
may have had a blood sugar crash."
Wrapping my fingers around the glass, I
mentioned, "Proper food could prevent that
from happening." Bringing the rim to my lips, I
swallowed down the cool liquid, thanking
God for the crisp, sweet burst of flavor against
my tongue.
"That's intentional. What the women are
fed is enough to keep you from withering
away or starving, but not nutritious enough to
give you any strength. Although, for you, that
needs to change."
The drink was helpful for refraining from
asking what he meant. Chugging it down, I
didn't bother with any questions, the potential
answers too harrowing to consider. Eventually
the glass ran dry and I set it on a table beside
me. "You have a nice place. I especially love
the view. What city is that?"
Not that I believed he'd tell me, I attempted
to discover my location regardless. A girl had
to try.
Ethan twisted to glance over his shoulder.
"That's Dubai."
My eyebrows lifted at how easily he'd
offered the information. "We're in India?"
There had to be an American Embassy in
India. If I were somehow able to escape the
building...
"Presently, yes." He lifted a remote from the
table, turned and directed it at the window.
"But, we could be in Moscow, if you want."
A click of the button beneath his thumb
changed the scenery outside the window
drastically, the soaring towers and sparkling
starlight replaced by Saint Basil's Cathedral, a
burst of color within the white carpets of snow
and dancing flurries.
 "Or, if you're feeling tropical, we could be
in the Bahamas." Another click changed the
scene to a white sand beach with turquoise
waters stretching to the horizon. Sunlight
sparkled off the calm waters, seagulls diving
and flying back up again.
My lips pulled into a thin line, my heart
dropping into my stomach to realize that the
view, like everything else in this place, had
been a set design and nothing more.
"It's remarkable, isn't it? Like a green screen
in the home. It's also a large screen for
watching movies when I'm in the mood to
kick up my feet and relax."
Still suffering the blow of losing hope that I
knew what country I was in, I forced words
from my mouth. "Do you enjoy sitting around
and watching your own movies? I'm not much
of a fan. In case you were wondering."
Pushing up from where he'd previously
knelt to hand me the soda, Ethan crossed the
room toward a bar against the side wall. "You
wound me, Emma. And here I was thinking of
gifting you the full collection for Christmas."
While he poured a drink, I was given the
opportunity to stare at his backside. It was a
nice view. Nicer than nice, really. Damn near
perfect. Unfair, actually. His broad shoulders
and sculpted arms filled out the material of his
shirt, the hem of which was tucked into slate
grey slacks accentuating a trim waist. The
pants did little to hide a firm, round ass that
sat atop muscular thighs barely hidden
beneath the tailored cut of the slacks. He was
seduction personified, so beautiful that he
shouldn't have been real.
Monsters shouldn't be good looking.
They're supposed to be big, lumbering men
with scarred skin and receding hairlines. Their
teeth should be absent, or they should have
eyes that are dead instead of sparkling. They
should have big rounded guts and meaty
hands that bruise and maim when they touch
you. But they shouldn't look like Ethan.
How he'd ended up in a place like this was
beyond my understanding. He wasn't the type
who needed to force women to their knees, he
could simply ask and they'd gladly lower
themselves down to look up at him with
coquettish eyes, hopeful that their bedroom
skills would tether his heart to theirs. He was
a predator in every sense: his body, his voice,
his intellect and talent. He seduced merely by
existing.
My curiosity got the better of me again, so
much so that I could be renamed Cat and it
would be fitting. "How did you end up in this
career?"
 Turning with the ease of a dancer, he
sipped from his drink. "Directing? It was
always a dream. I was addicted to movies as a
kid. My father was absent and my mother
used the television as a babysitter while she
worked late nights."
I shook my head. Even though his story was
incredibly sad, it didn't answer my question.
"Not just directing, but this place? How did
you end up here? From what Melanie told me,
you had a career directing real movies, with
real movie stars and everything that came
with it. What happened that all you do now is
live in a horrible place directing films of
women being butchered?"
A burst of sound rumbled over his lips. Not
laughter, it was something far darker, like a
small piece of bitterness slipping out to tint the
air.
Slamming the rest of the drink, he set the
tumbler delicately on the table, but by the look
in his eye, I would have sworn he preferred
shattering it. It seemed I'd stumbled on a sore
spot, a wound that wouldn't heal while I
picked at the scab. Opening his mouth, Ethan
almost answered before a knock at his door
stole away whatever his answer had been.
"Dinner," he announced, his tone of voice a
heavy weight settling over the room that
threatened to crush me for having asked the
question.
 EMMA
"I think my stomach is going to explode."
Leaning back against my seat, I deserted all
the ladylike manners my mother had
practically beaten into me as a child. Clasping
my hands over my distended abdomen, I
breathed out in hopes that less air in my lungs
would make room for the food sitting in my
stomach.
Ethan was still finishing the last of his
steak, his eyes cast in my direction. Every so
often I'd felt a tingle against my skin, the sense
that I was being watched. I'd look up to find
Ethan staring across at me, his gaze fixed on
my lips after I'd taken a bite of food, as if he
were inwardly counting how many times I
chewed before swallowing. He missed
nothing. Saw everything. Recorded each
detail in that mind of his, but for what
purpose, I wasn't sure. He was the definition
of a voyeur, his picture most likely included in
the dictionary beside the word, his image
staring back at the reader - watching.
Guilt had ridden me the entire meal, and if
I'd had pockets, I would have slipped some of
the food inside them to take back to Melanie
or the other women purposely kept weak by
the diet offered to them.
Plate clean, Ethan shoved it away,
anticipation lighting his gaze now that his
stomach was filled. Standing from the table,
he didn't have even a tiny bulge in his
abdomen for as much food as he'd shoveled
down.
"How do you do it?" I asked, again losing a
battle against the curious thoughts tumbling
about in my head.
His eyes pinned me in place, but not with
rancor for the incessant questions. It was a
familiarity I couldn't name, a part of him that
was so much like me that it drew us together
despite whether we understood why. "Do
what?"
"Stay in perfect shape. I assume with how
busy you are filming, finding time to work out
must be difficult."
His brows drew together in bemused
thought. "How do you do it, Emma? Bounce
from one random subject to the next with your
questions? You're like a kitten staring at a
crawling bug, wondering everything there is
to know about the creature with no rhyme or
reason between one thought and the next."
I didn't respond and he filled the silence to
answer the question I'd asked. "I don't work
out, I just never stop moving. My mind runs
too fast, ideas constantly spinning and
demanding my attention. I'm too driven to sit
still, too focused to lie about like a pig in shit
while the calories attach themselves to my
thighs. If it's possible for thinking to be a
workout in itself, then I assume that's what
keeps me from becoming soft like many men
in this world."
Gliding into the living room to fiddle with
the remote he'd left on the side table near the
couch, he shot a glance in my direction. "Are
you feeling better now that you've eaten
something?"
"Yes," I replied honestly, "much better."
"Good. You'll need that strength
tomorrow."
Don't ask. Don't ask. Don't ask...
"What's tomorrow?"
Dammit.
"You're filming. It's like I said earlier: you're
in demand, and our viewers are clamoring for
more." Pausing, his eyes shot up from the
remote to lock with mine. "Several have
offered exorbitant amounts of money to be
allowed into the studio to be on stage with
you. They want to see if they have what it
takes to subdue the studio's feisty actress."
My eyes closed slowly. I breathed in,
breathed out. It did nothing to settle my racing
heart. "And did you accept one of those
offers?"
"That's not my decision. I'm sure one of the
studio heads did. I simply create the art with
the tools they provide me."
Opening my eyes, I dared peek out at him
from beneath heavy lashes. "It's not art,
Ethan."
"That's where you're wrong. Why are you
still in the dining room? We're done eating. It's
time for the entertainment portion of our
evening." Patting his leg as if he were calling a
dog, he smiled and demanded, "Come here,
my beautiful Emma. You'll like this. I
promise."
I wished I hadn't eaten. The food was
churning in my stomach at the thought of
what he believed would entertain me. He held
the remote, so I assumed it was a movie - my
movie, to be exact. The pain beneath my ribs
was extraordinary, like my intestines were
closing off so that the food had nowhere to go
but up. "I don't want to watch the movie you
made of me. I can't watch it."
 Setting the remote on the table with a soft
click of plastic against wood, he approached
me on furtive steps. "You will watch it. And
you will enjoy it. Why deny yourself truth
when it's right there at the click of a button?"
Desperate to halt his forward motion, I
threw out my question from earlier. Would it
dampen his mood? Probably. Did I care? No.
Perhaps by pissing him off, I could avoid this
depraved part of the date.
"How did you end up like this? Directing
filthy smut and disgusting snuff?"
If nothing else, the question worked for the
reason I'd intended. Ethan's feet came to a
grinding halt, his eyes searching my face with
what looked like hurt rolling behind them.
That couldn't have been possible. You would
have to be able to feel to be hurt, and this man
did not feel a thing. I was sure of it.
"Are we back to that?" he asked softly.
"We never moved away from that," I
answered just as gently. "At least, on my end
we haven't."
It was an error in judgment to think the
question would hold him back for long. I'd
barely had time to blink an eye before he was
directly in front of me, his hands locked over
my shoulders as he lifted me effortlessly from
my chair.
 Holding me balanced on trembling legs, he
studied me for several long seconds. I nodded
a symbolic hello to time, noting how it had
retaken its throne to slow down this moment.
Every beat of my heart echoed in my head,
every soft inhalation and exhalation of our
combined breathing like a soothing harmony
against the heavy percussion of my pulse. He
was so close that I felt the heat of his body
pour over me, the scent of his rich, earthy
cologne wrapping around me like a sultry
blanket.
My body weakened and all the questions
that had whispered inside me were silenced.
All I saw in the moment - all I knew - was this
enigma of a man who should have been
monstrous but wasn't. A flicker of attraction
blinded me, the revolting truth of how he
made me feel was a hidden tack beneath a soft
mattress. It poked me in the back, warning me,
but still I snuggled down into the soft warmth
of the bed. I wanted to pull away from him,
but couldn't.
Ethan did the strangest thing at that
moment, he answered me with pure,
undiluted truth.
"I've told you before that the subject of
these films does nothing for me. Rape doesn't
get me off, Emma. But truth does. Emotion
does. And you won't find those things in
Hollywood movies. Every person in front of
that camera is only a replica of what the
character should be. They're not real. The
emotion they portray is false and imperfect.
But not here. Every film I make contains a true
depiction of the world around us. There are
predators and there are prey. It's inborn, as if
we were identified and set to our natural side
when we first emerged from our mother's
womb. Hollywood makes the world look
pretty, but it's all just a glamorous lie. Why
waste your time on that fantasy when you can
truly look life in the face with the films I
make? When you have the opportunity to
stare it in the eyes and say 'I see you, but I'm
not scared'?"
Tears leaked from my eyes. There wasn't a
vein of doubt inside him. He believed in these
films despite their horror. The realization was
a deluge of sorrow inside me - for the women
destroyed by his deluded vision, and for him.
"But that's not what the films are used for,"
I argued on a weak voice. "They're used so
that filthy men can get themselves off by
watching them."
Leaning down, his face was nose to nose
with mine, our mouths so close they became a
disturbing temptation. "How my films are
received isn't important. Only my intent in
making them. And my intent is pure,
unfiltered, raw truth. You don't get off on
watching them. You genuinely see what I'm
showing you." Pausing, his eyes shifted as if
he were studying and dedicating the fear in
mine to memory. "I want to know your
reaction to what you've done. What I gave you
no choice but to do on that stage. You will
watch the film. And if I have to drag you over
there, I will."
"I can walk," I bit out between clenched
teeth.
"Good. Then see to it that you do. Walk
over to the couch and sit down on it. I'll wait
here to ensure you follow instructions."
Releasing me, he stepped away, just
enough for me to breeze past him on
uncoordinated steps. I felt like a prisoner
walking to execution, my last meal eaten and
my hope for any kind of future gone. Time
was a bastard to slow down each step, to give
me the opportunity to feel each vibration of
my heel against the floor shimmy up my body,
but eventually I made it to the couch and sat
down.
Ethan walked toward me, all long,
powerful strides and a prowess I'd never
witnessed in another man. Lifting the remote
from the table, he took a seat behind me,
turned me with a rough grip and laid my back
down against his chest. Stretching one long
leg out beside me, he rested comfortably in a
pose intended for lovers relaxing after a long
day - not that of a man forcing a woman to
watch her greatest horror.
"What are you doing?"
His deep voice was a vibration against my
back, his breath ruffling the stray hairs at the
side of my face. "I'm getting ready to know
your reaction."
Clenching my hands into fists, I fought not
to scream. "I thought you only watched."
A moment of silence slipped between us,
pregnant with my anger and his lack of
concern. "To know your reaction, Emma, I
can't simply just watch. I need to feel it, too.
How your body tenses at certain scenes. How
your pulse picks up to hammer against your
skin." As if to demonstrate his meaning, he
slipped a hand around my throat to tap the tip
of his finger against the artery.
"I want to know you, inside and out," he
added on a slick tongue and compelling
baritone voice.
With that same hand, he gripped my chin
and forced my eyes toward the screen. The
tropical paradise disappeared with the click of
a button, replaced by my image coming to
focus on a bed.
He'd created a war inside me so easily. My
mind hated him. My body and heart screamed
out their opposition from behind whatever
line had been drawn in the sand.
"No, please don't make me do this," I
begged, the words barely coming out as a
whisper.
"Shhhhhhh," was his only response, his
thumb moving to brush over my trembling lip
before he lowered his hand to rest a finger
against my pulse.
I thought about clenching my eyes shut, but
I was caught by the image, spun tightly in the
sticky web of witnessing one of the most
horrifying moments of my life. And while my
heart began to hammer as my lungs struggled
to draw air, Ethan sat behind me, his chest a
lazy, rhythmic motion that betrayed the lack
of emotion inside him. He was merely
watching with his finger pressed softly to my
pulse.
Time didn't move as slowly now as it had
on stage. What had felt like a man crawling
toward me through sluggish soup, was
actually a man walking at a normal pace, his
gaze trained to me while I turned to stare at
the camera. I remembered the soft whir of
those machines, the heat pulsing off the
blinding lights, but none of that was here now
- just an image of a girl on a bed waiting for
her attacker to approach her.
But still, despite the absence of what it felt
like on that stage, I remembered it and felt it
again. Every step. Every beat of my heart.
Every sticky bead of sweat that dripped down
my face. I felt the crushing of my very soul
when I'd looked to Ethan for help and only
found him standing among his
cameras...watching.
I took a breath and saw the man lunge
toward me on screen. Not the man. The
seventeen year old kid that wouldn't see
eighteen because of me. I moved to shift my
weight over the couch and Ethan's hand
tightened over my neck to hold me in place.
Given no other choice but to sit still, I felt
panic crawl up my throat as the kid tore away
my negligee, as he revealed me for the larger
cameras off stage and the one floating above
me. It recorded every detail of my skin, took
its time on my breasts before sliding down my
abdomen. It didn't pan away until whoever
was watching the film got an up close and
personal shot of a thick cock forcing itself into
my body.
My body stiffened in response to the shot,
Ethan's body unaffected behind me.
Dizzy again, I cried as I heard all the
horrible things that bastard had said while
raping me. I tensed at the sound of my
screams tearing from Ethan's hidden speakers,
I felt my heart stop when a look glared from
my eyes toward the cameras - toward Ethan. It
was the moment the orgasm burst through me,
the moment I'd felt the worst form of betrayal,
the betrayal of my own body against me.
Ethan's thumb must have hit pause. The
moving images stopped and my betrayal was
staring back at me on freeze frame.
"There," Ethan whispered, "it was right at
that moment when your rage came to life. I
saw it from where I was standing as this was
filmed and I prayed that it was caught."
I knew my pulse was a drumbeat beneath
the pad of his finger, knew he'd felt my
reaction against his body. The evidence of it
was laced into the tone of his soft voice.
Soothing, yet excited, he spoke, his breath a
cascade of warmth against my cheek.
"I hate you for this," I hissed, not finding
the strength to add any volume to my voice.
His hand slipped from my neck to run over
my shoulder, down my arm, and to brush the
side of my breast. A shiver coursed through
me just as his thumb and finger softly rolled
the tip of my erect nipple from over my shirt.
"Do you?" he crooned, his voice so deep, it
was seeping inside me. "Hatred doesn't cause
this reaction."
My teeth slammed down on my lip to keep
from screaming, the rage at this moment
building just as quickly as it had on stage.
How dare he use my body against me? How
dare he point out that my breasts had
tightened at his touch and then tried to claim
it was the movie that did this to me?
How dare I try to lie to myself by refusing
to acknowledge what Ethan did to me when
we touched?
What the fuck was wrong with me?
A moan tore from my throat as he palmed
the weight of my breast. His voice a whisper
against my ear as he taunted me. "Hatred
doesn't make a woman's body ready itself for
sex. It doesn't wiggle its hips against my cock
or breath in short little excited huffs. It doesn't
still to a slow crawl as a man's hand runs
down its body. No, Emma. That's not hatred
you're feeling. It's something else, something
that tells me if I were to explore farther down
and brush my fingers between your legs,
they'd come away wet with your anticipation."
"That's not because of this horrible movie!"
He laughed, a strong bark of sound against
my back. "Then what caused it?"
The truth slapped me in the face.
Ethan had caused this, just for being so
close.
Refusing to admit it aloud, I said, "Just start
the damn movie and get this over with. And
get your hand off my tit."
Laughing softly, he did as I asked,
returning me to a film that I had no interest in
seeing. Before hitting play, he whispered
again. "Be sure to pay attention, or you'll miss
the best part."
The best part, indeed. More like the worst.
As soon as that bastard flipped me over and
ripped me apart, pure fury poured from my
lungs, the volume of that scream rattling the
speakers. I watched with anxious breath as my
hand crept down the side of the mattress and I
had to struggle to keep from clenching my
eyes shut to avoid witnessing the slaughter.
But my damn curiosity walked up to take a
seat beside time. It rounded my eyes as a
victim turned feral, held me in place as the
images transitioned from a girl being raped to
one driving a knife in her attacker's stomach.
The blood was so red against the white of the
bedspread, a deep crimson against my skin as
the rapist fell backwards and I jumped on top
of him. Sickened by that thing I was
witnessing on stage, I didn't recognize my
own humanity as I plunged the knife into his
chest over and over.
It wasn't just me who was reacting to the
film. Not this time, at least. I felt the hard
length of Ethan's arousal pressing against my
back, the truth of what turned him on.
Not rape.
Blood. Death. Destruction. That's what
made his heart beat as quickly as mine.
The film ended on a shot of my face turned
toward the camera, my eyes wild with
righteous anger while the blood slid down my
pale skin. Ethan and I both sat motionless at
that moment, him in wait for my reaction, and
me wanting to point out what I now knew
about him.
Allowing an arm to slide down beside us, I
bent it in such as way as to force my hand
between our bodies and stroke a finger down
the line of his cock that was a hard, pulsing
truth against my back.
"So, it's blood that turns you on, is it?"
His voice was dangerously sleepy, gritty
and rough. "No. Not blood. What I see in you
is what turns me on. Not the actress, Emma.
The warrior that hides just beneath your prim
and proper facade."
Shifting so that I could turn to face him, the
breath was dragged from my lungs to see heat
blazing behind his heavy eyelids. He
appeared drunk, the intoxication that flooded
him reaching out to smother me as well. Both
our chests beat hard with breath and I was
sure if I pressed a finger to his pulse, I'd find it
raced in time with mine.
"I won't do it again," I warned. "I'll die on
that stage the next time you force me up
there."
Blinking away the lust that was so obvious
in his eyes, he reached out to run a finger
down my cheek and along my jaw. "You will
do anything I ask of you, my beautiful girl. I
have ways of bending your will. It would be in
your best interests not to push me to use
them."
"Is raping me one of them? Is that what you
plan to do to me now?"
His lips pulled into a sleepy smile that
perfectly matched the danger in his eyes.
Lifting his head so that his lips brushed over
mine, he said, "I don't fuck actresses."
The door to his suite burst open, a guard
walking in with his trusty gun held tight to his
chest. My eyes darted between the guard and
Ethan in surprised confusion. Ethan simply
raised the remote and shook it. "This small
device has so many uses."
 Without pulling his eyes from mine, he
ordered, "Take her to the room tonight. Not
the cages. She'll be performing tomorrow and
will need her strength."
Before I could protest, I was jerked to my
feet from the couch, spun toward the door and
practically shoved through it. I barely
managed a backward glance at Ethan before
being forced down the hall at a breakneck
speed and deposited in the small room with
its sink-toilet combo and a mattress that was
lumpy.
The door slammed shut by the time I'd
gathered my bearings, my mind stuck in shock
by how quickly everything had changed from
one moment to the next. What the hell just
happened back there?
Dropping to the bed, I curled over myself as
tears poured from my eyes. Everything I'd
seen, everything I'd felt and Ethan had used
against me, came thundering back at such a
speed that I was caught in the tidal wave that
crushed me. Violent sobs tore from my throat,
pure sorrow leaking out on hot tears that
wouldn't stop coming.
I cried myself to sleep that night, sobbing so
damn hard that by the time I fell into fretful
dreams, they were of me drowning in my own
endless heartache.
 ETHAN
Too close.
That had been too damn close for my
comfort.
Even now after Emma had been dragged
from my lap and shoved down a hall out of
view, she still called to me with the fire
behind her eyes and responsive body. I could
feel the tension of her muscles against me,
could scent the hint of sex that was wet
between her legs. And as I leaned back against
a pillow, I grit my teeth to feel the strain of my
cock against the thin material of my slacks.
She was everything to me and nothing at
all. Beguiling me while seducing me, she was
still so blind to how simple it had been for her
to ruffle my feathers, to draw a reaction from
me that I hadn't given any woman since I left
reality behind to live among the sewer rats in
this lifestyle of pain without remorse.
And oh how close I had come to giving in
to the want inside me for a feral woman that
didn't know how simple it had been to seduce.
It was with great restraint that I'd pushed
the button on that remote calling the guard.
She would have let me ride her if I'd wanted,
would have let me flip her over on her
stomach, pull her t-shirt up her body and sink
myself inside.
I'd lied to her tonight much like I'd lied to
her on that stage after finishing her first film.
Hatred can cause the body to react. It can
force blood through the veins, shuttling it to
all the sensitive places. It can force a woman
into submission when it was mixed with toxic
want.
Emma hated me, there was no doubt about
that, but in her body, that hatred became a
living, breathing need so untamable that she
would happily scream from pleasure as well as
pure rage. She was the type of woman who
would gladly rip out my throat while kissing
me, her nails digging into my skin while her
teeth came down to bite on my lip, a growl
emanating from somewhere deep inside that
she didn't even know existed.
She was feral and raw, volatile and so
damn passionate that it didn't matter what
emotion she was feeling, it would still pour
out of her in such blinding, brilliant colors that
any person standing in her vicinity would be
doused in dark rainbows and sucked into the
void of her pure agony.
My heart bled for truth because truth was
too violent to hide behind beautiful masks,
and it was why my heart ached for a woman
who was too damn wild to be constrained by
falsehoods.
Emma was only the actress when she was
hiding from herself. It was a mask she'd been
made to wear by a civilized society and the
polite mannerisms shoved down every
person's throat. But to remove the plastic
wrapping and reveal the raw material inside,
you would come away with a woman so fiery
that she would burn your hands just to touch
her.
That is what I knew of her that she still
couldn't see in herself, and that is what I
planned to bring out of her the next time I set
her in front of my cameras. That is the stark
truth of her life that I wanted her to witness
when I played the film back for her, and God
help me, that is the part of her that I had to
fight not to tame with my body.
I would destroy that part of her if I allowed
myself to taste it because that fire couldn't
exist when a woman was seduced to drop to
her knees. Because despite how much I
wanted her - or how much she wanted me -
we were too closely connected by the same
untamed pulse of life that flowed in our
bodies.
Like two skilled warriors meeting in battle,
we would cancel each other out, both walking
away so injured that we'd never fight the
same again.
I couldn't allow that to happen to her, so I'd
hit that button calling the guard instead of
pulling her tight to my chest and warning her
of all the things I would do to her body
regardless of whether she hated me or not.
It hadn't been easy. She'd almost broken me
with the tease of finger sliding delicately up
the line of my cock. I'd almost broken her by
ripping the shirt from her body and pulling
her warm heat down the length of it just so I
could watch the emotions roll across her face
in absolute wonder.
Too close. That had been too fucking close.
And I had been left to feel the pain of it.
Slamming my palm down on the couch, I
shoved myself into a seated position, my
upper torso bending down over my knees as I
breathed out all the frustration teeming inside
me.
I wasn't a man without needs, but I had an
iron resolve - especially when it came to a
woman like Emma and what I knew she could
do for my art. Because, in the end, my vision
was all that could matter.
I'd known my entire life that I would go
into directing. There'd been no question of
that as I failed science, history, and
mathematics. All the classes that were useless
to me in the grand scheme of things. I'd only
paid attention in literature and art, in English
and other specialized classes that I knew
would enhance my prowess and skill behind a
camera.
As excited as I'd been about starting my
career, the years worked hard to disillusion
me to the field. What I'd imagined would be
raw clay for me to sculpt and shape into
whatever my mind could conjure had become
a chore I had to suffer each day I directed
more liars to cry their fake tears and deliver
bullshit lines that meant nothing in the long
run.
I'd offered new stories, new visions, new
ways of looking at the world around us, and
the producers had shaken their fat heads,
crossed their arms over their chests, and told
me they preferred I recreate something that
had already been done.

All for the almighty dollar.

All because society demanded the opiate of
fantasy in order to appease their fruitless and
boring lives.

While my career had been skyrocketing and

awards had been shoved down my throat, I
had been dying inside at the injustice of what
it meant to be an artist in modern times.
People didn't care for tragedy anymore, all
they wanted was the happy ending that
helped them sleep through the night.
But we don't live in a world where the
good guys always win and the bad guys are
sent back under their rocks to lick their
wounds. And that made every film that I
directed because I'd been left without a choice
a giant, despicable lie.
That was, until I'd been approached by a
man hiding in shadow, an email sent to me
that was untraceable but oh so seductive.

How would you like to direct whatever you

want? The actual occurrence of true horror and
helplessness that can't be found in the films you so
tirelessly vomit out?

It was like he had reached into my heart

and head to extract every painful thought that
had been silenced inside me. Who knows how
many directors he'd written this message to
before me? What I did know is that I had been
the one who responded.
It was very shortly thereafter that I
disappeared from Hollywood and had flown
to the studio to begin a new underground
career. I know this particular building will be
burned to the ground in another year, and
we'll pick up our operation and move it
somewhere else. These films aren't exactly
legal in any country where we make them. But
until then, this will be my home, a hidden
place away from the rules and regulations
placed on my form of art.
Art shouldn't have rules, it should be
allowed to become a living, breathing entity
all on its own, recording and reflecting the
world that existed at the time it was made.
The first few months had been a dream.
Sure, I had to check my own sense of morality
at the door for what we were doing. I had to
pretend not to know what the films were used
for. But I was willing to do that to finally brush
my hand down the soft cheek of my vision.
I'd been in love those first couple months.
But then, like any repetitive thing that
becomes tiresome and routine, I'd started
losing heart in this endeavor.
Until Emma came along.
I knew at first sight that she would be a
new beginning. I knew that she would be the
one who took the oxygen from the air and
breathed new life into my aching lungs. I
knew my heart would race for the first time in
what felt like eternity.
I hadn't been wrong.
And there was so much left inside her to
explore and extrapolate.
So, for now, the contact I'd allowed with a
muse like no other had been far too close for a
true artist's comfort.
 EMMA
I'd expected to be slapped awake the
following morning, as was typical with this
place. If it wasn't an actual hand striking my
skin, it was the flash of glaring lights and the
screams of the women being taken for their
films. But despite my expectations, I woke
softly the following morning, with a gentle
hand brushing the hair from my face, a small
voice whispering my name until I was
dragged from the fretful grip of sleep.
"Come on, Emma. Wake up. What is this
place? Why did they bring us here?"
Blinking my eyes open, I turned my sleep-
hazy gaze toward the sound of that voice.
Melanie sat on the bed next to me. Between
one second and the next I was caught in the
slow movement of a woman first awakened
and shooting up in bed to grab Melanie's
shoulders and ask questions.
"What are you doing here?"
Her eyes were rounded with fear, her hair a
limp chord of tangles falling over her
shoulder. "I don't know. That's why I woke
you up to ask. The guard came and got me this
morning. I thought I was being dragged off to
make a film. But instead, he stuck me in here.
What is this room?"
I opened my mouth to answer, but was
disrupted by the door slamming open and a
two guards carrying in trays of food. Setting
them by the opposite wall, one gruffly
announced, "Breakfast. You have ten minutes
to eat."
They were gone and the door slammed
shut again.
Locking my eyes to hers, I shrugged.
"They're not kidding. You should eat before
they march back in here in ten minutes to
flush it down the toilet-sink."
Her brows drew together. "The what?"
Turning, Melanie finally saw the steel
monstrosity that was supposed to count as a
proper bathroom. She stared for a long while
before finally muttering under her breath,
"Well, I guess that's better than the buckets."
"That's what I said. Come on, let's eat."
To my surprise, Melanie had been given the
same selection of food as me, which was far
better than what they served in the cafeteria.
But seeing that she'd been allowed something
even slightly nutritious made me concerned
about the reason why. Every move Ethan
made was well thought out and calculated.
Which meant Melanie's presence inside my
room couldn't be a good thing.
We finished eating just as the guards swept
in to collect the trays, a smiling Ethan gliding
in behind them. Leaning against a wall, he
tucked his hands in his pockets, his eyes
locked to mine as the guards shuffled through
the door and left the three of us standing in
tense silence.
"Morning, ladies. How nice it is to see both
of you."
My eyes narrowed, my hands fisting to hear
his tone of voice. When Ethan sounded
cheerful, there was hell to pay. "Why is she in
here?"
His eyes shot to Melanie and back to me.
"As collateral. It wouldn't have been necessary
if you hadn't already told me you would rebel
today. So, while you slept through the long
and lonely night, I sat up plotting." His
expression twisted, his lips curling with
sardonic humor. "You really should learn not
to reveal your cards so soon, Emma. It gives
other people time to act against you."

"You will do anything I ask of you, my

beautiful girl. I have ways of bending your will. It
would be in your best interests not to push me to
use them."

Son of a bitch.
And because I'd given Melanie the blanket
that night, Ethan had known just who to go
after to gain my cooperation.
He'd been right during our silent
conversation. I had given up my advantage.
Still, I couldn't help but push him for
answers. "What could you possibly threaten
that isn't already being done to us? You film
women being raped and murdered. It's not
like you can pull out some other horrible
torture from your bag of tricks. This won't
force me to be your little puppet."
"In fact, I can...and it will." Smile gone, his
expression became serious. "This is what I'm
proposing. I understand that for all the hard
work the guards do around this place, they
haven't been properly rewarded. So, I thought,
why not give them a few days of appreciation?
A free for all, if you will, but with only one
particular prisoner. Every guard we have,
maybe even a few of the studio heads, like the
man you heard the other night. Hell, I'll even
allow the cooks and janitors to come in and
have a taste, if that's what they want. Every
single one of them. As often as they like.
Without breaks. Without rules. Without
concern for the amount of hours or days this
woman will suffer their abuse. It won't be a
half hour or even an hour tops before I call cut,
it will be a never-ending conga line of sick,
perverted, painful fucks. Do you understand
how that could be worse than what you've
already seen in my bag of tricks?"
When I didn't respond, he smiled again. "I
see I have your attention. Would you like to
know how you can prevent that from
happening?"
After opening my eyes that had clenched
shut while listening to what he'd planned, I
glanced over to see that all color had drained
from Melanie's face, her body leaned against
the wall beside me because she couldn't trust
her legs to hold her up.
"How?" I finally asked, my will broken so
easily.
"By not only behaving when it's your turn
to be on that stage, but also for spending the
day with me as my assistant. I want you to
understand every aspect of my job, down to
the finest detail. And I want you to do so
without comments, complaints or rude little
accusations that make me feel bad about
myself."
 As if that could ever happen. Ethan feeling
bad about himself was like a lion crying over
the gazelle he was shredding with his teeth.
If my heart hadn't been trampled on
already, it would have been crushed by that
one statement. An entire day spent witnessing
Ethan's insanity. I wasn't sure I could survive
it.
But what choice did I have? I wouldn't let
him destroy Melanie. Not like that.
"Fine," I breathed out.
"Good." Moving slightly to his right, he
extended an arm to knock on the door. It
popped open a second later, a guard filling the
doorway with broad shoulders and black
fatigues.
"You can take the second one away now.
Put her back in the cages where she'll be kept
safe." He'd emphasized the word safe as a
pointed reminder of our newfound agreement.
Once we were alone, I crossed my arms
over my chest and tilted my chin in defiance.
"How safe?"
He stilled, his head slowly rotating my
direction, a brow arched arrogantly above his
eye. "I'm sorry. Had we not finished
discussing the terms of our arrangement?"
Playing word games with him wouldn't get
me anywhere. I decided the direct approach
might work. "I want to add a condition."
The corner of his lip twitched. "This should
be interesting."
"I don't want Melanie used for films either.
As long as we have this arrangement, I want
her completely safe."
"I'm not sure you're in a position to demand
that. I've already told you what will happen if
you don't cooperate today."
My own brow arched. "For today. Those
were the terms. But I suspect that you'll want
your little cash cow to cooperate longer than
that. So, that's what I'm offering. My
cooperation, for as long as you can use me, in
exchange for your promise that Melanie won't
be used in a film again."
His brows pulled together in consternation,
his observant eyes searching my face. "You
would do that? Sacrifice yourself to help some
woman you only met a little over a week ago?"
His voice was genuinely confused. "Why?"
Ethan often refers to me as an actress. He'd
used the name at particular times that, until
now, I didn't fully comprehend. At first, I'd
assumed he called me that because I was just
another character on his stage. But at the
moment, I wasn't so sure anymore that his use
of the title had anything to do with my forced
occupation.
 Arguing with him had become second
nature. So much so that it was a familiarity
between us. I wasn't terrified of him like the
other women - or, if I was, my mind had
found a way to turn off that terror in an effort
to shelter the rest of me.
I'd been terrified when I was snatched off
the street and stuffed into a van. I was still
terrified after being raped, shipped across an
ocean and walked single file into a building.
Yet, even that hadn't compared to the terror of
watching a woman get shot, seeing Melanie
raped on stage, or watching an asthmatic
woman die in front of me.
It wasn't as terrifying as being turned into a
killer for the entertainment of seedy men.
It was too much, and I think at some point,
the shock of it all had shut me down. It was as
if my brain protected me against a meltdown
and psychological snap by closing off emotion.
Without that emotion, I was nothing more
than a shell of the woman I'd been before all of
the terror, and as that shell, I'd worn a mask of
indifference. Since walking into Ethan's office
that first night, I'd pretended to be someone
I'm not.
That's why he always called me an actress,
not because of what I was forced to do, but
because I was as fake as all the other starlets
he'd hated in Hollywood.
I wasn't strong. I was scared beyond
comprehension. But I hadn't yet admitted it -
to him or myself.
Maybe I just needed to be honest for once.
Not for his benefit. But for mine. I was tired of
not feeling anything because I was afraid of
admitting I was terrified.
"Because it's the right thing to do. And
because I'm a fucking idiot. But really, what
does it all matter? It all washes out in the end
when I'm no longer making you money and
my time runs out."
The strength of my voice died off, each
word becoming a weaker construct, a ghost of
what it should have been. "And if I'm able to
do one good thing in this place, I will.
Because, in truth, I'm scared. Not just scared,
I'm terrified. There's no use pretending
otherwise. Not anymore, at least."
Stepping toward me, Ethan didn't so much
as blink. His eyes were too focused, his
expression pulled taut by whatever thoughts
were running through that messed up head of
his. I took the opportunity to study him back,
to dedicate to memory each line that marred
his skin, each silver hair at his temples that
betrayed his age. It was unfair how those
symptoms of a longer lived life only served to
enhance his appeal. They made him more
human.
Cupping my cheek with his hand, he gently
angled my face up to his. And with a silky
tone of voice that I would never openly admit
weakened my knees, he said, "For once, you're
being honest. I see you, Emma. I've always
seen you staring out from behind false eyes
and lying lips. But even in this brief moment
of raw honesty, you are mistaken about what's
inside you. You don't wear weakness well, so
stop trying to cram yourself into a costume
that doesn't belong to you. You're not scared.
You're tired. You're broken down and whether
you realize it yet or not, you've been forced to
your knees."
Pausing, he let his words sink in, let them
roll across the air until all I knew was the
flavor of them. "But you're not the type to stay
on your knees, are you? You're not the type to
be dominated so easily. And until you see
that, I'll continue playing my games to show
you what truly exists beneath your skin."
My bottom lip quivered, both from pain
and anger. Ethan's thumb swept over the
fullness of it, the taste of his skin seeping into
my mouth on a delicate tendril.
"Is that what this is to you? One big game?"
He smiled at the question, the type of smile
that would have melted my heart if I hadn't
known it was pure evil. Like me, Ethan was a
liar. Only where I raged, he seduced. And
where I broke down and admitted defeat, he
swept in for the kill.
"No. This is a challenge. One I gladly
accepted the second I laid eyes on you."
Much like last night, a moment occurred
between us that was too heady to tolerate. The
heat of his palm sunk into my cheek,
spreading like a virus, weakening me until I
lost the ability to function or think clearly. In
him, too, I saw another person staring out
from behind the mask of indifference he wore.
Except there was a slow burn to his inner self,
a mysterious dancer that spun and twirled
always remaining just outside my
understanding because he would never stop
moving long enough for me to see him fully.
The moment ended abruptly, Ethan's hand
sliding from my face, his strong, broad body
moving to cross the short distance of the room
until he was standing by the door. I was stuck
in place, still caught in whatever hypnotic web
that moment of clarity had weaved.
"Let's go," Ethan said, shredding the web
with his back to me and his hand on the knob
of the door. "We have new arrivals to meet."
Shuffling forward on bare feet, I resigned
myself to whatever tasks I would endure as
his assistant. They would tear me apart, I was
sure of it. But I had no other choice. Choice
had been taken from me the minute I was
ripped off that street in Boston.
Still, one question rolled in my mind as
Ethan stepped aside to allow me to walk
though the door. Turning back to him, I lifted
my eyes to say, "You never answered me."
Arrogance blended with just a touch of
humor was the arch of his brow. "Answered
what?"
"Will Melanie be kept fully safe? Unused
for anything as long as I cooperate?"
Stepping close to me, his chest brushed
mine as he lowered his head to speak against
my ear. "How cooperative are we talking?
Would you be willing to spread your legs for
her safety? Pretend to like it despite what's
being done to you?"
My heart fractured into tiny, tinkling
shards. "If I have to."
A beat of silence. "Even if the man between
your legs was me?"
A tremor coursed through my body, such a
tiny thing for how thoroughly it shook me. "Y-
yes," I stammered, unsure why, now, my voice
chose to break apart. I'd already been used in
that way, had been ripped open and stitched
back together. But the thought of it being
Ethan between my legs...
I didn't want to consider what it made me
feel.
He laughed softly, the husky sound like
music against my ear. "It's too bad, then, that
you're not in a position to make demands or
request conditions, because I would have
enjoyed watching you pretend you didn't like
what I was doing to you, even when I knew
how much you actually did."
Abruptly, he stepped away, cold air chasing
in to cover the areas where I no longer felt his
heat. Catching a glimmer behind his eyes as I
peeked up at him from beneath my lashes, I
scowled at the games he still played.
He only grinned in response. "Let's go,
Emma. We have work to do and I'm not the
type of fool that so easily gives up my
advantage."
He winked and I scowled harder.
 EMMA
"Put this on."
Catching the clothes Ethan tossed my way,
I stared down at the pale cream silk shirt that
wouldn't cover much of my skin, as well as a
black skirt that was two sizes too small for my
body. "What are these for?"
He glanced at me from across the costume
room he'd led me to from the bedroom. "It's
your outfit for today. You're not on stage and
you're not in the cages. It's only appropriate
you dress the part of an assistant rather than a
slave." Returning his attention to a closet he
was digging through, he added, "You are a
reflection of me today and I can't have you
wearing a basic t-shirt."
My jaw went slack, confusion caressing my
thoughts and forcing a softness to my words.
"You're serious about this? It's not just some
ploy you've staged to torture me?"
Snatching a box from the closet, he turned
to face me, a smirk pulling at his lips. "Did you
just admit spending an entire day with me
isn't torture on its own? If I'm not mistaken, I
think you're beginning to like me."
He tossed the box in my direction. I had to
drop the clothes to catch it. "You're mistaken."
Grinning, he teased, "If you say so. Get
dressed."
Opening the box, I pulled out a pair of red
leather stiletto heels. Holding one up, I looked
at Ethan in question. "What are these?"
"Your ruby slippers." Leaning against a far
wall, he crossed his arms over his chest, one
foot moving so that he could hook the ankle of
his right leg over the left. Even when casual,
he was challenging.
We stared at each other for what felt like
hours. Finally I asked the question tumbling
about in my head. "Are you going to turn
around so I can get dressed?"
His eyebrow arched. "Modesty, Emma?
You can't be serious after everything we've
been through."
Huffing out a breath, I couldn't deny he
was right. If any person had seen every
intimate part of me, it was this man. He'd been
the one to inspect me when I first arrived - the
one who had so callously complained that I
was used property.
Ruby slippers. He was such a charming ass.
Never forgetting anything because he'd stored
it away for the precise moment when that
kernel of memory would become useful.
Dropping the shoe in the box and the box to
the floor, I snatched the clothes from where
they'd fallen, tossed them on a chair at my
side and slipped the t-shirt from my body. It
hadn't been my intent to peer up at Ethan at
that moment, but still I found my eyes sliding
his direction, my mind identifying and taking
note of the way he watched me. There was
heat behind his steel gaze, I was almost sure of
it, but one could never truly tell with Ethan.
He had a way of making you believe you saw
something that was never actually there.
While the shirt he'd given me left little to
the imagination, the skirt was like a vice
squeezing my legs together. It was so damn
tight, I wondered how I would manage
walking, especially on four inch heels. I sat
down to strap the shoes to my feet, hoping
they wouldn't fit. Unfortunately, they
did...perfectly.
By the time I looked up, Ethan was
standing in front of me, a hand extended to
assist me from my seat. I would have thought
him a gentleman if I didn't know better.
Accepting it, only because I wasn't sure I
wouldn't topple over as soon as I was on my
feet, I ignored the spark that shot across our
skin. This place was slowly stripping my mind
from me, leaving me stumbling through the
insanity that was Ethan Cole.
"You look lovely." His compliment was
delivered on a deceitful tongue.
I didn't bother thanking him. Believing
anything the man had to say would be
purposefully giving up my sanity. Nothing
was real in this place. But holding on to that
knowledge was becoming harder and harder
with each passing day. It made me wonder
how many of the women trapped here had
already been pulled into madness by the
strong undertow of Ethan's deceit, by the
pulse of inhumanity that promised them this
life had become their new reality.
Fighting against the pull, I was still
discovering how to escape, still mapping all
the different hallways and doors that could
lead to a breach in their airtight security.
Perhaps Ethan's new form of torture would
be the very thing that gets me out of here. But
I would have to earn his trust, which meant I
would have to wear another false mask he
would undoubtedly see through.
"Let's get this over with," I finally muttered,
my legs trapped together and my feet aching
in the heels.
 There was dark humor in his voice, "Don't
sound so excited."
Ethan led me out of the room and down
several hallways before I recognized where
we were. Mentally mapping each step, each
turn, I followed along, my expression
tightened the closer we got to a door that
wasn't familiar from one side, but would be
from another.
Opening it, Ethan stepped out first, leaving
me to close it again. My forward motion
stopped the instant I heard the sobbing
coming from the women. Memory crept into
my head - emotion drowning me as I was
returned to the day I had been one of those
women standing in a single file line. Today,
there were only three; a blonde, a brunette
and a redhead.
"I'd like all of you to remove your clothes,
stand side by side, and you can drop the
histrionics. They won't do you an ounce of
good in this place."
Businesslike and astute, Ethan's tone had
lost the trace of humor I normally heard when
he was speaking to me. The memory of that
particular tone traced a finger up my spine. It
was so cold, like a slap of winter's worst
cruelty against your naked cheeks.
Glancing over his shoulder at me, he
winked. My stomach dropped into my feet.
How was it so easy for him to speak to these
women without any hint of humanity, but
then turn and be playful with me? Somehow,
it only made me more confused. My heart
wanted to like him while my mind screamed
that he was a vile, heartless beast.
Stepping up to the stand in front of the
blond woman, he cast a glance at me again
where I stood frozen by the doorway. He
angled his head to indicate for me to move to
his side. I did so on legs that had lost
circulation beneath a vice-like skirt, and
ankles that weren't balanced enough for tall
heels. Managing not to break my neck, I took
my place and scanned my eyes over the
women, pity a pulsing beat in my heart. They
looked back at me silently begging for the help
I couldn't give them.
Ethan's eyes were focused on the blonde.
"Open your mouth."
She did so after several failed attempts.
Snatching her chin between his thumb and
fingers, he turned her head this way and that,
searching for what, I wasn't sure. Were the
women required to have good teeth? Did it
really matter when all the camera would catch
them doing is scream?
Releasing her, he said, "Feet apart, hands to
your side."
She struggled to take the position, her body
trembling as he examined her. I knew what
was coming next, the worst invasion of all.
"Turn around and bend over. Legs kept
apart."
The woman did as she was told, her will
already broken by whatever had been done to
her before she was brought to the studio. I
knew she hadn't been raped, or Ethan would
have made mention of it. But that was only
one degrading act among many. Who knew
what other horrors she'd already lived and
seen?
"Straighten up. Do you have any health
conditions I should be aware of?"
Shaking her head, the women's eyes darted
between Ethan and me. I didn't dare meet
them, couldn't allow her to find any small
hope that, like me, she wouldn't be a beaten
slave.
"Go stand in front of the door to the left."
We moved on to the redhead in the center
to go through the same routine. Like the
blonde, she passed Ethan's scrutiny and was
directed to the left door. Approaching the
brunette woman, I noticed instantly how
young she looked, the terror in her wide eyes
clawing at my heart.
 Ethan must have noticed as well. "How old
are you?" he asked before leading her through
the motions. The charm in his tone softened
her eyes. I pitied her for that softness. She had
no idea she was facing a jackal.
"I - I'm eighteen. Well, today I am."
"What's your name?" he asked, breaking
from the script I remembered from the day I
was brought in here.
"J - Joanna."
Tears wept from her eyes. I hadn't even
considered how the women felt during
birthdays and other holidays in here. The
thought hadn't had time to cross my mind, but
then again, with the way the days blended
together I wasn't sure any person could keep
track long enough to know those special days
had come and gone.
"Happy Birthday, Joanna," Ethan crooned,
his malice wrapped in soft velvet. Subtly
elbowing me, his eyes met mine with the
demand that I say something as well. My eyes
narrowed as the words became trapped in my
throat. He merely cocked an amused brow.
Knowing Melanie's life was on the line
helped to loosen my tongue. "Happy
Birthday," I said curtly, not meaning a word of
it.
By this task, he was making me part of this
place and I resented him for it. The first ribbon
of anger weaved through me, not enough to
set my body on edge, but enough to be a
whisper against my thoughts.
"I'll need you to open your mouth for me -"
As Ethan went through the motions of the
examination, I spaced out, unable to endure
the psychic pain pouring off the poor young
girl that had only now become a legal adult. I
wasn't sure where she was snatched from or
how, but I knew intimately the humiliation
she felt in this moment.
Once Ethan instructed her to stand again, I
forced myself to pay attention. "Do you have
any health conditions I should be aware of?"
Her eyes flicked to mine, embarrassment a
color across her skin. "Mental or physical?" she
asked softly.
Ethan and I both snapped our gazes to her.
"Either," Ethan finally answered.
She shrugged her shoulders. "I have anger
management problems," she said, refusing to
meet either of our eyes while admitting it.
I didn't need to look at Ethan to know his
mouth had pulled into a wide smile. "How
unfortunate." Based on the tone of his voice,
he hadn't meant it. "You'll have to stand in
front of the right door."
The girl moved to do as she was told while
I bit down on the inside of my cheek to keep
silent. She didn't deserve the right door. There
wasn't a single woman who hadn't been
driven to mental issues inside this place. She
didn't deserve death for it.
After the women were in place, Ethan
called out to the guards, "Take them inside."
He shot me a curious glance before opening
the center door for us to walk through. As
soon as it was closed, I couldn't stay quiet any
longer.
"Why did you send that girl to the right
door? She was barely an adult. She doesn't
deserve that!"
Twisting slowly to stare at me, Ethan's jaw
ticked. "I can't be sure, but was that a
complaint?" He cocked that brow of his I now
wanted to rip from his handsome face. "I
could have sworn we had an agreement that
complaints weren't allowed."
The ribbon of anger in me was now pulled
taut across my body, like a violin string that
could be plucked. I knew the color of it
highlighted my cheeks, the force of it radiating
from my eyes in daggers aimed straight at the
heart of Ethan.
Ignoring the subtle warning, I argued,
"She's just a kid."
"She's eighteen."
 "That's too young," I argued at his back.
He rounded on me, our faces suddenly too
damn close. "She's prey, Emma. She always
has been. And regardless of her age, she's now
a part of this place, for better or for worse. We
are not a hotel, despite your demands. We do
not bring in women to protect them and keep
them safe in their cages. They are fodder for
the predators. Hopeless souls that will
eventually be destroyed. Would you have
preferred the girl have gone through the left
door and been subjected to years of abuse
rather than suffering the hour it will take to
dispose of her? Each one of you has a time
limit of twenty-four years old. That poor child,
given her age, would have endured six years
of this abuse rather than one or two. Is that
what you want for her?"
His words froze me in place, but not
because of the girl. "What do you mean
twenty-four years?" I asked softly.
"I mean that when a woman reaches that
age, she's sent to studio B for her final
performance. It's happened to every woman
who came before you, will happen to every
woman who is here now, and to every woman
that comes after you. It's a rule set in place by
the studio heads and there's nothing you or I
can do about it. So, I apologize for finding a
reason to give that a girl a quick death, but
five years is too long for her to endure this
abuse even by my standards."
He turned around and walked away,
leaving me standing in place. The ribbon of
anger inside me expanded into a thick cord,
small threads of rage, indignation, and fury
tugging into place until it grew thicker and
heavier.
I stood stunned, not only by the acrid
emotion spinning and building inside me to a
point of dizzy chaos, but at what Ethan had
admitted during his explanation. My brows
drew together in response to the whisper of
truth that dragged the tips of its ghostly
fingers across my thoughts, the tiny window
that was opened so that I could peek beyond
the shadows of Ethan's professional mask, the
small kernel of doubt that had lodged
between my teeth until I wanted to pick at it
incessantly.
Knowing the girl was younger than what I
assumed was normal, understanding that her
suffering would endure far longer than the
rest of us, Ethan had gone against routine,
against established rules, and had chosen a
fate for the girl that would be kinder
somehow.
I couldn't wrap my brain around it, couldn't
grasp it in my palm without it becoming liquid
and sliding through my fingers, but still, it was
there and I struggled within myself not to look
at Ethan differently, to wonder...
No. There wasn't even a touch of humanity
inside him. There couldn't be if he was willing
to direct these films day after day without so
much as blinking an eye at their cruelty. He
wasn't allowed to hint at a heart he didn't
have. I wouldn't let him plant a seed inside
me that would grow into doubt about what I
already knew about him.
Not him. Not the Director. Not the man
who existed in Hell just so that he could
ensure it was as perfectly horrifying as it
should be.
"No," I called out, forgetting about the
agreement and all the threats that had forced
me to accept it. "You can't do that. You can't
pretend that you're doing something decent
for these women by choosing how long they
suffer. You can't pretend that you have
potential inside you to care. You won't trick
me into thinking you have even the slightest
sliver of a soul."
Stopping again, his soft voice was full of
ice. "Do you honestly believe the rules don't
apply to you?"
I didn't answer because I wasn't sure how
to respond. He'd taken the subject and flipped
it without bothering to explain what he meant.
Standing dangerously still, Ethan didn't so
much as glance back at me while waiting for
my response.
Weak as a mouse, I finally said, "I don't
know what you mean."
Pivoting on his heel slowly, Ethan's gaze
met mine, a sheet of ice crackling down my
body at the malice coloring his eyes.
Creeping forward on casual feet, he smiled
that lazy, dangerous grin. "I have already
warned you what will happen if you refuse to
cooperate. And yet, here you are, still arguing,
still making comments that are above your
place. I'm not one to repeat myself, Emma.
One more word out of that rebellious little
mouth of yours and I'll not only throw your
friend to the wolves, I'll tie you to a chair, sit
you in that room, and make you watch the
entire thing."
We were nose to nose by the time he
finished the threat.
"As for what I choose to do in this studio
with the women who are dropped off at my
door, that is none of your damn business."
His arm struck out, his fingers twisting in
my hair as he pulled me closer. Tears welled
in my eyes, the pain pushing them out as
strands broke away from my scalp. Ethan's lips
were pressed to my ear, his breath a warm
blanket against my chilled skin. "And
regardless of all that, who are you to accuse a
person of pretending to be someone they are
not? All I see when I look at you is a scared
little actress wearing a pretty costume and
saying practiced lines while desperately
hiding who she really is."
Whimpering at the fire burning across my
scalp, I let the tears spill down my face. Ethan
didn't care, his deep voice pure menace. "Now
apologize before you piss me off."
"I - I'm sorry."
He released me, the sudden movement
knocking me off balance and dropping me to
the floor. Ethan stalked off without another
word, fully expecting for me to follow him.
Pushing to my feet, I did what was
expected of me.
We were in his office before he spoke again,
his hand snatching a stack of papers from the
desk. "We'll be going to studio B in a half hour.
In the interim, I need to go over the script. I
suggest you sit down for a while. Quietly."
Warning given and received, I slunk to the
couch, sitting at the farthest end to have as
much distance between us as possible. Tears
were seeping from my eyes, but not from pain
or fear. That cord of anger inside me was now
a full rope, one stretched so tightly that the
smallest threads were snapping.
The knuckles of my hands were white from
how hard I clasped them, my inner cheek
chewed raw. But I knew better than to push
him again. At that moment, he was drowning
me in his contempt, pouring it over my head
while holding my mouth open to swallow it.

I wasn't scared, though.

It's impossible to smother a woman with
cold contempt when she is already fully
consumed by her own.

For a half hour I stared at a wall, at my feet,

my hands, anything besides the man pacing
the length of his desk as he flipped through
pages. Counting down the minutes, I fought to
keep my face averted, battled against my own
traitorous eyes trying to sneak over for a quick
peek. But I wouldn't allow it. I refused to give
him even a little ground by turning to him
first. I hated him. Wanted nothing to do with
him and it shouldn't have been so hard to
keep from looking in his direction.
But it was. And I hated myself for that, too.
"Our thirty minutes are up, Emma," he
stated without even a drop of affection in his
voice. Solid impenetrable rock, Ethan was a
smooth marble surface that sent you sliding if
you dared to scale his defensive walls.
I turned to him.
Our eyes met.
"They're waiting for us in Studio B."
 EMMA
The walk to be studio was perilous. Several
times I barely managed to keep from tumbling
over my own feet, from crashing against the
icebergs and careening along the glaciers left
in the wake of a man whose demeanor had
turned deadly serious and restrained.
The stern set of Ethan's shoulders betrayed
the thin precipice of control upon which he
was barely balanced, the tension in his arms
and legs obvious against the clothes he wore
that were just one more weapon in his
seductive arsenal. I fought not to stare forward
at a powerful stride that not only injected
panic straight into my veins, but also called to
me on a level I was too cautious to explore.
Was he right to claim there was a common
thread between us? What was it about his
anger that caressed my soul rather than
gripping it between punishing fingers and
shredding it with razor sharp claws?
I hadn't spoken of Ethan with Melanie or
any other woman trapped in the cages, but I
had to wonder: Did they feel the same
undeniable pull towards him when they were
shoved to their knees and told to behave?
My body shuddered at the thought.
Fortunately, I wasn't given much time to
roll that odd whisper of thought over my
tongue to discover its flavor. The door to
Studio B was there in front of us - the door
that, per Ethan's words, led to the final
performance of every woman who entered
this place.
I didn't have to guess who the actress
would be on that fateful stage, I could only
imagine what it would do to me to see the fear
on her young face. Would I recognize the
exact moment she understood she was simply
fodder for the gnashing teeth of rabid dogs?
Ethan opened the door and we stepped
through silently, he a mountain that
threatened to become a landslide crushing
every person here, while I was the foreboding
shadow at his back blanketing the ground.
The production crew went about their
business seeing to the cameras, the set, the
lights, while behind another door, I could hear
a woman screaming - not in fear, I realized,
but in unbridled rage.
Ethan stopped his forward movement at
the whisper of sound that was growing louder
with each passing second. I slammed into his
back, my head turned toward it, the sound
stealing my attention. Reaching around, Ethan
caught me before I crashed to the ground, both
our bodies held in quiet stillness as we
listened.
"You stupid son of a bitch! Let go of me! I'll
tear out your fucking throat and reach down to rip
out your beating heart if you touch me again!"
My eyes rounded. Was that the young,
timid girl from the entry room?
His fingers tightening over my hip, Ethan
glanced back at me and mouthed, anger
management problems.
I was so caught in the shock of it I'd failed
to notice that our bodies were pressed tightly
together. Stepping away just to gain distance, I
rued the rush of disappointment I felt to lose
the heat of his body against mine.
The disappointment was swiftly brushed
away, however, when I glanced toward the
stage, the fibers of that angry rope snapping
more to see the type of film being made.
The back wall was a canvas of green,
intended for what purpose, I wasn't sure, but
the theme of the film was plainly written in
the lone dentist's chair positioned front and
center. A stretch of sickly blue pleather, it was
covered by a thin clear sheeting, the dulled
and scratched metal base gleaming ominously
beneath the stage lights. At the chair's side, a
silver tray stood just taller than the seat itself,
carrying what I assumed was an array of
instruments I couldn't see from where I was
standing.
The chair and the stage were two
nightmares shoved together, the scene set for
the young girl's demise nothing short of pure,
malicious terror.
My eyes locked on that scene as the
breakfast I'd eaten earlier threatened to make
its quick exit all over my sky high ruby
slippers.
Turning to me, Ethan canted his head to the
side, humor tugging at the corners of his lips.
Forgetting the contempt he'd force fed me
since the moment I talked back, he reached
out to slide a hand over my shoulder and pull
me close. His voice was a bare whisper. "I'm
wondering how this film is going to play out.
Especially with this particular theme and an
actress who can't seem to keep her mouth
shut."
The screaming continued with several
pauses, which I assumed were when the guard
in the room lost patience. But unlike me,
who'd come quickly under control once the
butt of the gun had met my head, that girl
only grew louder with her threats to eviscerate
the man watching over her.
"Maybe you should use her in my place," I
suggested. Surely, her anger would be more
suitable for a woman who killed.
Ethan absently shook his head in
disagreement, the wheels spinning as thought
raced behind steel colored eyes and a
handsome face. Even his voice was distracted.
"No. She's not a predator, Emma. Not like you.
While you're a hunter silently stalking
whatever prey had the misfortune of passing
by, that girl is a barking dog warning a mail
carrier away from the door. There's no skill in
that, no indecision. Just pure loss of control."
Silent for a moment, Ethan suddenly
announced, "We need to talk to the male lead.
Ensure he knows what needs to be done with
a woman like that. This is a situation that can
drastically spiral into a shit show of wasted
film."
He marched off and I followed, my
curiosity getting the better of me. "Who are the
male leads? How do you find them? Do they
live here?"
So focused on the film and all the intricate
details that would make it a success, Ethan
failed to censure the fact that I'd asked
questions, and to my surprise, he answered.
"I have no idea who they are. The studio
heads handle that. And no. They don't live
here."
We entered a room to the left of the stage,
Ethan allowing me to pass by before shutting a
door behind us. A man sitting on a couch at
the other end of the room stopped me in my
tracks.
Dark haired and with sun-kissed skin, the
man sat patiently in his seat, lifting a coffee
cup from the table to take a sip. Pulling the
cup away, he looked up at me with piercing
green eyes. And while the color was stunning,
especially beneath the low lighting of the
room, there was no soul behind them, no
warmth, no life.
I was staring straight into the eyes of a man
with not one drop of compassion inside him.
Just death, destruction - the shell of a human
emptied out until all that left was a beast.
Ethan skirted around me, brushing me off
like the insignificant shadow that I was.
Moving toward the man, he extended a hand
in greeting. Those dead eyes slid off me
toward Ethan, a smile stretching his lips tight
across his stern features. He stood to accept
Ethan's hand and revulsion coursed through
me. Not because the man was ugly, but
because a small part inside me found him
attractive.
Tall and lithe, he had wide shoulders and
the chest of a gladiator. But where his upper
half was well muscled and bulging, his lower
half was perfectly narrowed down to the
waist, every muscle in his abdomen tightly
toned. He wore no shirt and had a dusting of
chest hair. Another dusting of hair started at
his midsection, the light trail leading the eye
down to the black leather pants he wore.
"Ethan Cole," his deep voice echoed as the
two men shook hands. "I'm directing the film
today and I wanted to warn you-"
More yelling burst through the walls from
the adjacent room.
"Ah," Ethan grinned, "I see you're already
familiar with the woman who will be starring
opposite you."
The man grunted something I didn't
understand, his cold eyes shifting to stare at
me. Mine narrowed back on him. Attractive or
not, there was only vicious violence inside
that man.
The two men started discussing the film in
a foreign language, and although I didn't
recognize the language they used, I was oddly
spellbound by the way it so effortlessly rolled
off Ethan's cultured tongue. He was perfectly
fluent in whatever it was, the sharp accents
and soft cadence flowing within the deep
timber of his voice.
It wasn't until Ethan looked my direction
that I snapped out of whatever trance his
voice had induced. Our eyes met as I was still
blinking away the haze of it, his smile gone,
his features stern with some unspoken
thought. Breaking his stare, I flicked a glance
in the other man's direction noticing that he,
too, stared my way.
Ethan volleyed off a few more clipped
words before stalking toward the door,
wrapping an arm around my waist as he
passed to guide me from the room.
"It's show time," he whispered, reminding
me of the stage where I'd been the last time I
heard those words. Releasing me, he
sauntered off toward the center of the room, a
buzz of activity fluttering around him, the
shifting bodies never coming within his
personal space.
"We're starting," Ethan announced with
thunder in his deep voice. I stood back as the
activity came to a grinding halt, each person
ready and waiting.
The yelling in the other room stopped
abruptly as well, my head turning toward the
closed door wondering how the guard had
accomplished that feat.
Approaching the stage, Ethan was very
much in his zone, so focused that it trapped
the breath in your lungs to see a man so firmly
set in his ambition. The jokester I'd glimpsed
in him was entirely absent, replaced by the
professional, a man suited to this world and
able to manage it with the ease of a flick of his
fingers. While his movies were being filmed,
every live body in this room was just another
puppet whose strings were tied to his iron
will, not one person daring to step out of line
for fear of drawing his observant eye.
Stuck in place, I simply watched as he
glided forward to stand between his cameras,
listened as every distinct sound died off into a
tense and patient silence. Nothing would
happen until he gave the word and snapped
his powerful fingers. Nothing at all would
move until he nodded his head at the woman
with her clapboard to shout out the title and
slap the top down.

Nothing at all.
However, this time was different.

With everybody in place waiting on his

command to begin, Ethan's body twisted my
direction, his eyes meeting mine as he
motioned for me to walk to him. My heels
were a rhythmic click within the quiet, my
mind frightened as the other crew stood
confused. Coming within arm's reach of
Ethan, I was surprised as he reached out to
take my hand in his own. Pulling me to stand
in front of him, he pressed his chest to my
back, wrapping his strong arms around my
shoulders to hold me in place.
He didn't say a word about what he was
doing, but I already knew. Instead of just
watching my reaction, he wanted to feel it,
too.
Heart hammering beneath my ribs, beneath
the point where his two arms crossed over my
chest, I drew in a steadying breath just in time
for the woman to call out, "Oral Fixation," and
slap down the top of her clapboard.
The sound of that slap still whispered off
the walls as the large man from the other room
walked on stage, Joanna dragged behind him.
Although her mouth was filled by a ball gag,
she still mumbled beneath the plastic, her
voice carrying as she fought against the man's
hold.
Her foot impacted with the back of his leg,
her left wrist wrenching free just as he
approached the chair. The roar that emanated
from his mouth when she scratched her
fingernails down his face would have been
comical if he hadn't picked her up and
slammed her naked body down into the chair.
I tensed at the screech of the chair's metal
base, Ethan's arms tightening around me as his
head lowered down so that his mouth would
rest at my ear. "Scream during this film, and
you know what happens to your friend. This
will only last a few minutes at best, but if you
ruin it, your friend will suffer for days until
her death."
Tears leaked from my eyes as I watched
helplessly. Joanna fought with everything she
had, the base of the chair shaking against the
bolts holding it to the floor. The man above
her bared his teeth as he held her writhing
body in place. And while my eyes were filled
with the vision of cruel death, the rope inside
me snapped fully apart, the anger set free to
heat my skin beneath Ethan's strong arms.
How fucking dare he make me choose
between the lives of two women? Force me to
silently accept the one death in place of the
other? I could do something now to help this
girl, but I was bound and gagged by Ethan's
clear warning.
I wasn't sure I could hate him more than in
that moment, my hatred of him dancing and
mingling with my fury at the man callously
torturing a woman as helpless as the rest of us.
Several times she broke free of his meaty
grip to slap at his face, yank his hair and go for
his eyes. Successful only a few times, she was
finally subdued when he lodged his palms
against her shoulders, picked her up, and
slammed her back down. A bolt broke from
the base of the chair, the soft clamor of it
hitting once before it slowly rolled off the
stage.
I watched that bolt until it fell to the ground
below, dragging my eyes back up even though
I didn't want to see what would occur.
My body was shaking by this point, Ethan's
tight arms no doubt recording every detail of
my frantic pulse and tense muscles. And even
though I was barely standing on shaky legs
and painful feet, Ethan stood behind me calm
as a cat lying in a beam of summer sun. His
breathing was free and even, his eyes focused
solely on the stage. Every so often he'd pull an
arm away to direct one cameraman one way
and a sound guy another, but that arm would
always return to wrap around me and hold me
in place.
In my decision to let this woman die in
place of my friend, I was as complicit as every
person standing here refusing to lift a finger to
save her life. The anger I harbored was equally
leveled on myself as well as every breathing
body around me.
In the rage drowning me slowly, I'd become
a ticking time bomb.
Joanna, too, it seemed. Especially when the
man ripped the gag from her mouth making it
possible for her to scream.
"You slimy son of a-"
His fist impacted her face with such
strength that blood burst from her nose, the
crunch of bone unmistakable as a tooth sprung
loose from her mouth to clatter on the floor
beneath them.
My stomach heaved. Ethan's arms held me
tighter.
Swimming in whatever pain he'd just
inflicted, Joanna went quiet as the man hit a
lever to drop the head of the chair down. Her
feet went into the air, his fist hitting her face to
knock out more teeth. I now understood the
theme of this particular film and I wanted to
join her in her screams.
Enough teeth must have come loose for his
satisfaction, because in the next instant he'd
unbuttoned his pants to pull his cock free. By
the time his hand slipped between her legs to
explore her intimate places, I was biting my
tongue to keep from begging Ethan to make it
stop.
 Despite her pain, Joanna's body reacted to
what his hand did to her, her bloodied
expression shifting and changing as he forced
her own body into betrayal. While laughing at
her horror, he straddled her face to shove his
cock into a mouth that had been emptied of its
teeth.
"Suck it, bitch!"
Pure rage burst inside me at that moment,
my hatred a teeming, expanding inferno of
blistering heat. Unable to stop my tears, I was
helpless to slow the threat of death in my
racing heart. I turned without thinking,
desperate to look away, to somehow escape
watching a man choke a woman with his body
until-
I couldn't even finish the thought, couldn't
survive the horror of what was happening. I
was fully turned by the time I realized I was
moving, and to my surprise, Ethan's hand
came up to hold the back of my head and
press my eyes to his broad shoulder while the
crew continued filming.
Sobbing until his shirt was soaking wet, I
hid from the slaughter until Ethan's deep
voice called, "Cut!"
Ethan's hand released me and I glanced
over my shoulder, my legs finally giving out to
see Joanna's limp body lying on the chair, her
arm hanging down heavy on the floor covered
in her blood.
A strong arm caught me before I could
crumple to the floor, lips pressed to my ear.
"What did you think?" he asked softly, just the
slightest hint of anticipation whispering
through the sound.
My answer came out on tremulous words.
"I hate you for that. I hate everyone in this
room. But mostly, I hate that sick animal on
stage."
Ethan practically growled, his chest a gentle
vibration against mine. "Good, because I'll be
filming you with him next."
 EMMA
"No," I stated with as much strength as I
could manage. "You're not."
Ethan's eyes searched mine, the lights of
the studio reflecting in the grey, transforming
the color into luminous silver. A line formed
in the skin between his eyes, his full lips
slightly parted on words that hadn't yet
arrived.

His fingers caressed my cheek, sliding to

follow the line my jaw.
Gently, far too gently, he answered, "I am."
That was that. No need for debate. No need
for complaints. No need to remind him I
didn't want to kill.

He was doing it.

And that was that.

Pulling his hand from my face, he stepped

back, the room coming into focus as I
remembered the beat of activity going on
around where we stood. Wiping a tear from
my face, I looked up in time to see Joanna's
body carried off stage. My eyes slid over to the
man who killed her so savagely. He stared
down at me like I would be next. Anger
flowed through me, the cold bite of rage
nipping at my skin and freezing my heart in
place.
I hated that man. Hated the nightmare my
life had become. Hated that the only person
who showed me kindness in this entire place
was the one standing in front of me gently
telling me that I, too, would be thrown to the
wolves.
Absorbing that anger, I allowed it to rush
through my veins, to heat my skin to the point
of burning, to light my eyes with such wild
fire that I knew I'd spill that monster's blood
for revenge. Dragging my gaze away from his
dead eyes and snide smile, I locked my stare
on Ethan.
"You did this on purpose," I said, the
cutting accusation so obvious in my voice that
it caused Ethan to flinch.
Canting my head, I smiled, the expression
pure malice toward the bastard that believed
he had so expertly pulled my strings without
me noticing his intent. "Tell me, was the entire
day planned for this particular end? Or was
my job as your assistant just icing on your
sadistic fucking cake?"
Dropping my eyes to his lips, I fully
expected he would grin and flash his straight,
white teeth, but instead, he stood silent and
still, not answering until I met his glimmering
gaze again.
"I want you to live, Emma. I don't know
that man up there. I've never met him and
from what I've been told, he paid top dollar to
be given the chance to be the man who puts
you in your place. I can't trust him. And I can't
trust that you won't give up today in a feeble
attempt to teach me a lesson. He will kill you
if you give him the chance. You need to
understand that."
There was only truth behind his eyes, truth
and the subtle flicker of something else. "What
I did today was for you. Regardless of whether
you choose to believe it. I need you to be as
angry as possible, Emma. Not just a spitting
cat, but a lion."
My heart had managed to crawl into my
throat while he talked, the hammering a torrid
beat that drummed through my body. "You
could have just told me that and saved me the
threat against Melanie and forcing me to take
part in these horrible fucking games. You
made me choose one life over the other and I
hate you for it."
His palms were hot against the skin of my
shoulders. "Hold on to that hatred. If you need
me to do more horrible things before sending
you up on that stage, I will. I can't watch you
die, Emma. I won't. And if I have to butcher
every woman in this place just to make you go
cold, then that's what I'll do to keep you
alive."
Fuck! For a second there I honestly believed
I saw concern flash in his eyes. Not just
concern, but fear. Holding on to my hatred of
him was like trying to hold on to wild horse, it
kept kicking and bucking, constantly
slamming into me just to run away.
"What do you care?" I demanded, strength
finally returning to my voice because I wasn't
just angry with him, I was angry with my
entire life.
Just like that, the concern was gone, his
expression pulled into the professional mask
he wore so well. "I don't," he answered, the
cold contempt having returned to his tone.
"And we've run out of time to talk about it."
His fingers wrapped around my bicep, not
hard enough to bruise, but firm enough to be a
credible threat. Trying to shake him off would
be a wasted effort, so I simply followed after
him, allowed him to lead me to Studio A
without another word.
Once inside, however, I pulled back, my
wide eyes scanning the stage to see that my
bedroom had been reassembled down to the
same tiniest details. "Where's the originality?"
I asked, the spitting cat in me stalking out to
sharpen her claws.
Ethan smiled, his bright white teeth
flashing beneath the dark color of his beard for
only a second. The bemused expression was
gone before he bothered to turn back and
glance in my direction. "It's better to let the
fools believe this is real. It will prevent certain
viewers from finding the studio, from even
knowing the studio exists. You, my beautiful
girl, are the newest of predators. One who
lures men to her room for rough sex and kills
them for the attempt. A femme fatale, if you
will, a Lolita who seduces with her rage."
That didn't make sense. If they were
playing this off as real, as if I were just some
girl out there in the world with a taste for
blood and sex, how were men throwing
money at the studio to be the next one to rape
me and make me beg? I asked the question.
Ethan's eyes followed the activity in the room,
his answer distracted.
"Some know of this place. Friends of the
studio heads, I assume."
His attention pinned to the whirl of activity
and his focus back on the production of his
film, Ethan glided forward, the power in his
stride easily seen in the perfect set of his broad
shoulders, the flex of muscle in his thighs from
below slacks tailored to his sleek body.
I didn't follow because I was done playing
his assistant - done playing his games. Kicking
off my ruby slippers into a corner, I padded
barefoot to stand against a wall. Perhaps in the
rush of activity, nobody would notice I was no
longer the shadow at Ethan's back. Eyeing the
door I knew led to another hallway that would
lead to another door, I mapped how long it
would take me to run that maze and find the
front entryway.
Was it possible for me to slip away unnoticed?
The thought flit through my head before
another joined it. What would happen to Melanie
if I actually managed to escape? How many more
people would die if I didn't?
I was back to that loathsome quandary,
back to deciding whether the value of one life
meant more than another. Ethan, in his cold
rage, could have Melanie killed as soon as it
was discovered I was missing. But how many
other lives could I save by finding someone in
authority who would help me put an end to
this horrible place?
Chewing my lip, I darted my gaze to Ethan
where he stood among his crew pointing out
errors they made, or giving them some other
instructions that would ensure perfection for
his film.
Not one person had their eyes on me, not
even the guards where they stood at the other
side of the room by another door. I knew the
door they guarded was a direct route back into
the heart of this place, a faster route, I was
sure, an easier avenue for escape. But if I were
to weave back the way Ethan had led me in, I
could still find that center door leading to the
entryway. Unsure if the exterior door would
be unlocked, I still felt the need to at least try.
A huff of breath escaped my lungs, teeming
with all the negative emotions I swallowed in
this place, the ones that left me drowning.
Could it be so easy?
Most likely not, but that didn't mean I
would ignore the one brief moment I had to
run off, to slip into the shadowed hallways
and hopefully through a door leading me
outside. Decision made, I cast another quick
glance in Ethan's direction...to find him staring
directly at me.
As if he'd read my thoughts, his lips pulled
into a sleepy smile, one lined by the male
arrogance that was distinctly his. Shaking his
head subtly, he warned me against taking that
first step toward the door leading out of the
studio.
My shoulders withered in bitter defeat. He
crooked a finger in lazy invitation for me to
walk in his direction instead.
Once I was close enough, he shifted to
whisper in my ear. "You weren't thinking of
sneaking off, were you?"
"Of course not," I lied, my voice strong
despite the tremor in my body. I tried to lie to
myself that the tremor was fear and not a
reaction to the warmth of his breath against
my neck. For as much as I hated him, he still
affected me on some deep level that I refused
to name or acknowledge.
"Funny," he said, half laughing. "I could
have sworn you were." Letting out a dramatic
sigh, he added, "I guess that's a good thing,
especially considering you wouldn't make it
far with the security cameras around the
building that are monitored at all times."
My eyes closed on that thought, the tiny
hope I had of making it out of this place
crushed by that one statement.
Straightening his posture, Ethan said,
"Filming begins in a few minutes. You need to
get in costume."
 "What costume am I wearing?"
His eyes met mine for a brief second before
sliding down to the shirt I was wearing, his
gaze following the low neckline that stretched
between my breasts to my stomach. "You're
already wearing it. All you need to do is
remove the skirt."
He'd planned this day down to the smallest
detail, even having me wear the costume he
knew I'd need once he was finished leading
me through his daily routine. "I happen to like
the skirt."
A bark of soft laughter broke free of his lips.
"How is a man supposed to get between your
legs with that ridiculous vice holding them
together? Remove it." A tap of his palm
against my butt only emphasized the demand.
I glared at him and he grinned before
shrugging a shoulder. "It's two sizes too small
for you. But I don't regret the error. It was
amusing watching you attempt to walk in it all
day."
Bastard...
Struggling to remove the thing, I couldn't
deny the relief I felt to slip it off and breathe
easier again. My thighs tingled from where
they'd been pressed together, air brushing up
my legs to cool the heated skin. Kicking it
away, I refused to care that it was sitting in a
pile on the floor as a slippery hazard to
anybody who happened to rush by.
The flurry of activity around us was coming
to a slow halt, only the occasional
crewmember running past to see to some last
minute issue he needed to resolve. My eyes
kept tracking to a door on my left, instinct
telling me the monster I'd just watched kill
another woman was sipping his coffee,
patiently waiting for the chance to kill me. I
wouldn't let him. Even to teach Ethan a
lesson, I wouldn't let that son of a bitch touch
me.
"What's my weapon for today?"
"You have two," Ethan answered quietly.
Jutting his chin to the bedside table, he said,
"The glass of water on the table is actually
acid. It's not strong enough to melt the skin,
but if it hits the eyes, your attacker will only
see a hazy outline of you for a few minutes.
It'll give you an advantage. He's twice the size
of you. You can't afford to let him pin you like
you did the last guy."
Nodding my head in agreement, I
remembered the bulging muscles in the man's
shoulders, chest and arms. If caught, I'd never
break away from his grasp.
"Your second weapon is the iron poker by
the fake fireplace. You'll have to jump over the
bed to the opposite side of the stage to get to
it. You'll have one chance while he's still
rubbing the acid from his eyes."
Gaze meeting mine, there was no levity in
his grey stare. It caused my stomach to clench,
for the fear I kept hidden beneath a mask of
indifference to bubble to the surface.
"He will kill you, Emma. I know his type.
Some men would hesitate. But that man isn't
one of them. Be sure you don't hesitate either."
Silence fell between us, the tension so thick
you could slice it. Counting down the seconds,
I stared at the stage mentally mapping exactly
how I'd stay out of reach of the man while
accessing the weapons Ethan gave me. The
stage wasn't so big that the man wouldn't be
able to grab me if I were on the same side as
him. Why couldn't Ethan have set the
weapons near each other on one side of the
bed? It would have been just one more
advantage.
I opened my mouth to say as much, but
Ethan's booming voice burst through the room
before I had the chance.
"We'll begin filming now. Everybody to
their place." My stomach clenched again.
Intuiting my panic, Ethan slipped an arm
around my waist, his fingers resting tenderly
on my hip. Leaning close, he whispered, "Do I
need to walk you up there again?"
Shaking my head, I wondered what the
point would be of that. Regardless of what I
wanted, I would end up on that stage, sitting
on that bed. There was no reason to make a
show of it. "I can manage on my own."
He inclined his head in answer.
Believing our conversation was done, I
attempted to shuffle past him, but he snatched
my wrist at the last second to pull my
shoulder against his chest. Whispering so that
only I could hear the urgency in his voice, he
said, "If having watched what your attacker
did to the woman before you wasn't enough
incentive for you to stay alive, then I'll offer
one more. I'll accept your condition. Melanie
won't be used for any films while you
continue to cooperate. But you have to remain
breathing in order to protect her, so I suggest
you channel the predator inside you once
you're up there."
He was scared. That much was obvious.
Otherwise, he would have never acquiesced
to my demand.
The realization only made me more
frightened.
Sucking in a steadying breath, I waited for
him to release me. He did so slowly, his
fingers sliding, one by one, from my wrist.
Once free, I approached the stage and gulped
down another large breath before ascending
the stairs.
On shaky legs, I moved to the bed, sat
down on the mattress and rubbed my sweaty
palms down my thighs. Fear was a cold
blanket wrapping me, my anger smothered
and struggling beneath the weight of it.
Fetid breath trapped in my lungs, I turned
my head in time to see the woman with her
trusty clapboard. The top lifted. The title of
my film at the tip of her tongue.
Ethan nodded his head in her direction.
"Death, take one." The clapboard slapped,
and I didn't fail to notice Ethan's use of the
title I'd previously suggested. The past came
rushing back, dragging with it the resentment
I'd felt when he'd ordered me to the cages
after the first time I'd killed for him. A flicker
of fury sparked to life inside me just as a door
opened at my back.
The flicker turned into a rolling flame.
Heavy footsteps shook the stage beneath
me, the mattress bouncing ever so slightly
beneath my still body. A sound emanated to
mix with the soft whir of the cameras and
buzz of the lights. Feral, carnal, primal, that
sound was the subtle rumble of the man's
lungs, the purr of a hunter. One second bled
into the next, time kept by the slow pound of
heavy feet at my back.
From my peripheral vision, I could see
Ethan taking his usual stance. Feet set at
shoulder width, arms crossed. A man in his
element, his face was a mask of unwavering
focus. For the brief second I closed my eyes
and begged my heart to stop racing, I
wondered if Ethan was feeling the same toxic
mix of emotions that I was.
My breath dragged into my lungs, a hiss of
wind across my parted lips. Opening my eyes,
I understood that time would snap like a
rubber band at any moment, that if I gave the
man behind me even a single chance, he
would remove all opportunity I had to gain
the advantage.
I had to be quick about this. Hesitating
would only get me killed.
Releasing the last breath I'd managed to
drag into my chest, I thought about what this
asshole had done to Joanna. I remembered the
promise Ethan had made me about Melanie.
Revenge for one, protection for the other. It
was enough to blind me from emotion, to
numb me until all I felt was cold fury.
Leaning to my left, I snatched the glass
from the table. Standing before the man could
grab me from behind, I turned and tossed the
liquid.
I missed.
As the acid sank down into the thick, white
bedspread, I lifted my gaze to where my
attacker stood scowling, the corner of his lip
kicking up to think I'd just thrown away my
only weapon against him. Forcing myself not
to look at the iron fire poker where it sat just
behind his leg, I smiled up at the bastard,
stepped back and spread out my arms to
welcome him to take me.
He was stronger, so I had to be faster.
Silence was thick in the air as cameramen
and sound technicians moved around the
stage, another one holding a smaller camera in
case he needed to run up here at the last
second. I wouldn't give him the opportunity.
The beast approaching me pinned me
beneath his dead, green stare. His chest was
heaving, his hands clenching into fists. I knew
all too well what those fists could do, so I
went as still as possible, giving him just
enough time to come around the other side of
the bed, but not enough to get within grabbing
distance. With the size of the stage, I had to be
precise. Life or death could occur with even
the slightest miscalculation of seconds.
Tick...tick...tick...
He stepped around the bed, and I
attempted to jump forward over the mattress.
I'd been half a second too late. Blinding pain
burst over my ankle, a scream tearing from my
throat that shredded the flesh in its path. The
bastard had grabbed my ankle and twisted.
Kicking out with my other leg, I gripped my
fingers into the blanket to keep from being
dragged backwards. But for every defensive
move I made, he only squeezed and twisted
my ankle more. Whimpers were falling from
my lips, dripping down to mingle with my
tears now soaking the blanket beneath me.
Flipping me on my back, he smiled down at
me, the expression all toothy and snarling. The
smaller camera was suddenly in place beside
me ready for a repeat of the moment my shirt
was ripped away to expose my body.
Dragging me down the bed served to shove
my shirt up so that everything below my ribs
was exposed. The bastard’s large hand slid up
my thigh, his eyes becoming wild as they
locked to mine. I could hear the sound of the
camera zooming in and didn't want to
consider what part of my body was being
filmed.
As his hand slid higher up my leg, his
thumb hooked down to squeeze the muscle.
Another scream tore from me, my hands
clenching tighter in response. It wasn't until
that thumb scraped against the most intimate
part of me that more panic pulsed through my
veins, conscious thought escaping me as
instinct took over.
Fortunately, for me, the bastard wanted to
gloat by leaning down to say something to me
on a foreign tongue. I took the opportunity to
raise a hand and use my fingers to gouge at his
eye. He roared in response, but also released
me.
One second ticked by. And another. Time
moving so slow that I could count each beat of
it while flipping to my stomach and rolling off
the mattress to the other side of the stage. My
ankle burned in protest, but I ignored the
injury to wrap my hand around the handle of
the fire poker. Its weight was heavy and cold
against my palm.
I thought he would have to come around
the bed or move over it, either path would
give me the perfect moment to strike. Imagine
my surprise when he simply wrapped a hand
around one of the four wooden posts and
shoved the bed to the side.
Eyes round as saucers, my brain shut off,
forgetting to tell my lungs to breathe and my
heart to pump blood. A chill coursed through
me as he moved forward, the bitter burn of
fear and anger finally snapping me out of the
moment of shock and driving me forward.
The first hit was to the right side of his
head, the aim of the swing perfect, but the
strength used not enough to stop him. I swung
again, this time knocking him back a step as he
screamed at me in words I didn't understand.
My next swing met with his face, blood
splashing out to dot my skin.
He fell backwards, his body impacting the
stage with his full weight. The boards rattled
beneath me, but I stepped across him anyway
and wouldn't stop roaring out my own rage
while slamming the poker down until you
could no longer identify his face.
My gorge rose as I stared at what I'd done,
Ethan's deep voice behind me yelling, "Cut!"
 EMMA
"Everybody out!" Ethan bellowed, the
production crew scrambling to obey his
command.
We were alone within minutes. Had a pin
fallen to the ground, it would have sounded
like a boulder in the quiet stillness of the
room. Ethan stood staring at me. Unmoving,
not even his eyes darted this way and that to
search my face. They only pinned me in place,
blazing with something I couldn't name and
wasn't sure I wanted to name. Whatever it was
nodded to the same thing inside me, reaching
out like two twin souls finally recognizing
each other.
My fingers relaxed and the poker fell to the
ground on a loud clatter. It broke the spell
between us.
Rushing forward, Ethan climbed the stairs
with no effort, his feet only slowing when he
was within arm's reach. Glancing down at the
mess of the man's head I'd caused, his eyes
bulged for just a second before narrowing to
look up at me. "Are you hurt?"
Where words should have escaped me in
answer, tears poured from my eyes instead.
Despite the blood and bits of ... God, what was
that chunky stuff on me? ... Ethan launched
forward to grab my shoulders with his hands
so he could look me up and down.
"You need to get in a shower. Can you
walk?"
Rolling the ankle, I decided it wasn't
broken. Extremely painful maybe, but not so
much I couldn't put weight on it. Nodding my
head, I allowed Ethan to wrap an arm around
my body to assist me from the stage, out of the
studio and through the winding halls that led
to his suite of rooms.
We didn't stop until we were standing in
his large bathroom, the size of the shower
alone three times the square footage of the
individual cages. He released me to walk into
the shower and turn on the spray. Still
dripping bits of gore from my skin, I turned to
see there were multiple shower heads instead
of just one. His fancy suit was now destroyed
by blood and water, the material clinging to
his body as he moved.
It didn't stop me from arguing when he
reached to remove my shirt. "Your suit," I
reminded him.
"Is an insignificant loss I'm not concerned
about," he answered with no waver to his
voice. "You need to get cleaned up."
I couldn't be sure, but it seemed as if Ethan
was walking on eggshells, as if he was a man
facing down several guns and trying to calmly
talk himself out of being in the line of fire.
Why was he being so careful? Was I that weak
that one wrong word would shatter me into
pieces over the ground?
I didn't feel weak. Shaken, maybe. Enraged.
But not weak. I'd be a liar to claim a sliver of
satisfaction hadn't rolled through me to return
to my attacker exactly what he had done to
Joanne.
If anything, that sliver made me feel
powerful.
Raising my arms so Ethan could pull the
shirt off my body, I couldn't ignore the way he
winced to watch something slide off my arm
to splat on the ground. My gorge rose again,
but I fought it. "A shower sounds good," I
finally admitted.
He gave me a clipped nod of agreement
before leading me beneath the spray. Without
concern for his suit, he directed me beneath a
head embedded high in the black tile wall and
used his hands to help guide the water over
my hair and down my face. The water pooled
at my feet as a sickly red, eventually
transitioning into a faint pink.
Clasping his hands against my cheeks, he
held my face still, his eyes searching my
expression, heat blazing behind what
resembled molten steel. A tremor coursed
through me at the intensity of that focused
gaze, my thoughts spinning wildly between
my feelings of what I'd just done and my
trepidation for what Ethan was feeling.
Was he angry with me? Or was he as
turned on now as he'd been the night he
forced me to watch my film?
Time wasn't slow to answer that question.
In fact, it sped up, stealing my chance to take a
breath before Ethan's lips were crushed to
mine.
My body responded despite my staggered
thoughts, instantly melting against him as he
pressed me back against the cool tile of the
shower wall. The kiss was anything but gentle.
Demanding lips parted my own, a dominating
tongue slipping in my mouth until all I could
taste was his passionate lust. I trembled
beneath the heat of it, my skin tightening
across my bones, my breasts too sensitive for
the way his wet shirt rubbed against them.
His hand slid to my thigh to lift my leg and
wrap it over his hip. I noticed that he'd made
sure to lift my injured leg so that the other
could hold my weight. Always planning
everything down to the minute details, his
focus was never broken, even in sex. The
understanding of what that could mean sent a
roaring shudder through my body.
My mouth was pressed to the lips of my
tormenter, but I didn't care at that moment,
couldn't care when I was on fire in every place
he touched. Fingertips dragging down the
outside of my thigh, he gripped my hip in one
hand while trailing the other from my cheek to
my shoulder, down farther to take the weight
of my breast in his possessive hold. Pressing
tighter against me until I was trapped, his
erection was obvious between my legs. I
almost came apart to feel it.
Water poured down our bodies, the spray
of the other showerheads drowning us in heat
as our bodies ignited with need so forceful we
were all mouths and teeth, gripping hands
and teasing fingers.
His hand released my breast to trail lower,
the muscles in my stomach clenching as his
fingertips brushed down my abdomen
whisper soft. He paused at my waist, his
thumb sweeping down to tease the skin below
it. A growl emanated from somewhere deep
inside me, the sound taking me by surprise as
his teeth clamped down on my bottom lip. I
opened my eyes to find him watching me
intently.
Of course, I thought. He's always watching.
Pressing his forehead against mine, he
dragged his gaze down between our bodies,
his eyes focused on his hand as it trailed lower
to cup me between the legs. My head fell back
against the wall, my lips parting as my hips
bucked against his touch, silently begging.
My fingers clamped down over his
shoulders, my body opening up to his slow,
taunting exploration. I couldn't catch a breath
with the thick steam and heady tension,
couldn't manage to utter a word begging him
to move faster or demanding he release me. I
was frozen in that moment, every wicked
pulse of emotion inside me etched with his
name.
His fingers taunted and tantalized, sliding
softly over the crease between my legs but not
with enough pressure to give me even a hint
of relief. Gnashing my teeth in frustration, I
slid my hands from his shoulders to wrap my
fingers in his thick black hair. Breath hissed
over his lips when I tugged.
His fingers slid down along my slickened
skin, pressing between the lust swollen flesh
as his thumb found my clit. Circling ever so
slowly, he smiled against my cheek when a
sultry moan crawled up my throat.
Practically vibrating with the need for an
explosive release, I fisted my fingers into his
hair tighter, a threatening hold. He only
smiled wider before running his tongue along
the line of my jaw, challenging me to hurt him
faster than he could drive me to the point of
insanity and back.
I wanted to kill him right then and there
because we weren't just devouring each other
with cruel anticipation, we were battling for
superiority in this twisted, dangerous game.
His thumb pressed harder over my clit, a
punishing pressure as his middle finger slid
back and forth between the sensitive skin.
Another growl escaped my chest, matched by
his when I tugged even harder to angle his
face up and crash my lips against his.
A tidal wave was building inside me, a
slow drumbeat as it edged its way closer,
building and teeming with a rush of water that
would crash over me until I was drowning.
Dragging me, it would roll and toss me
through the ecstasy of the release that was
building.
Just as I thought I would break apart from
the pressure, just as my teeth came down to
lock on Ethan's lip, he slipped his finger inside
my body, exploring and moving it ever so
slowly to circle the tight, greedy muscles that
were clamping down on that small amount of
sensation.
It wasn't enough. I needed more, needed all
of him until the only thing I knew was his
name tearing from my lips. His scent, his taste
and the feel of his body was replacing every
horrible event I'd seen and witnessed since
the day I was snatched from the streets of
Boston to become a character on his heartless
stage.
Hand pumping between my legs, he lost
the ability to continue tormenting me with the
slow pace of a patient man. For every thrust of
his hand, I was being pushed to my toes, my
fingernails dragging down the back of his
head to scratch the skin of his neck. My hands
braced on his shoulders as moans poured out
of my throat, becoming frantic words begging
him to go faster, harder, anything to push me
over that edge into a moment of ecstasy and
loss of control.
Leaning down, he took the tight nipple of
my breast between his teeth, the pain soothed
as his tongue swept out to lick it from my skin.
Now it was his name falling from my lips as
my body surrendered to an explosive release,
waves of torment and pleasure cresting and
building again. By the time he was done
driving me to a point of wicked oblivion, he
was pressing soft kisses down my cheek and
breathing hard himself.
Slowly, my heart calmed down and my
lungs drew a full breath, his hands releasing
me as he moved to pull away. My hand shot
out, my fingers wrapping into the wet material
of his shirt.
Snapping my eyes open, I locked my gaze
with his. "Where the hell do you think you're
going?"
Those glorious grey eyes widened by a
fraction at the husky sound of my voice. His
voice was sad, somehow, but also gritty and
angry when he answered, "I don't fuck
actresses."
You do now... I didn't say. Despite my
silence, he heard that message loud and clear.
"Emma-" he started to say, but something
feral inside me was coming to the surface, the
predator, perhaps, that Ethan always claimed
laid in wait behind my prim and proper mask.
"No," I said, cutting him off, "you don't get
to say that now. Not after what I've done. Not
after you helped me shred the fucking mask of
civility to release whatever this is inside me.
I'm not the actress now. Am I, Ethan?"
 Heat flashed behind his eyes and I cast a
pointed look down at the tent his cock was
making beneath his pants. My eyes caught his
after I dragged my dangerous gaze back up.
"Your body understands that about me. At
what point will your mind catch up?"
Lips spreading until he was flashing me
that lazy, arrogant smile, his eyes narrowed in
angry temptation, his chest beating with
labored breath as his hands reached out to
grip my hips. I wouldn't break his stare,
wouldn't give ground, and wouldn't abandon
the challenge I'd issued just because the
predator inside him was staring back.
"Is there ever a time you don't argue?" he
asked, a warning in his tone.
My eyebrow arched. His chest rumbled
with the masculine sound of a man that was
barely in control. Pure want was in that sound.
The subtle threat before he breaks his leash
and forces you to your knees. My brow arched
higher, tugging with it the corner of my lip.
He scowled.
"You'll hate me after this," Ethan cautioned.
Blinking slowly, I peeked up at him from
beneath water-spiked lashes. "I hate you
already."
Tense seconds ticked by, so full of
vacillation that I was becoming rabid in my
wait for his decision.
"Fuck it," he hissed, his body launching
forward as my hands fought to tear his shirt
from his chest. It was a good thing he'd
already ruined the clothes because buttons
were pinging around us as the material was
being ripped. While I pulled it open and
stared down at a toned chest that was a
golden tan, and down further at a stomach
that I wanted to drag my nails across just to
trace the shadow of muscle, Ethan fumbled
with his belt, the leather slick from the water
still pouring over our heads.
Finally pulling it from where it was
buckled, he ripped at the button of his pants
and allowed the soaked material to drop into a
heavy puddle around his ankles. I only had a
second to trace my gaze over the thick, hard
length of his erection, my heart beating a
staccato rhythm as he lifted me off my feet
and directed my legs to wrap around his
waist. He didn't need permission or another
invitation to tap the head of his cock at my
opening and push himself inside my body,
inch by exquisitely tortuous inch.
Pleasure was a cry on my lips, the sound of
it foreign to me because I'd never been the
kind of woman to lose control before. But
something had snapped, some bonds cut loose
that left me wild and ravenous, so drawn to
this man - this moment - that I didn't care how
much noise I made. As his body thrust against
mine in rhythmic, punishing beats, my arms
wrapped over his shoulders, my back sliding
up and down the tiled wall with the
movement of his strong body.
I didn't need to open my eyes to know he
was watching me, recording this moment,
logging every detail of my pleasure, my pain
and my demand for more into that sadistic
head of his. But I didn't care. At that moment,
I would have happily listed for him each
strength and weakness, each insecurity and
fear, each traumatic and trying aspect about
my life that had shaped me while leading me
here. I would have shed my skin to let him
peer inside me if it meant that he would keep
bruising me with the power of his thrusting
body.
The sound of our bodies moving together
was harmony to the fall of water and the
labored beat of our combined breath. And for
as wild as I felt inside for this terrible man
who had done nothing but hurt me since we'd
met, I knew that he would only hurt me again
once all was said and done.
Ethan carried a heart inside him made of
pure, merciless ice.
 He had a mind that was a master at picking
apart every person around him just so he
could poke at the sorest parts when he was
done tearing them down.
He had a physique that was just one of the
many weapons he carried in his sly, seductive
arsenal.
But what he didn't have was the ability to
care about a woman because she'd given him
full use of her body.
This wasn't love we were making, it was
the physical act of devouring each other with
our rage, our violence and our hatred.
Still, my body responded to that attack, my
muscles rippling against the full stretch of his
cock, gripping at him greedily as he drove
himself deeper and harder inside me. And as
the tidal wave I remembered came rumbling
back, I realized far too late that it was ten
times the size it had been before. I was
overtaken with such force that I felt battered
and torn to shreds by an orgasm that wouldn't
stop coming on wave after crushing wave.
My lips parted and I screamed his name,
but as he joined me in his own violent release,
his mouth crashed over my lips to stifle my
scream, his body flinching against mine with
each wave of pleasure that brought us both to
our knees.
 We didn't talk for what felt like hours, our
hearts and lungs struggling to regain a rhythm
that was less than volatile overdrive. His
forehead was against mine again, his eyes
glaring with such fury that I shuddered
beneath the force of it, but still found myself
smirking.
Words clipped and voice dangerously
deep, he warned, "I should wipe that smirk
right off your face."
Wanting to laugh, I bit the inside of my
cheek. There was never a moment with this
man where I could drop my guard and believe
he was joking.
Seriousness replaced the hunger I'd seen in
his gaze, his body still tight against mine when
his hands squeezed harder, bruising my skin.
Shredded apart by the next words he said, I
learned that despite knowing I should never
trust Ethan, I'd opened myself to his
punishment anyway.
"That shouldn't have happened, Emma.
You have no idea how much trouble this can
cause."
Where there had been satisfied relief
flooding me, panic now returned. "I don't care
about trouble," I argued weakly.
There was no mercy in his harsh, bitter
voice when he answered, "You will, Emma.
You have no idea how much, but you will."
 EMMA
Nothing hurts more than waking up in your
tormentor's bed.
Ropes tied to each wrist and each ankle, I
was spread apart, peering up to see that the
other end of the ropes were tied to two horses.
Peering down, I saw two more horses and
screamed inside myself to understand that
each of those horses was walking off in a
different direction.
Each stamped hoof was a reminder of my
betrayal. Each huff of air over the bits between
their teeth was a whispered accusation. Each
painful tug was a part of myself being pulled
in a direction intended to rip me apart slower.
And the four horseman planted firmly on their
strong steeds were happy to dance within the
apocalypse inside me, all too pleased to inflict
pain on my body and mind, my heart and my
soul, as I was torn asunder by the stark, bitter
truth of what I'd done.
I'd willfully had sex with Ethan Cole. The
Director. The man who didn't so much as
blink an eye at the pain and degradation, the
torture and humiliation, of countless women
led through his doors, all for the pursuit of his
art.
Not only had I slept with him, I'd demanded
it, even when he'd warned me in no uncertain
terms that I would regret the decision, that by
allowing him inside me, I would only invite
more trouble into an existence that was no
longer mine.
But beyond those two bitter pills I was now
struggling to swallow, was the most bitter of
all, a pill so large it would choke me on the
way down, never dissolving once it finally hit
my stomach:
I'd enjoyed having sex with Ethan Cole. Not
just enjoyed it, I'd found such a significant
release in the feel of his body moving with
mine that I'd stopped giving a damn about the
lives of the people he hurt just so my mind
could find a few minutes of freedom in one of
the most passionate experiences of my life.
What the fuck had I done?
It was like waking up the morning after
you'd drank far too much alcohol to find a
man beside you whose name you didn't know.
Your hand reaches over to feel the warm body
of a stranger, unsure what he looks like, how
you met him, or if you'd used protection while
stripping down to the most intimate parts and
allowing him to shove his cock inside you.
Except, for me, there was no warm body
beside me. The bed was empty except for the
soft, warm blankets brushing against my skin.
The sound of soft, rhythmic breathing from a
stranger was absent, replaced by the murmur
of an argument between two men.
Ethan's voice I recognized, the other, not so
much.
"This isn't what I asked for. What stupid son of
a bitch decided to cut the best part?
“We thought it was too graphic.”
“Too graphic? For who? The men who cash
their measly paychecks each week and spend it on
all this tired material we keep giving them?”
“The studio heads...” The other man started
to argue, his voice cut off by a loud crash of
metal and glass.
Silence. Beat by anticipatory beat.
I will deal with the studio heads, Brent. But
until then, you will remind every person who
touches this film that it is me they answer to first.
I recognized the danger in that deceptively
calm, soft voice.
An intelligent woman would have
remained in the warm bed. She would have
curled to her side and pulled the blanket tight,
would have tugged a pillow over her head to
block out the voices drifting in like whispers
from the adjacent room. I was not that
intelligent woman. As usual, my curiosity had
come crawling up to poke me with its skeletal
finger, incessantly tapping until I wanted to
scream with frustration. Unable to ignore it, I
pushed to sit on the side of the bed, pressed
my bare feet against the rug beneath me, and
stood up on legs that were still sore from the
shower.
It was just another shot of jagged, cutting
betrayal to enjoy that soreness between my
legs.
Finally standing, I took furtive steps toward
the bedroom door. My fingers slid down the
cool wood to land on the handle, my ear
pressing against the surface to see if the men
had gone silent or if they were simply
speaking in hushed tones quiet enough for
their voices to no longer travel.
Hearing nothing, I turned the handle until
the door popped open. Pulling it slowly, I
angled my body and peeked out from behind.
Ethan and a man I didn't recognize stood
watching a monitor, their expressions pulled
taut with concentration. It didn't matter
whether Ethan was in front of a stage or a
screen, he took the same stance: arms crossed,
feet planted shoulder width apart...watching
with unwavering focus.
The hinge of the door creaked as I pulled it
open just a fraction more. Ethan's stark gaze
snapped up, his grey eyes like storm clouds
with lightning streaking silently inside them.
There was no warmth within that gaze. It was
cold, callous and hollow.
"If you're going to spy," Ethan said, his
voice a seductive rumble of thunder to match
the lightning in his eyes, "you might as well
walk in and watch what's been done with
your newest film."
The man beside him - Brent, I assumed -
physically startled to see me standing in the
doorway. Brown eyes rounding where they
were set above chubby, ruddy cheeks, he
struggled not to look between Ethan and me,
for what reason I wasn't sure. Winning his
internal battle, he did the sensible thing of
returning his attention to the screen.
"I don't want to see it," I whispered, a
tremor of anger coursing through me to collide
with my disgust.
Raising a single eyebrow, Ethan answered,
"I don't recall giving you much of a choice."
"I'm naked," I weakly argued, the sudden
modesty an odd and unshakable constraint
inside me despite everything I'd already gone
through in this place.
Unconcerned, his eyes returned to the
monitor, his voice matter of fact, "Get out here
now, Emma. Before I drag you out."
What had I expected? Why did I feel the
sting of his insistence that I walk into that
room to be fully exposed to another man? It
wasn't like I'd not endured this humiliation
before. But yet, after what happened between
us...
"Now, Emma."
What ridiculous transformation had I
expected? That Ethan would have grown a
soul just because I'd given him my body?
I was so stupid.
This was the reason for my mask of
indifference, for the actress he'd always
accused me of being - this callousness inside
him, this blatant and grueling lack of heart.
Stepping out, I donned that mask again,
understanding fully that what had occurred
between us after I'd finished filming had been
a momentary, fleeting glimpse of the man he
could never be.
Ethan's eyes tracked me as I crossed the
room to stand by his desk. Brent's eyes were
studiously kept to the monitor that was turned
to them and away from my line of sight. I
didn't begrudge my inability to see what
horrible images were glowing from that
screen.
Cruelty flickered through his gaze, as
dangerous as the lightning that had flashed
earlier. "Come around and watch the film."
"No," I answered, my heart racing over that
one syllable. It didn't matter what horrible acts
Ethan forced me to do on that stage. I was
numb at those moments, fighting for my life. It
didn't mean I had to stand there and watch it
while he got hard all over again.
His head canted to the side, gaze
narrowing, the line of disapproval drawn
deeper between his eyes. "Are you disobeying
me?"
The question struck against my bones,
hitting deep, jarring me until I felt its
malicious sting within every cell, felt it pulse
with every heartbeat. Even poor Brent had felt
the echo of it, his body tensing beneath
wrinkled clothes that were a pathetic contrast
to the tailored, and perfectly pressed clothes
covering Ethan's sleek body.
I didn't answer, but Ethan did. "On your
knees."
Eyes rounding, the line between our eyes
matched, but where confusion had drawn
mine, callous reprimand deepened his.
 "Now," he reminded me softly.
Shivering against the absence of heat, the
threat of punishment, the promise that Ethan
would take a bad situation and make it
unbelievably worse, I understood well the
trouble he'd warned me I'd invited.
It wasn't clear what he intended for me to
do on my knees, but whatever it was couldn't
be worse than watching a film that would
force me to fear myself as much as I feared
him in that moment.
Lowering myself down, I refused to break
our stare as my knees pressed against the
painfully solid stone floor.
Ethan's lips curled with cruel satisfaction,
his voice mocking. "Brent, you put up with a
lot working for me, wouldn't you agree? It
can't be easy listening to the constant criticism,
enduring the fits of anger when a film is
disappointing."
Brent tensed more, his gaze pinned on
nothing in order to avoid looking at either
Ethan or me. Clearing his throat, he answered,
"I'm sure I deserve -"
"We're not discussing the merit of my
criticism. Simply the emotional and physical
effect it has on you."
"It's rough," Brent finally admitted. It was
clear by the tremor in his voice, he feared
Ethan as much as me.
"I don't show enough appreciation, I think.
Not when you work so tirelessly to meet my
demands." Ethan's lips stretched wider, a
threatening smile edged with malice. Breaking
our stare, he glanced at the man standing
beside him before angling his head toward
me. "Why don't you let her help alleviate some
of the pressure? She's very generous and
compliant, I can promise you that."
The ruddy complexion of Brent's skin
whitened, his eyes darting to the monitor as
his throat worked to swallow. Voice shaky, he
asked, "Her? Will she-?"
Despite my fury and disgust at what I knew
Ethan was doing, my lips twitched with
sardonic humor. I hoped whatever frame was
frozen in place on that monitor was a candid,
close-up shot of what I'd done to my last
attacker's head.
"You have my assurance she'll behave. I
suggest you enjoy her before she's returned to
the cages," Ethan said far too gently, ending
the conversation as he refocused his attention
on the screen.
Ignoring the trepidation he felt, Brent's eyes
slid down my body, a familiar want lighting
his gaze. I swallowed against the bile crawling
up my throat to see his hunger, his need, his
lack of concern that the woman staring back at
him didn't have the ability to say no. Absently,
his hand slid to his crotch, adjusting a cock
that was suddenly uncomfortable against his
pants.
My stomach heaved as betrayal slid down
my spine doused in icy drops of Ethan's
abusive contempt.
Decision made, Brent approached me, the
caution in his steps matching his eyes. When I
sneered, he paused, unsure of whether to
continue his slow walk.
"She'll comply," Ethan reminded him again.
Body leaned over with a hand braced on the
desk, Ethan wrote something on a piece of
paper before lifting his eyes. "She has every
reason to cooperate. Don't you, Emma?"
His subtle reminder of our terms were
heard loud and clear.
Brent reached me and licked his lips. His
hesitance wasn't the shame he should feel for
using a girl against her will, it was more his
fear that his cock would be noticeably absent
after sticking in the mouth of a killer. I bared
my teeth to drive home that particular visual
and he winced.
"One scrape, Emma, and our arrangement
ends, effective immediately."
My mind struggled to understand what
Ethan was doing, why now he chose to treat
me so indifferently when he'd never done so
before. No longer the man I knew in the
moments we'd spent alone, he'd returned to
the cold, unfeeling asshole staring back at me
in the cages while another woman was being
raped around the corner.
The sound of a zipper sliding down was a
whisper on the air, the scent of anticipation
wafting against my nose as a revolting
perfume of body sweat and delicate fear.
Averting my gaze from the cock being
stroked in front of me, I locked it on Ethan
instead. His focus settled on some new paper
on his desk, his fingers lifting the corner to
read the page beneath. I knew that although
he appeared otherwise unaffected, he was still
paying attention, still scrutinizing every detail
of my displeasure.
It was in his nature to watch.
The head of Brent's cock pressed against
my lips, a sound of popping suction filling the
air when I opened my mouth and allowed him
to slip it in.
Eyes still pinned to Ethan, I didn't miss his
slight smile. "Be sure to swallow, Emma. Men
like that."
He didn't bother to meet my stare while
giving his casually spoken suggestion. My
eyes narrowed, but I still sucked Brent's cock
like a good little girl, the terms of our
agreement echoing in my head with the
warning that there were other people my
defiance would hurt.
I had to keep swallowing to prevent
vomiting on Brent's dick. I'm not sure he
minded the effort, if his disgusting moans
above my head had anything to say about.
Several times I considered snapping my teeth
together and smiling with unfettered glee as
blood trailed across my lip and Brent pulled
away as a eunuch. But doing so wouldn't
punish the man responsible for this degrading
moment, it would only give him cause to
punish me in return. I wouldn't give him the
satisfaction.
Brent's fingers gripped in my hair as his
hips began thrusting. I had to open my mouth,
widen my throat so he didn't choke me in the
process. Fortunately, the fat fuck didn't last
long and the release that exploded down the
back of my throat was flavored by Ethan's
contempt.
My eyes shot to Ethan as I moaned at the
bitter taste. As I knew he would, he stood
watching, anger coloring his gaze and casting
lines of discontent at the corners of his eyes.
That flare of emotion may not have meant
much to any other person, but it meant
something to me.
Had I found Ethan's advantage? I tested the
waters to see.
Opening my mouth, I blinked up at poor
Brent and fought not to laugh at the love I saw
behind his eyes. One blowjob and this man
would have licked my feet just for the chance
at another. I could work with that.
A quick bat of my lashes was followed by a
coy grin. "Would you like to take me in the
bedroom next so I can show you just how
generous and compliant I am?"
"That won't be necessary."
Bullseye...
Ethan's words may have seemed innocent
enough, but the rough edge of rage in his
voice wasn't. That wasn't the sound of a man
dismissing some extraneous decision, it was
the sound of a man only willing to share his
toys on his terms, the possessive tone of a king
laying claim to his kingdom.
"Brent, you can leave. Have the footage
added back to the film exactly as I wanted and
then bring it for me to see."
"Yes, sir." Voice mousy and quiet and
shoulders hunched, Brent practically
scrambled from the room.
I heard the click of plastic before Ethan's
deep voice ordered, "Send a guard to my
suite."
I remained on my knees inwardly smiling
at this newfound understanding. Unsure how
I could use it, I took a page from Ethan's
playbook and filed it away for future
introspection. As it was, I didn't have much
time to mull it over before a door opened at
my back and the booted steps of a guard
stepped through.
Ethan didn't look at me again. "Take this
woman to the cages."
 ETHAN
The guard walked Emma out of the room
following closely at her back, his gun clenched
tight to his chest. Everybody had become on
edge around her after word quickly spread of
what she had done to that man on stage.
But it wasn't fear I felt when I looked at her,
it was something far more dangerous, far more
tragic than that.
As far as I was concerned, Emma was
nothing more than another prisoner to the
studio. And she would remain that way until...
My eyes closed heavily before opening
again on the paused image of her with
weapon in hand ready to crush in the skull of
a man twice the size of her.
It was better this way. Better that she didn't
know.
 EMMA
A week passed, maybe two or three, I
wasn't positive. Time had a way of blending
together in this place, the diet and constant
temperature changes exhausting my body to
the point of lethargy and remote apathy. It
was a never-ending repetition, a constant
Groundhog's Day spent repeating the same
horrors, same tragedies, same bitter defeats.
Not even the theater affected me anymore.
True to his word, Ethan didn't use Melanie
in another film. I couldn't say the same for the
rest of the women, but there weren't enough
of me to bargain away for their safety and
peace of mind as well. I had to take solace in
the fact that I could help at least one, and I
also had to distract from the odd questions
and difficult answers when Melanie brought it
up.
"Why are we never taken?" She would
absently ask.
Not wanting to admit what I'd done to
protect her - not wanting to set that weight on
her shoulders, the guilt of knowing her safety
had been more important than mine - I would
always answer by dismissing the question
with a bullshit response. "Who knows? Maybe
their record keeping sucks and they forgot that
we're in here."
She always turned to me and smiled,
dropping the question until the next time it
crossed her mind.
The first few days had been the standard
routine around this place. The selection of
women in the morning, their screaming voices
waking us all as they were dragged off.
Showers next. Breakfast following that. The
theater and then shown back to our cells.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Day in. Day out.
I'm going to guess it was five days until that
the routine was broken, and I say five days
only because I'd barley kept count. Sometimes
it was easier not to keep track of time because
doing so reminded you of how long you'd
been trapped in Hell.
Regardless, on that fifth day, the women
had been pulled from their cages as per the
usual, but instead of the rest of us being
marched to the showers, we were kept
confined to our cages as three men walked
through. Their laughter announced their
presence, the sickly sweet scent of a cigar
floating down the hallways faster than their
feet could carry them. I looked to Melanie
once my mind broke from my shock at the
disruption of our routine.
"I have to hand it to you, Ethan, at first I
was on the fence, but now that I've seen the
results, I'll never doubt your ideas again."
Ethan didn't respond, the reply coming
from a third voice I didn't recognize. "When
will you make another film with her?"
A deep voice I recognized instantly
answered, "In two days, which is why she
needs to be pulled from the cages. You two
timed your visit perfectly."
"Is she really as wild as she seems?"
The men came into view and stopped just
outside my cage. Ethan's eyes met mine as his
lips parted to answer, "Oh, yes, our little
Emma is practically feral."
I froze where I sat on my cot, my back
pressed against the cement wall behind me
while my bent legs were tucked to my chest.
Ethan, in his full seductive glory, stood in the
middle of two men, his beard thicker now that
time had passed and his strong physique
perfectly hinted to by the tailoring of his
clothes. I hadn't stared into that cold, grey
gaze for several days, but still it couldn't hold
my attention. Sliding my focus between the
men, I found myself more curious of Ethan's
companions than him.
The man on the left had tawny brown hair
and hazel eyes. Although not bad looking, he
still had a dirty smugness about him that
revolted every decent bone inside me. His
cheekbones were so high they shadowed the
skin beneath, his nose stick straight over a set
of lips that were pulled into a snide, liquid
smile. He wasn't as tall as Ethan, nor as broad,
but he still filled out his tailored clothes well,
proving he wasn't a lazy slob.
I couldn't say the same for the man
standing to Ethan's right.
With thinning blond hair combed over to
hide the bald spot at the center of his head,
the man's skin was an ashen white with odd
spots of color marring it. His nose was thick,
his lips thin and twisted, but it was his eyes
that disturbed me the most. Not quite soulless
like the man I'd killed on stage, his brown eyes
still sparked with something lascivious, a deep
perversion that felt like slime rubbing across
the skin. I knew instantly at which studio head
I was staring. My stomach heaved to
remember what he'd done to the woman in
another cage, my muscles tightening over my
frame to draw my gaze down at his frumpy
white polo shirt that did little to contain his
bulging belly.
Obvious that he never missed a meal, he
glared in at me like I was a curious animal
displayed in a zoo, an entertainment of sorts
that would dance like a monkey if I heard the
right tune. It was at him that I bared my teeth
in rage, soft laughter shaking my shoulders to
see him step back in cautious response.
Ethan just shook his head. "Like I said: she's
feral. But there are ways to coax her into
behaving." Snapping his fingers, he called a
guard over to unlock the cell. Neither of
Ethan's companions approached me, but that
didn't stop them from staring past Ethan's
broad shoulders at the tasty little feast sitting
pretty inside her cage.
"Let's go, Emma," Ethan demanded on a
soft tongue and apathetic, bland voice. I knew
better than to argue, so I simply narrowed my
eyes on him before pushing up to my feet and
stumbling out of the cell.
So weak that I could barely manage
walking at a normal pace, I followed the guard
to the end of the halls, Ethan and his friends
walking behind me discussing everything
from films to the joys of expensive cars. Not
one of them gave a damn that the women they
passed who were tucked in tiny cages were
the reason they could afford their high class
toys. They didn’t care that those women had
earned the money on their backs while being
kept in grueling conditions not fit for criminals
on death row. The flame of anger that was a
steady roll in my core sparked and flared at
the bleak understanding that, to men like the
studio heads, we were nothing but cheap
cattle.
Reaching the door, the guard cocked a
brow and waited for me to turn toward the
wall before he keyed in the code that would
unlock the door. With its pneumonic hiss, the
door popped open, the guard stepping out to
lead me into the hall, stopping only when
Ethan called out, "We'll take her from here.
Thank you."
I laughed to notice the guard's relief to walk
away from me. Word had spread that I was a
live grenade ready to explode at any second
and the guards had been extra cautious since
the second film I made.
Stopping because I had no idea where I was
being taken, I waited for Ethan to step up
beside me, his palm hot against my shoulder
when he directed me to turn right. To his
friends he explained, "The guest suites have
been cleaned and made ready for your use. I'll
take you there now."
 Guest suites? My shoulders withered. That
didn't sound promising.
The suites were located adjacent to Ethan's,
the doors identical but the interior far
different. Instead of the sleek, modern lines
and colors that graced Ethan's walls, the guest
suites were sparse and plain, with a living
room half the size of Ethan's suites and no
fake view. The warmth of his rooms was
noticeably lacking in the beige theme that left
much to be desired. The couches were a worn
brown, the kitchen nothing more than a sink, a
small fridge and a microwave. One door stood
at the back of the room, which I assumed
would lead to a bedroom and bathroom.
Shutting the door, Ethan moved to lean
against the small kitchen counter, his left
ankle crossing over the right as he pinned his
stare on me. "It seems the owners of the studio
would like to get to know you, Emma. They've
thoroughly enjoyed your films."
Turning my head, I kept my back to the
owners and locked eyes with the asshole who
was so casually loaning me out to them. I
knew better than to believe the blank
expression. He didn't like doing this, but was
trying to prove some stupid point.
I'd somehow broken through his polished
mask to see the man beneath and he was
punishing me with bitter contempt while
trying to convince both of us that he didn't
care.
He could lie to himself all he wanted, but
he wasn't fooling me.
Blinking away the daggers I was shooting
across the room at him, he flashed a charming
smile at his guests. "Neither of you have
reason to fear one of her outbursts. I'm sure if
you rub her the right way she'll purr like a
kitten. If she does give you trouble, she's small
enough that the two of you should be able to
keep easy control of her. If not, you can call for
me. Is there anything else you need?"
The men didn't answer aloud but must
have shook their heads. Satisfied, Ethan
pushed up from the counter, shot one more
look my direction and walked from the room.
I heard the door click quietly shut behind me.
Silence was thick for a few seconds while I
kept my back to the men. It was broken by the
quiet click of shoes against the floor, a hand
touching my shoulder when the man was
within reach. Turning to look over my
shoulder, I saw that it was the man with
tawny brown hair and hazel eyes.
"My name is James, and I've been told
yours is Emma."
Nodding my head, I eyed him warily, my
lip pulling up into a small snarl for how close
he was.
"I won't hurt you. That's not what I'm here
for. We were just wanting to have some drinks
and maybe some fun. Would you like a drink?
It might warm you up after your time in the
cages."
My eyes darted to the blonde still keeping
his distance. It wasn't difficult to guess what
James meant by fun and, sadly, I was going to
take part in it whether I wanted to or not.
Might as well get piss drunk so I wouldn't
remember it.
"Yes," I answered on a soft voice,
intentionally making it feeble to gain
sympathy from James. Perhaps if I could sway
favor from him, he'd keep the blonde away as
much as possible.
James smiled and it was a nice smile, all
white teeth, square jaw and dimples.
"Excellent. Why don't you take a seat on the
couch and I'll pour us something."
Sliding over on cautious feet, I sat on the
soft cushions of the couch, my eyes locked to
the blonde. There was something very wrong
about that man and I had every feeling he was
as big a sadist as the assholes I fought on
stage.
"Ethan tells us you're from Boston," James
said drawing my attention as he handed me a
large glass of brown liquid. Holding the rim to
my nose, I sniffed it before looking up in
question. He smiled. "It's a Long Island Iced
Tea, at least I think it is. I haven't made one
myself in ages."
Sipping from the glass, I felt dizzy just from
the fumes wafting off the liquid. I highly
doubted there was even a touch of soda in this
drink. Remembering the reason for accepting
it, I gulped it down anyway. James' eyes
flashed in satisfaction. "You're thirsty
apparently. Let me know when you're done
and I'll happily mix you another one."
Nodding my head, I tucked my legs to the
couch as James rounded me to take the other
seat. The blonde moved to sit in a single chair
facing us, his drink clutched by fat, grubby
fingers.
"So, Boston? Is that right?"
"Yes," I finally said when both sets of eyes
were locked on me in patient wait for my
answer. Tense silence fell again, James finally
standing up and suggesting he turn on some
music.
The blonde stared for a little while, finally
getting up as James sat back down and
excused himself to the bathroom. James
waited for him to leave the room before
saying, "Here's the deal, I know you're
uncomfortable as hell being here with us, and
you're probably scared shitless, too. I won't
hurt you, but my friend might, so I'm willing
to make a deal with you for your cooperation."
My eyes clenched closed. Another deal. For
more cooperation. What could he possibly
want?
"What's the deal?" I asked.
"I can ensure my friend doesn't touch you,
but you have to promise to thank me for it, in
any way I want. Willingly and completely. A
slave, if that's what you want to call it. Answer
quick, because he'll return soon."
Son of a bitch. But two wasn't better than
one in this situation. "Fine."
The night wore on, each hour lighting
James' eyes with anticipation, the blonde's
becoming more lazy and heavy, his words
slurring together as the two men had a
conversation. I didn't add much and only
answered with clipped, one syllable words
when they asked me a question. Before long,
the blonde man nodded off without so much
as mentioning his name to me. Not that I
wanted to know it.
A hand touched mine. "Would you like to
follow me back to the bedroom?"
I nodded, the movement uncoordinated
and loose. I'd only had two drinks, but given
the lack of nutritious food, the forced
exhaustion, and the high likelihood this man
was drugging me just like his friend,
everything around me was fuzzy and off
balance. James didn't seem too concerned,
helping me up from the couch, he tucked an
arm around my waist and led me to the
bedroom.
My legs were limp noodles beneath me,
and I silently begged the room to stop
spinning. James continued talking softly, but
his voice echoed and buzzed, the words lost to
me in my condition. Setting me on the bed, he
slapped at my cheek softly to draw my
attention to him. "I think I may have given you
a touch too much. Perhaps it was needed
considering your violent proclivities."
He chuckled before moving away to dig
through the drawers in a beside table. Finding
what he wanted, he crooked a finger at me to
scoot up to the head of the bed. I did as I was
told, struggling the entire way.
"I'm going to tie you up," he explained,
attaching chords to the iron headboard on
either side of me. Moving with an easy grace,
he watched my face as he bound my hands,
his skin warm against mine. "I've seen your
films, Emma, and I have to admit I'm
impressed. The feisty girls are always the fun
ones, but you take feisty to a whole new
level."
His calm tone of voice was almost flat,
disturbingly calm and practiced. Squinting my
eyes to bring him into focus, I felt icy fingers of
dread drag down my spine, my skin tingling
with sharp warning. I'd met sadists like the
blonde man before, two of which I killed on
film. But this man was in a category all by
himself, practically clinical in his approach to
the art. I was fighting not to hyperventilate by
the time he finished binding my wrists.
Stepping to the end of the bed, he looked
across at me to admire his work. "Press your
feet to the mattress and bend your knees up."
I did as he said, my knees pressed together
because I didn't want him looking at me.
Regret chased through me hard and heavy for
accepting the drinks he made. I wanted to be
numb, but not unable to function.
"Spread your legs apart. Slowly."
My entire body trembled as I did.
A satisfied growl rolled out of him. "I think
I'm going to have a lot of fun with you. It's too
bad I didn't think to record this. You're
absolutely breathtaking on film."
My mind rushed to think, to take that
comment and turn it into something I could
use. There was little doubt this man would kill
me, and I had no way to fight back. Ethan. I
needed Ethan to see me. He might be playing
his bullshit games of loaning me out, but I
doubted he'd be okay with this man killing
me.
"Ethan," I slurred, my vision spinning and
my throat closing with fear. "Ethan would
have a small camera. He can come and set it
up."
James grinned. "Damn good idea," he
crooned, "I'll be right back."
As soon as he was gone, I closed my eyes
and laid my head against the pillow. I must
have dozed off because I heard arguing beside
me next.
"Are you out of your mind? I need her
healthy for the film in two days."
"She'll be fine by tomorrow. It was only a
little -"
"She's not to be killed, James, and it pisses
me off that you're playing with her like this.
You haven't done this before -"
"That you know of. Really, Ethan. Did you
honestly believe that I only keep myself
amused with the women in this place? A man
need more of a selection than that."
James' laugh was like a grater being
dragged across the skin, nipping at the flesh in
quick bursts of pain that warned of the far
greater ones coming. "I know what I'm doing.
She won't die."
"You'll answer to the other partners if she
does. That'll be your problem, not mine. Her
films are making us more money that twenty
other films combined. She's the newest star at
this moment and killing her would only cut off
the cash flow to those men. I doubt they give
enough of a shit about your sex life to excuse a
mistake like that."
Afraid to open my eyes, I waited with
anxious breath for James' response.
"She won't die. And even if she did, she can
be replaced by another woman."
Ethan's voice dropped to a dangerous tone.
"Not like her, James. I won't find another one
like her. So, I suggest you either call this night
off or control yourself for the hour that I'll give
you with her."
"An hour? You're trying to tell me how long
I can take? Who the fuck do you think you
are?"
Ice was glazing Ethan's answer. "The
person who will remind the other partners
that they're not above killing off a problematic
man."
Footsteps retreated from the room, and the
breath held in my lungs poured out of me to
know that I was alone with James once again.
The door clicked shut and the mattress dipped
beneath me from his weight. "I know you've
been awake for several minutes, Emma. I
could tell by the change in your breathing." He
paused, his fingers brushing down my cheek.
"Open your eyes."
They fluttered open, my vision hazy and
unfocused.
"Good," James praised whisper soft, I like to
see the fear a woman has in her eyes about
death."
My heart stopped, sputtered to a start
again, only to do it all over. Throat closed and
tongue swollen, I forced my breathing to even
out. One breath in. Hold it. One breath out.
Nothing helped. My mind had shut down
and instinct was screaming inside me to claw
his eyes out, knee him in the head, scream like
a banshee...do something.
I was boneless, my muscles relaxed despite
spending time with a psychopath, my head
lolling to the side when I didn't make a
conscious effort to keep it on the pillow. I was
completely and undeniably helpless. Not just
a woman trapped in a prison, a woman
trapped in a useless body. Even if I wasn't
bound, it was doubtful I could have fought
back.
 "I'll hit record on the camera and then we
can get started. In case you're wondering,
Ethan was kind enough to position it to
capture your entire body. I'll be able to see
every reaction you had to me and I'm excited
to have such a remarkable trophy. It's not
often I get to revisit the dead."
My heart sputtered again. Maybe it was a
good thing I drank the drugged alcohol. I
wouldn't have wanted to suffer this end sober.
At least I was outside myself, so numb that I
could barely feel where my body pressed
down against the bed.
Standing up, James removed his clothes,
the entire time watching me to gauge my
reaction. His body and face were blurry
mostly, only coming into focus in quick bursts
as he crawled up the bed to settle between my
legs. The weight of his growing erection was
heavy against my stomach, his face clearer
when he held it close. "It's fortunate for you I
don't want rough sex tonight, I'd prefer this
experience be as slow as possible. The only
instruction you have to remember is to keep
your eyes open so I can see how you react to
dying. Do you understand?"
Tears blinked from my eyes, my head
nodding over the pillow. I opened my mouth
to say yes, but nothing came out. Not even my
tongue could function. I'd been trapped in a
nightmarish existence for God knew how long,
and still I wanted to live.
"Good. Keep them open." His voice was
gentle, far too gentle for the evil I saw in his
eyes. Locking his gaze to mine, he shifted over
me to direct his cock between my legs and
push into my body. The skin burned from
being dry, but he didn't seem to mind. Once
burying himself as deep as he could go, he
moved slowly in and out.
The entire time staring at me, his head
canted ever so slightly to see the fear in my
eyes. Shifting so that he was on his knees, he
held my hips in place as he worked my body
to a point of becoming wet. He smiled to feel
it, purred out words of gentle praise as my tits
shook on my chest and my eyes dragged
down to look at him. If my body was
responding more than that, I wasn't aware, my
adrenaline knocking me out as it mixed with
the alcohol and drugs.
Pain flared across my cheek, a burning
sensation stinging the skin where James
slapped me. My eyes flew open.
"Keep them open."
More tears poured out to join the last, the
pillow wet beneath me. He kept moving
inside me while reaching up to wrap his hands
over my throat.
Oh, God, no...
Squeezing, he cut off my air, his hips
thrusting slowly, his eyes locked to mine. My
wrists pulled against the bindings, my legs
useless because of the drugs. I was dying and
this asshole stared down at me like a scientist
would a lab rat.
Lungs burning, I stretched open my mouth
desperate to gulp in air that wasn't coming.
The room spun faster before slowing into a
peaceful, lazy silence. My body relaxed next,
my mind slipping off into the ether...
He let go suddenly and air rushed down to
my lungs. It hurt to breathe again, my lungs
desperate and greedy, sucking in large gulps
only to force them back out again on
wrenching sobs that shook my body against
the bed.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered
reverently, fingers dragging through my hair,
the tips tracing the line of my cheek, my jaw,
my lips. Once the sobs had quieted down their
fury, he smiled at me, excitement flashing in
his eyes before he wrapped his hands around
my neck and squeezed again.
Back and forth, from points of sobbing to
the brink of unconsciousness, I was tormented
by this man's hands for what felt like hours.
He was toying with me, that much was
obvious, which only terrified me more to
wonder when he would finally push me too
far.
The answer came all too soon when he
pulled out of me suddenly, his release rushing
out on my skin to mingle with the sweat that
had dripped from his chest. As he rode the
wave of his orgasm, his hands were on my
neck again, refusing to release me until all I
saw was darkness.
 EMMA
Of all the deaths a person can suffer, I guess
mine wasn't so bad. I didn't endure the sharp
agony of torn flesh or shattered bones. I wasn't
being raped from behind. I didn't have my
hair ripped from my head or teeth sinking into
my skin. I simply suffered the pain and the
panic of not being able to breathe. The
disbelief and confusion. The burning agony of
lungs struggling to draw in air. But once my
body lost consciousness, there was no pain
anymore.
It felt like a dream afterward, my memories
coming back to me, flashing and echoing until
all that was left beside me was Ethan. His
image wasn't clear and his voice was quiet
and hard to hear, but I distinctly heard the
words I'm sorry.
"For what?" I thought. Death wasn't so bad.
It was warm, lazy, peaceful. So much better
than the cages.
 “This is why I can't...”
His voice was hazy, so broken and
disjointed that I knew I'd slipped farther
toward wherever it was I was going. My mind
started slipping as I floated within the miasma
of death, thoughts tumbling through
nothingness, wondering if I would see a light,
if someone would come forward to lead me
somewhere beyond this space where I was
everywhere and nowhere at once. It wasn't
dark, but it wasn't bright either. Peace was in
this place.
Slowly, though, the pain returned to me. A
tickle at first, it built and built, my skin
tingling with it before it sunk deeper to
wrench my bones, claw my muscles and slap
at my organs. I wanted to laugh because I
knew it was only a memory. Pain couldn't
touch me here. Only...it did, the sudden rush
of sensation throwing my eyes open against
light so blinding that all I could see was a
bright white sheet of it struck through by
outlines of shadow. The shadows twisted and
swirled, coming together before ripping apart,
to do it all over again.
Finally, a shape broke free, a strong shape,
large and imposing. From a distance, it wasn't
frightening, but as it drew closer, as I began to
recognize the graceful stride, the broad lines
transitioning down into tight surfaces, I knew.
Blinking rapidly, I couldn't bring it into focus
fast enough, couldn't lift my arms to protect
against it, couldn't...
"You're awake." A warm hand touched my
cheek. I flinched in response.
My mouth parted, and down a sore throat I
dragged air into lungs that were still burning. I
coughed and sputtered, moisture rushing into
my eyes that helped clear the haze. Blinking
again, a face came into view. Dark hair, dark
stubble, a full mouth pulled tight with anger.
And grey eyes. Furious eyes. Sad eyes that
stared down at me with unspoken thoughts
rolling behind them.
"Ethan," I breathed out, the sound rough,
strained.
His gaze searched mine, his features
blurring again. On a voice so soft it made me
want to cry, he said, "Don't worry, Emma. He's
gone. They're both gone. You can rest until
you feel better again."
I floated back to that peaceful place, happy
in the knowledge that I'd had a chance to say
goodbye.
 EMMA
I wish I could say I woke again without
pain radiating to every place my body came to
life. Starting in my throat, it expanded and
pulsed, down my arms into the tips of my
fingers, along my body until resting at the tips
of my toes. There wasn't a part of me that
didn't react to the assault. My skin, my
muscles, my tendons and bones. My organs
and veins, my nerve endings that screamed as
fire tore across them, as claws shredded and
clamps gripped down to dull the sharp pain.
Everywhere.
But I could breathe again. I guessed that
was something.
Blinking my eyes until the beige blankness
of a bedroom came into view, I shifted over
the mattress of the bed, the blanket sliding
over my shoulder, a rush of sensation that was
unwelcome. Attempting to push up into a
sitting position, I struggled against the sheets,
finally surrendering to a tangle of cloth that
wasn't willing to give up its prisoner.
I groaned and heard the soft hush of
responsive laughter.
My eyes searched out the sound to find
Ethan sitting in a chair on the opposite side of
the room, his clothes wrinkled, his hair a
tousled mess that framed his face. I didn't
attempt sitting up again, I was too weak and
the blankets and sheets were too heavy.
Mumbling despite the fire in my throat, I said,
"You look like shit."
His voice was deep canyons and jagged
rocks. "I could say the same."
Shifting again, I tugged the sheet up over
my shoulder. "I guess I'm not dead."
"You're not."
"That's too bad," I answered. "It was nice
there."
His clothes brushed across the upholstery of
the chair as he stood, his knees popping softly,
his footsteps slow and heavy. I tracked his
movement from the chair to a side table.
Picking up a glass of water, he crossed the
room to kneel down in front of me. "You
should drink this."
"My throat -"
"This will help. It's cold, and I've added a
bit of a pain reliever to numb any tissue that's
torn or swollen."
 Staring at the water, I watched a bead of
sweat slide down the glass. My mouth was
suddenly a desert, my lips sticking to my
teeth. "I can't move. Everything hurts."
Reaching out with his free hand,
Ethan untangled the sheets from my body.
Cold air slipped in to replace the warmth, my
skin tightening against it. Even that small
reaction hurt. Forcing myself to move past the
pain, I fought to seat myself against the
pillows, finally becoming upright as much as
possible. In my peripheral vision, I could see
the bindings used on me still hanging from
where they'd been attached to the iron
headboard.
Ethan handed me the glass and I had to cup
both hands around it to keep from spilling.
Bringing it to my lips, I took small swallows to
test the functioning of my throat. The fire
subsided almost instantly and I was able to
gulp down more. A bead of water was
dribbling from the side of my mouth to my
chin by the time Ethan pulled the glass from
my hands and set it on a side table.
"Better?" he asked.
I nodded.
Silence fell between us that I eventually
filled with sarcasm. "Your friends were nice."
The fact he didn't make a sound in response
should have been a warning. Turning my
head, I only saw cold violence behind his grey
eyes.
"My friends," he finally answered, "are
growing tiresome. But they've had their fun.
One of them, at least."
Stepping away, he slowly paced the floor at
the foot of the bed. I looked up every so often
to see his hands clasped behind his back, his
face angled down at his feet. Fury rolled off
him in undulating waves, rolling across me to
hurry the pace of my heart.
"You didn't let him kill me," I finally
commented, wondering if James had stopped
before that point, or if Ethan had come in to
stop the sadistic game.
Without pausing in his movement, Ethan
was absentminded when he answered, "I
didn't have a choice either way. Fortunately,
he took my threat to heart. Left you in here for
me to handle. Mark was pissed off beyond
reason after waking up, but that wasn't my
problem. I let James deal with his anger."
Leaning my head against the pillow, I
confessed, "I thought James was the safer of
the two."
"You thought wrong." His pacing stopped.
"James is just far more polished than Mark,
more clever."
 Reality came crashing down to remind me
of where I'd been kept since being snatched
from the streets. "It's too bad he didn't finish
the job."
Ethan turned to glare at me. "Don't say
that." His voice was the low rumble of a
thunderous command.
Quieting in response, I watched as he
slowly started pacing again, his mind locked
in some battle against itself. I wanted to
believe he actually gave a damn about what
James had almost done to me, but I knew
better. At least I thought I did. I was just a
character who made expensive films. A pawn
on his chessboard he'd positioned directly in
front of the King. It was too bad he could
make a move to knock me from the board, but
I couldn't. As the silence pressed on, a
moment came back to me - a whisper.
"Were you in the room last night?" My eyes
flicked up at him, noticed that he'd stilled but
hadn't looked at me. "After James left?"
"No."
Yes, he was. I knew him well enough now
to hear the subtle shift in his voice when he
was lying. My eyes narrowed. "Are you sure? I
could have sworn -"
Finally pivoting, his eyes stared me down,
his professional blank mask in place. "You also
could have sworn James was the lesser threat.
Look how that turned out for you. Stop
making assumptions, Emma. You're terrible at
them."
Conversation ended, he walked to the door
and gripped his hand over the knob.
"Breakfast will be brought to you soon. Then
they'll take you to clean up."
Before he could walk through the door, I
asked, "Am I going back to the cages?"
"No," he answered, pausing mid-step. "You
have a film to make tomorrow and I need to
ensure you're strong enough to keep from
getting killed. You'll be brought to my suite
when you're done."
My heart sank into my stomach. "I'm not
watching the film, Ethan."
His shoulders rolled back, a ripple of
muscle chasing down his body beneath his
clothes. "You'll do anything I tell you to do."
With that he was gone, a guard shuffling in
several minutes later to deliver a tray of food I
didn't want. The scent eventually reached out
to me, my stomach rumbling in response. I ate
and felt more awake, more able to move my
body and ignore the thrum of pain still pulsing
inside me. The guard returned, his eyes locked
in fierce resolve to direct me to the showers.
Throwing the blankets off my legs, I stood
and managed walking to the door without
falling. Unbalanced, I left the suite and
practically slid down the hallway walls in
route to the showers. The steam was heavenly,
as was the warm water that poured over my
head. By the time I finished drying off I felt
like a real person again.
I was delivered to Ethan's room quickly
thereafter, the guard happily retreating once
Ethan gave me a clipped nod of welcome.
"You can take a seat on the couch," he
instructed after the guard had closed the door.
An argument was on the tip of my tongue,
but unable to find the point of voicing it, I
swallowed the thought and sat down. The soft
tap of fingers over a keyboard filtered through
the air.
Minutes ticked by in tense silence, the
tension dissipating into a comfortable,
companionable silence. On and on, Ethan
typed and clicked the mouse, scratched
something on a piece of paper with his pen,
typed again. I considered going back to sleep,
but I wasn't tired.
My punishment today wasn't sucking cock
or having the life choked out of me, it was
boredom.
Against my better judgment, I asked, "What
are you working on?"
 "A film." Reaching up, he scratched at his
beard, his eyes darting between the screen of
his computer and the pages stacked neatly on
his desk. When I thought he wouldn't divulge
more, he said, "It's becoming boring. These
films. Even though they're not scripted or
practiced, it's still the same thing repeated
over again until I just feel like tossing my
computer screen out the window."
My head turned to the window. "I'm not
sure the screen would make it far, considering
it's not real."
"Nothing is real in this place, Emma. You'd
be wise to remember that." He wasn't referring
to a window with that remark.
I toyed with my fingers over my lap, the
ticking seconds reminding me of what it felt
like to be in the principal's office after doing
something naughty at school. It was a mix of
worry and ennui. You didn't want to face the
man who would assign his punishment, but at
the same time you wanted to get it over with
just so you could get on with your life.
Rebelling against my instinct, I asked, "Why
am I in here?"
Ethan peeked up from beneath the fan of
his thick, dark lashes. "So I can keep an eye on
you."
Waiting for his gaze to slide down to his
work, I asked, "Is this what you do all day
while I'm in the cages?"
His pen dropped to the desk, his attention
sliding back to me. Blinking a few times, he
finally asked, "Are you asking me these
ridiculous questions purposely to annoy me, or
are they some segueway into another question
you want to ask?"
That hadn't been my intent, but now that he
mentioned it...
"Why are you so mad at me?"
A sigh burst from his lips as his body
relaxed against his seat. Steepling his fingers,
he brought them to his chin. For the first time
in what felt like weeks, I studied him. His
beard was thicker with small bits of silver to
match the color at his temples. It only added
to his appeal and I remembered what that
beard felt like against my cheek, the way
water looked sliding down his body to pool at
our feet.
"I'm not mad at you," he said, breaking me
from the memory.
Liar...
"So that stunt with Brent the other week,
last night with James?"
"Were simply the types of things that
happen to the women in this place. You're no
different."
 My eyebrow cocked with suspicion. "Is that
why there's a no damage order on me with the
guards?"
His lip curled ever so slightly. "It's my job to
protect investments. If you're damaged, how
can you continue doing films?"
"I hate you," I breathed out.
"We've already covered that," he countered
dryly.
Yes, we had covered that particular topic to
exhaustion, but despite everything, we always
ended up back at it.
"Are you done asking your questions? I'd
like to get back to my work. Uninterrupted, if
possible."
Giving him a clipped nod, I went back to
studying my fingers. The sound of his fingers
over a keyboard returned. The air
conditioning kicked on a couple of minutes
later and goosebumps erupted across my skin.
"Can I have a shirt, at least? It's cold."
Another harsh sigh. "There are some t-shirts
in a bureau in my room. Help yourself."
Slowly standing from the couch, I balanced
myself with a hand on the backrest. "I can just
go in there by myself? You trust me not to rifle
through your things?"
"If I were concerned about anything in that
room, I wouldn't have left you sleeping in
there that last time you were here." He didn't
bother to lift his head to look at me. I was an
afterthought at that moment, an annoyance.
Still pushing my luck, I suggested, "I could
find something heavy and come out here to
bludgeon you with it."
A smile tilted his lips. "You don't scare me,
Emma. I'd easily overpower you. Especially
now while you're still weak from last night."
"I'm not weak."
His gaze lifted. "Then why are you holding
yourself up on that backrest?" His brow arched
at my responsive silence. "Go get a shirt before
I change my mind."
I did, my feet stumbling over the cold stone
floor until they met with the warm plush rugs
in Ethan's bedroom. Pausing in the center, I
breathed deeply to inhale his scent. It was
everywhere, so earthy and masculine that I
was weak kneed by the impact of it. Hating
the way it made me feel, I hurried over to the
bureau, yanked open the doors and grabbed a
black t-shirt to pull over my body.
I'd started the walk back out of his room,
but lost my strength. Sitting on the bed, I
lowered my head to rest it in my hands.
"Did you get lost?"
His smooth, deep voice pulled my face
from my hands. Craning my neck to see him
leaning against the doorway, his broad
shoulders filling the frame, I sat quietly
studying him before answering, "How long
have I been in here?"
"Several minutes. I came to ensure you
weren't making good on your threat to find
something to bludgeon me." The easy smile on
his lips betrayed that he was joking. I wanted
to smile in return, but fought against it.
Allowing myself to smile around him was the
same as taking off my armor and tossing it
aside while he held the tip of a sword to my
chest.
"I think I'm giving up," I confessed on a soft
voice. "I'm not sure I'm strong enough to
endure this place for much longer. It's
breaking me."
Ethan pushed away from the door and
approached me on a predator's foot. Settling
down beside me on the bed, he was careful to
prevent any part of his body from touching
mine. Even though we weren't against each
other, I could still feel the magnetic draw, like
a tether between two similar souls desperate
to bring them together.
"Eventually you will be broken by your life
here. It happens to every person and like
them, you'll lose the grasp on yourself that you
had in the beginning. I'm sure if you think
hard enough, you'll recognize changes in you
that have already occurred."
His voice was gentle and matter of fact as
he spoke. There was no warmth, but no
chilling cold either. It was simply truth that
fell morosely from his lips, an explanation of
what he'd seen happen with other women,
and what he knew would eventually happen
to me.
Daring to peek out from behind my mask
and reveal a sore spot inside me, I admitted, "I
realized one change last night while with
James. When I'd first arrived here, I was
desperate to die, to escape, to find the easiest
and fastest route out of this nightmare."
"And now?" he prodded.
"Now I want to live."
The confession was a heavy weight lifted
from my shoulders to be carried by his. I'm
sure he thought it was some sneaky trick on
my part to make him feel guilty. But it wasn't.
It was simply an admission I needed to make
to myself, regardless of whether anybody else
heard it.
Silent for a moment, he breathed in deeply,
breathed out.
I realized when he spoke again that I would
always love the sound of his deep voice, no
matter what words were falling from his
tongue, and especially when that voice was
soft.
"Every woman here vacillates between
wanting to die and wanting to live. One desire
comes from the intelligent mind
understanding that escape will never occur.
The other desire comes from the natural
instinct in us all to survive. But time is cruel in
the cages, Emma. The days break you down
until all that is left is a woman who goes
through the motions, functions only because it
is her biological imperative to do so.
Eventually, they all reach a point where not
even the horrors they face on stage are enough
to rouse them. They lie there like unfeeling
logs, inanimate dolls that spread their legs
without any concern for what's being done to
them. I won't lie to you and tell you there's
hope."
Falling back, I lay on the bed staring up at
his ceiling. He didn't stand up or move away,
didn't twist around to look at me. I stared at
the ceiling and he stared at the open door.
Silently.
"What happens to them?"
"To whom?"
"To the women who give up."
His voice was dark with bitter truth. "I
schedule them for their final performance."
 The crushing weight of it settled across my
chest. "There really is no hope, is there?"
"Not in the studio, Emma. We're all
prisoners to this place."
 EMMA
The rest of the day was spent in relative
silence, I slept for a while on Ethan’s bed
while he worked. But eventually I woke and
found my way back into the living room. From
his couch I took a tour of India, Russia and the
Bahamas. It was delightful to see the screen
also had day trips to Venice, Mount Everest,
Japan and Norway. It was like an endless
slideshow of all the places I had no hope of
escaping to because I would always be stuck
in the studio. At least, until they carried my
dead body out.
I mentioned that fact to Ethan and he'd
only shaken his head softly in response.
The night arrived after several hours and I
was escorted from Ethan's suite to the dive
motel with its trusty sink-toilet combo. There
was a stark difference between Ethan's bed
and the lumpy hard mattress with its crusty
blanket. Lying awake several hours, I thought
about James and death, about Ethan and his
warnings that I would eventually lose my will
to live. And while those thoughts were
certainly far from kittens and rainbows, they
didn't darken my path.
It was odd, this light inside me that glowed
brighter in the darkest moments. A small
pinpoint of illumination, it would fester and
grow, spread out with webby tentacles until
they caught hold and burned as brightly as the
center. Warmth radiated from that light,
tickling across my skin and relaxing my
muscles. Embracing me with whispers, it
reminded me that I wouldn't easily be
destroyed, that I still had weapons in my
arsenal of which I wasn't aware.
Digging through my thoughts, I searched
high and low for those weapons, one in
particular coming to mind as my eyes finally
fluttered closed and my body began the steep
drop into slumber.
One weapon. And only one. It would have
to work if I had any chance at all to stay alive.

...

The next morning went through its

standard routine before filming. Breakfast.
Shower. Makeup and wardrobe.
Today I was playing the part of a psychotic
princess in her floor length, white silk robe
and a cute little red bra with matching panties
that were missing a crotch. I shook my head at
the point of panties without that one feature
and seet in my chair while an unusually peppy
woman spoke in broken English and made me
pretty with glittery powders and perfectly
styled hair. When done, I was led to Studio A
and set at the back of the room while the
production crew ran about preparing the set
and tending to the cameras, lights and sound
equipment.
Ethan eventually entered from a door on
the right. As usual, he was too handsome for
words, his silver-grey shirt and black pants
perfectly tailored to his strong, graceful body.
He walked with the ease of a dancer and the
arrogance of a man who controlled the world
around him. Approaching me, his eyes
performed an appreciative sweep of my body,
a flicker of possessive desire flashing behind
them when his mask of professional
indifference slipped for just a brief moment.
"Good morning," he purred while stepping
up beside me. Turning so that he could keep
me in view while also watching his studio, he
reached to touch my arm, but stilled his hand
at the last second. As if I were diseased and
just touching me could spread it, he dropped
his arm back to his side and waited for me to
respond.
I simply trained my eyes on the activity
around me, refusing to acknowledge that
slight slip of the lie he was still trying to tell.
Ethan wanted me to be just another woman in
a sea of helpless faces. And if it were his intent
to continue living by that lie - whether it was
for my benefit or his - I'd allow him that
fabrication. Who was I to stomp all over the
same tired routine in this place by making the
director feel a damn thing?
"Morning," I answered so casually it drew
his brows together.
Silence passed for a beat and then, "You
seem calm today. Much calmer than you've
been before filming in the past."
Without looking at him, I grinned. "It's like
you said: I'm trapped. Might as well drop the
panic act and make the most of it. What
psychopath am I battling today?"
"I haven't met him yet, but I was told he,
too, paid dearly to have this experience."
A bark of laughter shook my shoulders. "I'm
an experience now? It's funny how I seem to be
everything but a human being. First a prisoner.
Then an investment. And now an experience.
I'm honored."
He leaned against the wall, crossed his
arms first and then his ankles. "If you want, I'll
go meet him now and let you know how much
of a threat he is."
Shrugging, I asked, "Why bother? I'm going
on stage with him regardless. It won't give me
any advantage to know whether he's like the
first guy I killed or the second. Speaking of
which, what's my weapon for today?
"Knife under the mattress."
"How original," I teased.
It was his turn to acquiesce. "Why bother
with anything else? It'll be the same film. Guy
walks in. He attacks. You kill him. Once it's
filmed, I'll toss it out to have men signing over
their bank accounts and future paychecks just
to get a peek. Everything loses its meaning in
the end."
That drew my head to the right so I could
stare at him. "You're not your usual self
today," I commented, noticing that the
shadows beneath his eyes were heavier than
they'd ever been.
He shrugged, showing me that we both
apparently dove into the same deep pool of
apathy. Although we frantically kicked our
legs and pumped our arms, we were being
dragged under. This was not like Ethan Cole,
and the line between my eyes deepened in
response to it. "Would you like me to mix it up
a little? Maybe do a song and dance before
slitting his throat?"
The corners of his lips tugged up. "That
depends. Who gets to pick the song?"
Soft laughter flowed between us, but I had
a secret tucked up my sleeve. While tossing
and turning over a lumpy bed, I'd come up
with an idea on how to toy with the weapon I
still had, decided that there was no harm in
trying to see if I could break through Ethan's
impenetrable shell.
This film wouldn't be the same monotonous
routine he was expecting. I was actually
excited for once - and deeply concerned.
Excited because I wanted to know if I was
correct about Ethan. But concerned because
being excited about letting a stranger have his
way with me seated me firmly on the crazy
side of sanity. Hoping the son of a bitch was
more interested in sex than murder, I'd spent
the morning hours thinking over how I would
play out this part and still remain breathing.
The knife was helpful, even if it did lack
originality.
"We should get started," Ethan finally
breathed out as he pushed away from the
wall. Without so much as looking at me, he
strode to the center of the room and called
out, "Everybody to their places. We'll begin in
two minutes."
Taking his place among the cameras, he
dropped his arm to his side and pat his leg as
if calling a dog. Rolling my eyes, I walked to
him, knowing that the silent command had
been intended for me. Ethan's eyes widened
in surprise to see me step up next to him.
"I'd assumed you would refuse being called
in that manner," he remarked.
"Stop making assumptions, Ethan. You're
terrible at them," I answered, returning his
words from the other day.
Lips pulled taut, his eyes were trained to
the stage. "They're ready for you."
Inclining my head graciously, I walked
slowly to the steps, ascended them equally as
slowly, and then took my place on the bed.
The bra and panties were uncomfortable, the
lace scratching my skin as the underwire dug
into my ribs, but I ignored the desire to rip
them both off and be done with it. Clenching
the robe tighter to my body, I turned to stare
at Ethan, hoping like hell I was fooling
everybody with my frightened act.
Ethan stood tall, his shoulders rolled back,
his arms crossed, his feet set at shoulder width
apart. Except, today, instead of the intense,
driven focus, he wore a bored mask. My eyes
narrowed to see it, my mind scrambling to
think of what could have caused such a
dramatic change in him.
Not quite putting my finger on it, the time
had run out for me to consider the problem.
The top of the clapboard snapped down as the
woman called out, "Kill me, take one." It
amused me that she always felt the need to
announce the first take, as if there could ever
be a second.
The door behind me popped open, the
hinges barely squeaking as the bottom
brushed over the thick rug that covered the
stage floor. If this room had been an actual
place, I would be spending a fortune on new
rugs just because of the constant blood spill.
I toyed with the hem of my robe and
glanced up in the mirror to see the man
sneaking in. He wasn't bad looking with spiky
brown hair and eerily light blue eyes. He had
two day's worth of scruff dusting his cheeks, a
strong jaw, a slightly crooked nose and a
mouth that was oddly one of the most
seductive I'd ever seen. It was a perfect bow
with a thick bottom lip, the corners held in
such a way that you saw he had secrets behind
his startling eyes.
His thick neck led to broad shoulders, a scar
cutting across his muscular chest through the
light spread of dark hair. And although the
man didn't have a perfect six pack, the toned
muscle of his waist was well displayed by the
way it angled down to his hips. Every move
he made was perfectly demonstrated in the
dance of the shadow across his stomach.
On the outside, I was a frightened girl
secretly hiding a predator inside, and on the
inside, I was thinking, He'll do...
It was a certainty by that point that I'd
finally lost my damn mind.
The man rounded the bed and stood before
me in loose silk pants that danced around his
ankles when he moved. They hung from his
hips seductively, a light trail of hair extending
from his naval down below the waistband.
It was now or never.
Batting my lashes, I curled my mouth at the
corners, my eyes widening with feigned fear
while my lips parted on heavier breath. I had
never been an actress on this stage before, but
I was owning the job description now. Settling
back, I set my palms on the mattress,
intentionally allowing the robe to fall loose,
my shoulders to squeeze together to highlight
my tits, and my legs to part ever so slightly in
invitation.
The man stared with an amused expression
on his face. He thought I was going to make
this easy. But before he could take the bait, I
flicked a glance at Ethan to see a deep scowl
shadowing his face. His biceps were bulging
against this shirt, his body stock still as his
eyes cut through me with angry precision and
toxic skill. He was madder than hell already.
I smiled, but not enough that anybody else
would catch it. Turning back to the man dead
set on raping and killing me, I watched as he
stepped forward to snatch at my leg. Rather
than hurriedly rolling away to the other side
of the bed, I simply stared while his fingers
traveled up the back of my knee, along my
thigh, to grip the flesh just beneath the cheek
of my ass. A low growl emanated from his
chest, but I ignored it. He'd have his fun, and
then he'd pay the cost.
My legs spread wider and he took that
invitation while baring his teeth, the
excitement in his gaze blinding behind eyes
that were the color of arctic ice. He stepped up
to the side of the mattress and rather than
struggling against him, I wrapped my legs
around his waist, glanced up from beneath
heavy lashes, and waited for him to make his
next move.
It was obvious he'd expected the opposite
of what I was doing, and I knew that if he was
shocked, so was Ethan. I had to fight to keep
from looking over, to lock my stare with the
man this entire show had been planned for.
My lips parted on the huskiest voice I could
manage. "Are you going to fuck me, or what?"
His eyes flared with male dominance, and
like the helpless female I was, I feigned total
submission. With his one free hand, he slipped
the pants from his waist, his long, hard
erection pointing out at me as he kicked the
pants from his feet. I wrapped my legs even
tighter, just daring him to take what he
believed was his.
In an added bit of dramatics, he reached
out before taking my body to force the robe off
my shoulders and rip the bra apart by the front
clasp. My tits bounced free and he growled
again, his cock getting thicker. My eyes flicked
down as a pointed look at the evidence of how
much he wanted me. Thankfully, he was
making this look better than I'd imagined it
would.
If this guy was hoping for a fight, he'd have
it later, but for now I'd be a porn star for
another man who was watching.
Gripping his erection in his strong hand, he
pumped once, then twice, before lining the
head up to my entrance and pushing in. My
body responded instantly, my nipples beading
as my mouth opened on a seductive moan I
may have dramatized for Ethan's benefit.
Releasing my arms, I fell back on the mattress,
the man grabbing my hips as he started
pumping, my tits bouncing from the motion as
my head turned and I met Ethan's furious
stare.
I almost laughed in response, but with the
force of the man fucking me, I couldn't think
past the pleasure to find anything funny. It
wasn't the guy inside me that was getting me
off, it was the naked anger I saw pouring off
Ethan's tight body.
To hide my smile, I parted my lips and let
the pleasure roll out of me on sultry moans
that rivaled the ones I'd made when it had
been Ethan inside me. The entire time, I kept
my eyes pinned to him, despite how the man's
violent thrusts were shoving me across the
bed, and despite the raw heat I saw flaring in
Ethan's gaze. If the guy fucking me didn't kill
me on stage, Ethan was sure as hell going to
do it after he screamed cut.
The man kept thrusting, pushing me closer
and closer to where I assumed Ethan had
hidden the knife. Once my head fell
backwards over the side of the mattress, and
the man was climbing up to continue riding
my body, I let an arm fall to the side, searching
out and finding the weapon. Unsure how I
would pull off the next maneuver, I was quick
to tuck the knife under the blanket and lift my
body up so I could rest on my elbows. My
breasts pressed together and the man stopped
his thrusts long enough to bend down and
take the nipple in his mouth.
His teeth latched on harder than I liked, my
mouth opening on a scream of pain as his hips
started thrusting even harder.
Fuck! It was agonizing, but he let go a few
seconds later, his tongue licking out to taste
the small wisps of blood. Anger began to build
inside me.
Ignoring the pain, I jerked my hips from the
man's grasp and shoved my hands against his
shoulders. At first he tried to take control
again, but I spoke just loud enough for him to
hear me. "Let me ride you for a while."
Eyes rounding, he took the hint and
allowed me to direct him to lie on his back on
the bed. He must have believed he would still
have the upper hand, but I knew a secret
about men I was willing to use to win.
Straddling his waist, I grabbed his cock in
my hand and positioned it beneath me. It
wasn't until I was sliding down the thick
length that I looked up to find Ethan's face
practically red. Oh, he was going to destroy
me when this was over. The satisfaction of
that knowledge felt better than the cock filling
me.
Rolling my hips, I put on the best
performance possible, my tits bouncing, my
mouth opening wide on throaty moans, my
eyes closing only briefly just to stay in
character. But discreetly I watched the man
beneath me get driven closer and closer to the
edge, his hands gripping my hips tightly while
his body thrust frantically.
Glancing at Ethan one last time, I dragged
my gaze down his body to see a familiar
shadow tenting his pants, and even though it
wasn't that particular cock I was riding, I still
felt the familiar wave of an orgasm coming
close. The end was near and I had a job to do
whether I wanted to or not.
While the man's eyes closed and his mouth
opened on a growl, I felt his hips buck
suddenly with the release of an orgasm. My
own was still seconds away but I wouldn't let
him come inside me, so I pulled up to let his
erection fall across his own body. Flipping the
blanket at our side with my hand, I wrapped
my fingers over the hilt of the blade and as the
man's release spurt out to cover his stomach, I
dragged the razor sharp edge across his neck
while he was distracted. The arterial spray
dotted my skin in a crimson mess before his
hands shot up to wrap over his neck.
 It was too late, I'd cut through the artery,
the trachea, even the esophagus before he'd
had the chance to stop me.
I watched as his body convulsed with
death, his eyes finally losing all life as his head
lulled to the side. Lifting my gaze I stared
directly in the camera with the man's blood
still dripping from my face, my lips pulled into
a feral grin when Ethan angrily roared, "CUT!"
 EMMA
As soon as filming stopped, every person
besides me, Ethan and the dead guy left the
room, the production crew having learned by
the last two times that Ethan preferred a
moment alone with me after I was done
gutting some poor bastard. While they
scattered off, I sat straddling the recently dead
man that I'd killed.
Ethan's eyes stayed pinned on me despite
the flurry of activity, pure, undiluted fury
pouring off him in pounding waves.
Swallowing, I wondered if I hadn't just
pushed some button I shouldn't.
We were alone within a few seconds, the
thick silence cut through by the chainsaw that
was his voice.
"What the fuck was that?"
My body was trembling as I dropped the
knife to the mattress, but I forced a sweet
smile regardless. Ethan marched toward the
stage, all long legs and a powerful stride.
 He was definitely going to kill me. I had no
doubt he'd climb those stairs, drag me from
the bed and straight to Studio B for my final
performance. Death was worth it just to see
the rage written across his expression.
When he was within arm's reach, he looked
down at the man's body with pure disgust
before wrenching me from the bed and
balancing me on my feet.
A question hissed over his lips that I wasn't
sure he actually wanted answered. "Are you
insane?"
The jury was still out on that issue, but I
assumed they were leaning closer to yes than
no. I had to be insane to survive this place.
The real question, however, was: had I
affected him as much as I'd hope to do with
that little performance?
If the tension in his body and the beat of his
labored breath were any indication, the
answer was yes.
Without another word, he dragged me from
the stage, out of the studio and down the long
maze of halls to his suite. Rather than
scrambling to keep up with his breakneck
pace, I walked with my chin held high and my
shoulders rolled back, without one ounce of
regret inside me.
I didn't know if he was planning on beating
my ass or fucking it, but I wouldn't allow that
one concern to darken my thoughts as he
delivered me to his shower.
"Get clean," he demanded, stalking away
without bothering to turn on the showerheads.
I grinned and went about washing the blood
off my skin while warming my muscles
beneath the water. Wrapping a towel around
myself as I stepped out, I expected to find him
in the bedroom, sitting all too casually on the
bed, but he was nowhere in sight.
Maybe I'd angered him after all.
Dropping the towel in a linen basket, I
grabbed a t-shirt from his dresser and stalked
out into the living room to find him standing
by the bar with a drink in hand. "What the
fuck were you doing up there?" he asked,
warning edging his words.
I hadn't just angered him, I'd infuriated
him, the snarl to his lips and narrowing of his
grey eyes a loss of control I'd never witnessed
before.
Hating how meek my voice sounded, I
answered, "I was putting on a show."
"A show," not a question, a statement, one
he growled out as he repeated it. "A show.
You decided to put on a show?" Ice filled his
voice, so damn cold that it chapped my skin.
Backpedaling from the arrogance I'd felt
while letting him lead me to his suite, I was
suddenly afraid to be alone with him. "Y-you
said the films were getting boring," I
stammered, the lie not quite cutting it as
anything more than what it was...weak and
unbelievable.
"You could have been killed!" he roared, his
fingers clenching over the glass he held so
tightly that the blood rushed from his
knuckles. Another ounce of pressure and that
glass would shatter in his hand.
The vehemence in his voice surprised me,
but rather than letting it force me to my knees,
I yelled, "What do you care if I die?"
"I don't," he yelled back, tossing the alcohol
down his throat and slamming the tumbler on
the bar. "I don't," he insisted on a softer voice
after a few beats of silence.
Staggered by his reaction, I tucked my arms
around my abdomen and stood perfectly still
in the center of his living room. I was equally
fearful as I was concerned, confused as I was
elated. The mix of emotions was toxic as it
rolled and stewed inside me.
Fighting to keep my voice calm and steady,
I asked, "Then why are you so angry with
me?"
He poured another drink before looking at
me. "Because you could have been killed."
 His words were far too controlled to be
comforting. There was another message
weaved within that sentence, but I was so
blind to this man that I couldn't understand
what it was telling me.
Ethan was the epitome of opposites: hot
then cold, jovial then angry, so breathtakingly
close then terrifying in his distance. He was an
oxymoron walking around on two strong legs,
a dichotomy that's voice could lull you into
false safety. He was maddening in his ability
to show all of himself in one brief second and
then be veiled beneath that bullshit
professional mask that revealed nothing.
I'd never hated him more than I did in that
second, and I'd never wanted him more just
the same.
Closing my eyes and counting as high as I
could, I calmed myself down because I knew
better than to raise my voice or be demanding.
That man was precariously balanced on the
top of a frozen lake and there were thousands
of cracks running through the ice. One wrong
step and we both would end up drowning.
"If you don't care," I said as calmly as
possible, "then why are you upset that I fucked
that man on stage? Isn't that what you want?
A good film?"
His response was not as calm, the words
clipped and dangerously low. "He could have
killed you. You let him get too close. You gave
him the advantage."
The advantage...so we're back to that again.
"I wasn't worried about him," I admitted.
"He was nothing like the second guy I killed.
He wasn't that dangerous."
His eyes locked to mine, pure malice rolling
out of them. "That's what you thought about
James as well, and we both know what
happened with that."
Heat flared across my cheeks. "You let it
happen!"
"I had no choice," he bellowed, the booming
sound shaking the glasses beside him as easily
as it had startled me. Slamming his fist against
the wall, he shot the tumbler across the room,
the glass shattering into a thousand tiny pieces
when it hit the floor. Storming away from the
bar, he moved to stand in front of the fake
window, bracing his hand against the wall
beside it as he stared at a view of New
Zealand. The bright lighting was an outline
around him, the tension in his body causing
that outline to tremble.
Back to controlled, he asked a question that
slapped me. "I can't let myself care about you,
Emma. I can't let whatever this is between us
become an actual thing. I have no control over
whether you live or die and I won't make it
worse by allowing this to become a factor in
the equation. The day will come when they
push me too far, and I'll do something that
gets both of us killed."
A barrage of questions screamed in my
mind all at once, the force of them making it
hard to take a second and just think. Unable to
choose which one of them to ask first, I finally
just broke the heavy silence and said, "I'm
going to die anyway. And I highly doubt
they'll kill their director."
He didn't answer, didn't bother to turn and
look at me.
"And what do you mean you have no
choice?" I couldn't help it, the question just
slipped out.
Ethan let out a harsh sigh. "Beyond what
happens in the two studios, I don't have
absolute control in this place. The decisions
about the films are mine, but the studio heads
make all other decisions. If they wanted to
come in here right now and remove your
head, there is nothing I could do about it."
My eyes widened by a fraction at the
admission. Ethan, not in absolute control? It
didn't seem possible. Didn't make sense. He
ordered around every person in this place,
snapped his fingers and they were running.
He wasn't the type of man to be in a situation
where he didn't have absolute authority.
"You’ve never been the type to take orders."
"I'm still not the type," he confessed, "but
that doesn't make it any easier for me to
leave." Turning, he finally met my eyes as he
leaned a shoulder against the wall. His body
appeared heavy, exhausted. "I don't take
orders. But when it comes to everything else,
I'm their puppet."
The expression on my face must have
betrayed how shocked I was by the statement.
Rather than shutting up and leaving it at that,
Ethan explained, "I came to the studio from
Hollywood, lured here by the belief that,
without rules, I could create actual art. At first,
that's what happened. I shed my civility and
used the tools they gave me to record the most
vile and depraved sides of life. But the films
were getting boring. I wanted to move on."
"Why didn't you?" I asked, my voice soft
where his had been hard. "Move on?"
He was resigned when he admitted,
"Because although they told me I was free to
leave, they kindly reminded me that I had a
lot of information in my head that could get a
man killed. This is not exactly a legitimate
business, Emma, and these men are willing to
do anything to keep their secrets." Pausing, he
added, "I didn't care all that much, not until
you came along. And that can't happen. We
can't happen."
His expression settled into a bored mask,
the wall of indifference slipping back in place.
"That is why I don't care whether you live or
die. But it won't happen on my stage until I
say it happens. Are we clear?"
My arms fell to my sides, the fight leaking
out of me to hear the defeat in his voice. I
wanted to walk away, to drop the topic and
return to my miserable existence, but one
other question was pounding at my skull so
hard that ignoring it was impossible. "Can I
ask you something, Ethan?"
He stared at me, not indicating whether he
would answer or not. I let the next question
tumble off my tongue without giving a damn
about the consequences.
"Did you get upset tonight because I could
have gotten killed? Or were you more upset I
willingly fucked another man?"
His expression pulled taut, but I pressed on.
"Is it fear that's upsetting you right now? Or
is this you being possessive?"
Pushing off from the wall, he stalked
toward me on slow steps, the tension building
with each foot of distance he closed between
us. Without breaking our stare, without saying
another word, he approached until he was
within a few inches of my body. He smiled,
not a tight, controlled or practiced expression,
his smile was beaming, his teeth bared, his
cheeks indented in, the lines at the corners of
his eyes growing deeper. My breath caught in
response to that smile.
And then it was gone, replaced with steel,
with stone, with some impenetrable material
that protected the man behind it. I wouldn't
let him hide away, couldn't bear to be given a
glimpse of the fire inside him only to be
shoved off into the cold, bitter truth of the
world he'd helped create.
Glaring at him with steel behind my eyes, I
stepped forward until only temptation existed
between our lips, our mingled breath hot and
searing, our bodies so dangerously close that
just one deep breath would have my chest
rubbing against his. I refused to give ground to
a man who was maddeningly enigmatic, who
could push me to the heights of ecstasy only to
strip me bare and shove me into the bleak
darkness that surrounded the studio.
I wouldn't back down - not for him, not for
anyone. I'd grown tired of being a slave to
everyone.
"Which is it, Ethan? You won't scare me
into backing down. Just answer the damn
question."
His jaw ticked with barely hidden fury, his
eyes narrowing until the silver-grey color was
molten steel. Towering over me, he attempted
to intimidate me with sheer size alone, but I
craned my neck just to stare him in his perfect
face and show him I wasn't scared.
I'd been abducted, raped, beaten, starved,
frozen solid, humiliated and nearly killed.
There wasn't much left he could use to
threaten me. I'd faced down death and
walked away laughing, and I refused to cry
now. Either he wanted me, or he didn't give a
damn. There was no middle road between us
anymore, no safe path that would protect the
man behind the mask from the woman finally
shedding her veil. It was now or never. He
either cared or he didn't, and I wouldn't leave
his suite without hearing the answer to a
question that would bring us together or tear
us apart.
The stillness in his body wouldn't break me,
and the beats of anxious silence wouldn't force
me to my knees. It was one question, one
truth, that I wouldn't let him deny me now
that we'd come this far.
With the force of our combined rage, I
knew a storm was brewing that would lock me
in place beneath furious winds and pounding
rain. The hair on my arms lifted from electric
lightning, my body shook beneath the force of
rumbling thunder, but still I held my
trembling body upright on shaking legs to
stare down a force of nature that carried inside
him every cruel, heartless thought that made
him painfully cold to the touch.
At the exact moment I believed that he
would finally break and destroy me, Ethan
pivoted again to show me that beneath his
callous exterior lived a man who was as much
a victim to this place as me.
Between clenched teeth, his deep voice
hissed from across sculpted lips, reaching
inside me to caress the predator he'd so easily
seen. "If I let myself touch you again, I will
never give you up. Do you have any idea what
that means?"
In fact, I didn't know what it would mean. I
didn't know anything beyond the fact that
there was a part of him just like me, an aspect
of ourselves that had recognized each other
the instant we met. He'd known from the
beginning, while it took me until this moment
to understand how deeply our souls had
intertwined.
Both predators. Both prisoners. Except
where one had been freed to prowl the halls
on arrogant feet, the other had been beaten
down and caged.
Despite all the horrors the studio could
commit against me, I wouldn't let it destroy
the fire inside my heart.
I wouldn't let it destroy Ethan's either.
"If they find out about us, it'll only make
them want you more," he warned.
My response was instantaneous. "I don't
care."
"They'll torture you."
"I don't care," I repeated, my heart
hammering against my ribs.
"They'll rape you. They'll beat you. They'll
dissect you until they can find the softest spot
inside you and then they'll shred you from the
inside out."
He wouldn't break me. Not with his threats
or his promises. I was resolute in my decision
to make him finally see that a man like him
could be loved, especially by a woman like
me. If that led to torture and death, so be it. It
was better than dying slowly because I was
too afraid to live.
"I don't care," I repeated, the slow strength
to my words making it clear there wasn't a
damn thing he could say to change my mind.
Something flickered behind his gaze; doubt,
heat, anger, annoyance or pure want. It could
have been any of those things. It didn't matter
what it was, just as long as I knew his answer
to the question that hung heavy between us.
The corners of his lips curled, the rate of his
breath increasing as color chased across his
skin. His voice was so deep that it gripped its
fingers around my heart to squeeze as hard as
possible, until the organ was left choking and
sputtering to be drained of its blood. "This is
my last warning, Emma. Your last chance to
step away. You can make this easy on yourself,
or you can be the impossibly aggravating
woman that you are and force an issue that
will only end up destroying us both in the
end."
Canting my head, I grinned. "Oh, look. I
haven't taken a step to move away. Guess that
means I'm forcing the issue. Doesn't it?"
A deep growl vibrated from his chest. My
hands clenched into fists in response.
Soft and sweet, I asked him again, "Is it cold
anger you're feeling, Ethan, or are you hot to
the touch because you can't deny how much
you want me?"
His grin stretched wider, scorching desire
lighting his molten eyes. "I warned you."
"I believe we've already covered that."
His eyes narrowed. "You let that man fuck
you."
"Would you like to know a secret?" I asked.
 He didn't make a sound or a move in
response. He simply stood...watching.
Leaning forward, I pressed my mouth to his
ear and whispered, "He didn't get me off.
Nobody can do that, but you."
The leash snapped. The warnings were
ignored. His fingers gripped into my hair with
such savagery that a cry shot from my mouth
just before he swallowed the shrill sound with
his own. His tongue was as demanding as his
authority, his kiss was as hard as every
punishment that had been committed against
me, but his heat was so addictive and burning
that I found myself willfully imprisoned, a
captive not to the studio, but to its director. I
was no longer just a slave of body, but of
heart.
Gripping my hair, he pulled my mouth
away from his, his eyes locking to mine
without any sense of sanity remaining. Ethan's
voice was so dangerous and violent, that it
rubbed against me like sharp thorns wrapped
in the softest of silk, shredding me and
seducing me at once. "Do you have any idea
what you've just done?"
Blinking up at him, I lost the ability to think
clearly and I was left racking my brain for any
sensible answer to give.
I hadn't just fallen for a man who
tormented me. It was nothing as weak or
stupid as that. Because when you took the
entire picture of my journey with Ethan and
broke it down frame by terrifying frame, only
one answer was left to be given:
I'd taken a script written to show the most
depraved of all nightmares and had somehow
discovered notations of love scribbled hastily
within its pages.
Locking my eyes to Ethan's, there was no
fear left inside me. "I've just given myself to
you. That's what I've done. It's up to you now
to decide what to do with it."
With his lips pulled into a sly grin, his grey
eyes glimmering with carnal knowledge,
Ethan tightened his fingers into the strands of
my hair and spoke far too gently. "I'm sorry to
be the one to tell you this, Emma, but you just
sold your soul to the devil."
 EMMA
In the span of two seconds, I finally
understood a truth about myself that my
mother had always told me. It had been her
warning, cast in loving words and delicate
reminders, that I always thought too much
with my heart, when I should have been
paying more attention to the logic screaming
inside my head.
It was the difference between a reckless
woman and a cautious one, a hopeless soul
and a survivor. I'd always assumed her
paranoia had been a result of constant fear, but
what I learned in the seconds that followed
giving myself up to a man like Ethan Cole was
that even a touch of my mother's paranoia
would have spared me from the heart
wrenching circumstances enslaving me down
to my very soul.
Never had I wanted a person more than the
man standing before me. And never had I
faced such a dangerous threat as what my love
for him would do.
But still, I stood there staring up into the
face of my tormentor, not caring about the
tight grip he held on my hair and not seeing
the beast coming to life inside him; I stood
there with a heart that beat harder just
because he was near me.
I deserved the repercussions that came with
foolish decisions, and I would gladly suffer
the consequences of dropping the mask I'd
clung to since meeting this man in order to
reveal to him my greatest weakness.
My decisions were made solely by my
heart, and in the brief flashes of his truth that I
had seen when he didn't know the mask had
slipped, he'd touched the heart that housed
my fire and had branded it with his name.
Breathless to be balanced precariously on a
precipice between pleasure and pain, I
challenged a man to show me the worst of
him. Fortunately, for me, Ethan Cole was not
the type of man to back away easily from a
challenge.
Stepping around me, he didn't ease his grip
on my hair. I was dragged backwards,
stumbling over my own feet, too busy trying
to wrench myself free to notice where he was
leading me. The cold stone floor became plush
carpets beneath my feet, and before I could
utter one word in protest, I was flung on his
bed, weighed down by his body and pinned
by the shoulders to the mattress.
Callous, cruel eyes stared down at me, the
fear returning as a rush through my body
while I realized in that single moment that this
man was the most terrifying and beautiful soul
I had ever seen.
"Did you have fun teasing me from my own
stage, little girl?" His head angled to the side,
his body a solid, heavy weight. "Did you really
believe that I would let you toy with me so
easily?"
Shivers coursed through me at the
tantalizingly rough edge to his tone. Lips
parted, I held his stare while struggling to
calm my racing heart. A snappy retort sat on
the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't seem to
catch enough of a breath to voice it.
He laughed. "Where are all of your
ridiculous questions now?"
Not giving me time to answer, Ethan rolled
off of me to stand from the bed and cross the
room. As he pulled open a door to his bureau,
I shuffled over the mattress, torn between the
intense need I had for him and the whispered
voice inside me that warned me I should run.
"You like being tied up," he crooned, his
hands shifting through whatever he kept
tucked away in his bureau. Finding it, he
turned to me, sensuous violence written into
his expression. "I learned that much from your
night with James."
Shaking my head, I shuffled away a little
more. I was on the edge of the mattress by the
time he caught my ankle with his hand and
dragged me back to the other end. The t-shirt
crawled up my body from the movement,
stopping just below my breasts. Holding me in
place, Ethan dragged an appreciative gaze up
my body. Eyes finally reaching mine, he
smiled, the expression more dark than
friendly.
His hand came down on the mattress
beside my head, his body leaning over mine
until his mouth brushed against my cheek. On
a whisper, he asked, "Did he get you off, by
chance, when he bound you and made you
helpless?"
I shook my head, again having difficulty
finding the ability to speak. After the
confessions Ethan made, I'd believed there
was a vulnerable side to him, that somewhere
beneath the persona he displayed openly,
there was a person
His demeanor now showed me just how
foolish a mistake that belief had been.
"You're scaring me," I confessed, my voice
so soft I wasn't sure he heard me. The wide
smile stretching his face proved to me he had.
"Good."
Releasing my ankle, Ethan flipped me face
down onto the mattress, his actions so quick
that I couldn't roll away before his fingers
grasped my wrist.
"Allow me to correct that error." Slamming
my hand against the headboard, he tethered
my wrist in place, the tightness of the bindings
pinching my skin. Once that hand was bound,
he rounded the end of the bed to tether my
other arm. I hadn't been fast enough to untie
myself before he'd taken control of my free
hand and bound that wrist as well.
Forehead pressed to the headboard, I
pushed up onto my knees to relieve some of
the weight hanging from where he'd bound
my wrists. Fire shot down my arms, my t-shirt
hanging open beneath me to let the cool wind
rush in. The mattress shifted beneath my
knees as Ethan moved to kneel behind me.
Palms sliding against my sides, he toyed
with me by dragging just the tips of his fingers
down my skin to trace the full curve of my
hips, down farther until his hands gripped the
backs of my thighs at the knees. My attempt to
pull free was useless against his strength. He
pressed his thumbs into the muscle until I
cried out in pain, punishing me for even
thinking I could get away.
"What's with the sudden modesty, Emma?
Especially after showing me how much of a
dirty girl you are on stage." My legs were
pushed apart, his shirt brushing against my
body. Leaning down, he softly kissed the
small of my back before sinking his teeth into
the left cheek of my ass. I hissed out another
pained sound, my legs suddenly shaking with
fear and need.
Licking the soreness before straightening
his posture, he traced a single finger up the
back of my thigh as a tantalizing tease. I
shivered at the sensation, my mouth going dry
as I came to the slow realization that of all the
men who'd used and abused me, none of them
held a candle to the wickedness of the one
who held my heart.
"Ethan," I said, not really having a thought
in mind other than the driving need to speak.
It didn't matter whether I'd planned to say
much of anything, because he wouldn't have
given me the time to say it. His hand wrapped
over my mouth, his body moving above mine
like the shadow of storm clouds rolling over
the ground. I stilled like any prey would do
when trapped beneath a predator.
"There is one thing I've been meaning to do
to you since the moment I first saw you.
Something I've wanted to do since the first
time you parted those pretty little lips in
defiance and told me you'd rather die than
fuck a man in front of my cameras."
The soft susurration of silk sounded behind
me, the cloth pressed against the corner of my
mouth before he took the ends with both
hands and tugged it against my mouth. The
force pulled through my lips and between my
teeth, pressing my tongue against the roof of
my mouth making it impossible to speak.
Taking both ends into one hand at the back of
my head, he tugged again, pulling my head
back. His breath was hot against my ear, "You
talk too much, my love."
With his free hand, he explored down my
body, taking his time to tease the weight of my
breast before dragging down the muscles of
my stomach until his fingers were temptingly
close to the most intimate part of me.
Unable to move or complain, I froze,
wondering just how stupid I'd been to let him
bind me. Stuck in place with his hand tugging
on my gag like the bridle of a horse, I fought to
breathe evenly through the panic pulsing
inside me that mixed with a heady, untamable
want. I wasn't in a position to defend myself
from Ethan's assaults, and yet that made my
body respond to him more. Warm, wet heat
blossomed between my legs, my hips writhing
against his body, begging him to make me
scream. Whether in pleasure or pain, I didn't
think it mattered anymore.
Ethan's teeth sank into my shoulder as his
fingers drove farther between my legs, a moan
crawling up my throat at the sting of pain
blending with the pleasure of that small relief.
His thumb caught my clit as his fingers slid
down to push through the slickened skin to
circle my entrance. Teasing me with the slide
of those fingers, he would pinch my clit just to
send a shock of sensation through me, rubbing
the pain with his thumb while sliding his
fingers down to tease my entrance once again.
Over and over, never driving inside me, never
granting me the release he was plucking like a
well-tuned string.
"Please," I attempted to say, the sound
muffled and nonsensical. But it didn't matter
that the word was distorted by the gag, Ethan
knew exactly what I was saying.
"Please what?" He whispered, humor
weaved through the question. "Did you want
me to reward you for what you did today?"
If I could have moved my head, I would
have nodded it enthusiastically.
"Silly, girl. I know you thought you found a
weak spot, some truth you could use against
me, but all it did was get you in trouble. Now
you're bound, helpless and completely
vulnerable to whatever I decide to do with
you. Do you actually believe I won't leave you
like this and invite some people in to enjoy
you?" His soft voice beat against my ear. "I've
done it before, Emma. What makes you so
sure, I won't do it again?"
My eyes widened in response to the threat.
With any other man, I'd decide it was just a
game, a lie intended to spike panic through
my heart. But with Ethan...
"Wait here while I take the time to decide
what I plan to do with you."
Removing the gag, he worked quickly to
use it to blindfold my eyes, his retreating steps
lost as I called out his name and demanded he
come back. "This isn't funny, Ethan! You son
of a bitch!"
He was gone by the time I stopped yelling,
silent as a mouse while I pressed my forehead
to the headboard and felt nothing but a cold
breeze rushing between my legs. Tears welled
in my eyes at how close he'd pushed me to
orgasm, only to walk away and leave me
grasping for that last bit of a push I'd needed
to fall into the throes of ecstasy.
"Asshole," I cursed under my breath, both
crying and laughing at how stupid I'd been. A
door opened in the living room, slammed
closed and I waited for what felt like hours
until it opened again and an odd sound
filtered in. Growing louder, that sound
announced the approach of ... something.
Tensing where I was on my knees and
bound, I turned my head toward the sound to
find that it was gone. A few clicks echoed in
the room, then the familiar whir of a camera.
"Ethan," I growled, suddenly angry that
he'd taken the advantage so easily.
"Uh, it's Brent actually," a familiar voice
said, more apologetic than anything.
"It's...um...good to see you again."
No...he wouldn't have done this...
"Sorry," Brent apologized, "I'm just
following orders."
Oh, that son of a whoring bitch...
I knew better than to trust the bastard. He'd
proven it time and time again, and yet here I
was, bound and blinded because I'd let myself
believe I'd seen past his mask to the man
lingering beneath.
Footsteps shook the floor beneath the bed,
the mattress dipping as a body crawled up
from the bottom to kneel behind me. I flinched
as soon as two warm hands grabbed my legs
to spread them apart again. I heard something
bang in the distance but didn't recognize it
over the thunder of blood rolling in my head.
Breathing deeply, I calmed myself down and
tried to focus on all the ways I'd get even.
More sounds were a soft brush against my
senses - a zipper being lowered, a belt being
pulled from the loops, the slide of pants down
a man's legs as he readied himself to fuck me.
I should have known when I didn't hear the
belt hit the floor, that it would be used for
another purpose. The cool, smooth surface of
leather slid around my throat, the buckle
sliding down until it choked me softly. The
spark of panic in my body exploded into a
roaring fire.
My head tilted back like a dog held by the
collar as a cock slid inside my body, slow but
steady. Despite the anger coursing through
me, I still moaned at the thickness, the feeling
of being split apart and put back together
before he'd even started thrusting.
It was wrong to enjoy it, wrong to allow the
rage inside me add to the orgasm that was
steadily building. My neck locked in the belt,
my eyes blind to the man using my body, I
couldn't help the way my pussy gripped
greedily over the cock moving so slowly.
Within seconds, the release I'd lost as Ethan
walked away was coming back with a
malicious vengeance, but each time I was
driven just to the point where the pleasure
could detonate and consume me, the thrusting
stopped, the belt tightened, and he would
start all over again.
Leaning over me until his chest was
pressed to my back, he licked the tip of his
tongue along the shell of my ear. "Do you like
that?" he whispered with dark intent, Ethan's
voice pushing me over the edge. He only had
to push in one more time for me to go
careening over ecstasy's sharp edge.
I hated him, but I loved him just the same.
A throaty moan burst from my lips, my
body shaking as my pussy undulated over his
cock. His own breathing grew heavier as he
slammed inside me harder, the mattress
rocking beneath our bodies. Even as I was
coming down from a high that made stars
burst behind my eyes, he kept moving and
taking, touching and teasing until I was back
on that steep precipice again.
There was no mercy inside him, but it was
to his torment that I'd become addicted.
His palm splayed over the swell of my ass,
his thumb sliding between the cheeks to tempt
the hole. I bucked against him, pleas falling
from my lips that he move just a touch faster
to send me over that edge. But just as I was
there, just as the tidal wave was about to crash
down on me and pull me out to sea, he stilled
his body one more time and demanded, "Tell
me that you love me."
At that point I wanted to wrap my hands
around his neck and squeeze until he was no
longer breathing, but I was willing to say
anything just to get him to start moving.
"I love you," I breathed out. Sadly, I wasn't
lying. This man owned my heart even if he
would never let me touch his.
Soft laughter and then a slow thrust of his
hips. "I'm sorry, I don't think I heard you."
Gritting my teeth, I clenched my fingers
into the blankets. I was going to kill him as
soon as he let me free. "I love you," I said
louder, intentionally turning my face toward
the camera just so he could get every detail on
film.
His teeth nipped at my ear. "Tell me that I
own you."
Drawing in a shaky breath, I imagined
ripping his balls from his body. "You own me,"
I grit out, not wanting to admit to myself that
it was true.
"Ah, my sweet, sweet Emma. That's exactly
what I wanted to hear."
There was no talking after that point, no
thinking, or breathing or denying him. Ethan
tightened the belt at my neck and slammed
his cock inside me, his thumb exploring my
ass and his hips thrusting as he forced me over
ecstasy’s sensuous edge one more time.
 EMMA
Is it wrong to enjoy the pain? Emotional.
Physical. Spiritual. It didn't matter. I was
willing to endure it all just to luxuriate in the
exhilarating shadow of Ethan's seductively
dark mind.
The night stretched on through the early
morning hours, but I wasn't given the chance
to fall asleep, wasn't granted even an hour to
catch my breath and prepare for the next
sensuous assault.
He was a maelstrom of sensuality, a
grenade going off now that I'd been the one to
pull the pin. Pushing me high and dragging
me to the lowest of lows, Ethan teased and
tormented, praised and punished, without
ever giving me enough of a break to gather my
bearings.
When he was finished having his fun with
me bound and helpless, he untethered my
hands to lay me on my back, taking what he
wanted before shifting us again so I could ride
on top. I wasn't sure when the camera had
finally run out of film, but it wasn't until I was
helpless to my exhaustion that he finally let
me sleep.
Waking up the next morning, I didn't
immediately open my eyes because I preferred
to spend those first few minutes of
consciousness to enjoy the ache in my body. It
felt like he'd been everywhere, tasted
everything, had stripped me bare only to
rebuild me all over again. I knew he wasn't in
bed next to me, but yet his scent still held me
captive, the tingle of my body reacting despite
how tired I should have been.
Desirous wasn't a strong enough word for
how he made me feel. Insatiable...maybe.
He was right about one thing, I realized: I
was a stupid woman.
Finally blinking my eyes open against the
low lighting in the room, I sat up in bed and
turned to see the camera had been removed.
Wondering if he'd actually filmed our
evening, or if it had been another trick on his
part, I threw the blankets off me and dropped
my feet to the floor. Everything ached, but the
ache felt so damn good.
It took three attempts to push to my feet,
but eventually I was stumbling through his
room into the bathroom. After tending to
nature's call, I used my finger to scrub
toothpaste over my teeth and then stole
another t-shirt from Ethan's bureau. Padding
barefoot across his floor, I pressed my ear to
his door to see if I could hear anybody with
him. No sound filtered through the wood, and
I opened it to peek out.
Ethan sat behind his computer with
headphones over his ears and his eyes focused
on the screen.
Walking out, I waited for him to see me and
pull the headphones from his ears. They
wrapped across the back of his neck as he
smiled in greeting. "Morning," he purred, a
taunting edge to the word. "They brought you
some breakfast. It's on the dining room table."
Blinking at him in curiosity, I asked, "Do
you ever sleep?" It couldn't have been more
than a few hours since he'd finally let me rest.
"Sometimes," he answered, grabbing the
headphones and spreading them apart to put
back on his head. "But not often."
"Guilty conscience about your lifestyle
keeping you awake, by chance?"
He grinned. "No, not at all. When I do
manage to crawl in bed, I sleep like a baby."
Allowing the headphones to snap in place
over his ears, he returned his attention to the
computer screen, effectively ending our
conversation. I just shook my head, unsure
what else I'd expected from him.
Padding across his stone floor that was as
cold as a sheet of ice, I made my way into the
dining area and sat down at the table. A meal
awaited me that went above and beyond the
normal gruel they served. I tucked the napkin
in my lap and happily ate the scrambled eggs,
hash browns, pancakes and sausage. I was
polishing off the tall glass of orange juice by
the time Ethan sat down opposite me. "Was it
good?"
Resting my hands on my belly, I threw
good manners to the wind. "That was
amazing," I breathed out, a small burp
escaping my lips.
Ethan's lips tugged up into a grin. "I'm glad
you liked it, but I wasn't talking about the
food." The man winked and it nearly
destroyed me.
"I guess we should talk about this," I
mentioned, seriousness weaved into my soft
tone.
Leaning back in his seat, he clasped his
hands together over the surface of the table.
"There's nothing to talk about. Nothing can
change, Emma. Not after last night. Not ever.
They can't know the way I've been with you or
it will only make them want to torture you
more."
"The studio heads," I guessed, more a
statement than a question. Ethan nodded in
response.
Several seconds ticked by before I finally
asked, "Why? Why wouldn't they give you
just one woman for yourself?"
"Why would they have to?" he asked in
return. "It's not like they can't find a man to
replace me. If I left, business would go on as
usual. The only difference would be the
quality of the films. They don't care much
about that. Only me."
"So, why did they come to you in the first
place?"
His fingers drummed over the wood. "I'm
not sure I was the first director they
approached," he admitted, the truth of his
statement taking me by surprise. "I just
happened to be the one to respond."
When I didn't immediately ask another
question or comment on his admission, he
shrugged a shoulder and said, "I have nothing
to hold over their heads to force their hands in
this. If they know I want you, they'll take you
for themselves. I'll have no choice but to sit
back and let it happen."
A heavy weight across my shoulders, the
reality of our situation settled over me,
chasing away any good feelings I had that
morning. "What do we do?"
Smiling sadly, he suggested, "What we've
already been doing. Stick to the routine. You'll
spend time in the cages. I'll work on other
films, and when it comes time for you to
perform again, we can spend our time
together after." Pausing, his tone dropped into
a warning, "As long as you don't do something
stupid like last night and get yourself killed."
Eyes holding mine, there was no humor in
the steel color, only honesty. "I can't save you
on the stage, either. If the cameras are rolling,
the film plays out as it will. You need to
understand that and be cautious. You were
looking for a weakness in me last night. I get
it. And you succeeded in forcing my hand
when it comes to admitting how I feel for you.
But that doesn't mean the next man who
tosses money out for the chance to kill you
won't succeed in his efforts. You need to fight
immediately when they come near you.
Giving them the chance to get close only puts
you in danger."
Sighing, I bit the inside of my lip and
considered my options. Not left with many, I
relented to his plan that everything return to
business as usual. "By chance can my next
weapon be a gun? I can shoot him as soon as
he opens the door."
Booming male laughter filled the room with
such levity that I couldn't help but smile.
Ethan would always have that effect on me,
would always catch me by surprise and show
me a small pinpoint of warmth and light when
I felt like I was being consumed by eternal
darkness.
Still desperate to find some way we could
both walk away with our lives, I lifted my
sorrowful gaze to Ethan's. "Is there any hope
we can escape this place? Any hope at all?"
His jaw ticked as he stared at me, his
expression blank, but his eyes rolled with such
sorrow that it tore my heart from my chest.
"There are two rules about this place that I've
warned you about, both of which I don't think
you've fully grasped." Absently, he
complained, "not that you ever listen to a
damn thing I say, but at least on this issue, you
may want to listen."
I took a steadying breath and cleared my
head, nodding it when I was ready to listen as
he'd said.
He rolled his eyes at my forced attention,
but listed the rules regardless. "Number one,
nothing here is real. Not one damn thing. If
you were standing outside on a bright, warm
day, you couldn't trust it was actually the sun
you were seeing."
"Okay," I answered on a whisper, not fully
understanding why he felt the need to remind
me of that. I knew that life inside the studio
was all just a dangerous, depraved game.
"Second rule. There are cameras
everywhere, Emma. In the showers, in the
cages, in the halls, and behind every door.
There is no place you can go that isn't
monitored."
I lifted a curious brow. "What about your
office and suite?"
A mischievous grin tilted his lips. "Not
even here or in my office. The only difference
is I've learned how to turn them off and start
an old loop when I don't want to be
monitored."
Wait. That was good news. If he could
disable the cameras, then there was a chance
for us to make it down the halls and escape. I
opened my mouth to say as much, but he
spoke first. "And before you suggest the same
as a chance to leave this place, you should
know that whereas I can manipulate some of
the security cameras, I have no control over
the door alarms. There is no escape, Emma.
We're stuck here until the bitter end, I'm
afraid."
Damn...
 Nodding his head, Ethan pushed up from
his chair, stood at the back and wrapped his
fingers over the top of the backrest. "I should
probably send you to the cages soon. There's
work to be done. If you want to take a shower,
or get another hour of sleep, you're welcome
to do so."
Seeing him standing there in a simple black
t-shirt and a pair of dark grey slacks that hung
perfectly from his narrow hips, I had another
idea in mind. "I'll take you up on that shower
offer, but if I have another hour to spend with
you, I have a different idea in mind."
A glimmer of heat flashed behind his eyes,
his mouth crooking up at the corner. "Do you?
Even after I kept you up all night?"
I shrugged. "Might as well make the most of
our time."
I didn't have to ask him twice. I barely had
time to yelp in surprise when he rounded the
table to lift me from my seat and pull me into
the bedroom.
 EMMA
Often I've wondered if falling into a routine
is the same thing as giving up. We come into
the world as tiny things with no real thoughts
other than the need to explore our new world,
our new existence. But as we grow, as we get
to know ourselves and all the intricate details
of our desires and aspirations, we dare to
dream of what we would one day accomplish,
of what we'll become.
The rare individual actually stays true to
their youthful dreams, while the rest of us find
new dreams in other pursuits, or settle for
what life gives us and fall into our daily
routines.
Family becomes more important than
ambition when you're older. A comfortable,
stable spouse becomes more necessary than
than the excitement and exhilaration of first
kisses. A job we may or may not want
becomes imperative in order to pay the bills.
My parents had a routine, their parents
before them, and none of them seemed truly
happy in a life where nothing much changed
from day to day. In a way, agreeing to that
routine was the same as giving up on their
dreams, whatever they may have been before
life got in the way.
I couldn't claim to have done much better,
only my routine didn't involve children or
bills, holidays or family. My routine was spent
endlessly rotating between Ethan's suite, the
stage, and the cages. An endless cycle, it never
changed, the days blending so seamlessly
together that I didn't know if I'd been in the
studio for weeks or months.
Trying to keep count of the men I killed
didn't help gauge the amount of time I'd been
kept prisoner. The downtime given between
performances was staggered, a few days
maybe, a week or two. There was no specific
rhyme or reason to when I was hauled from
my cage, taken to the small room where I
could warm up and gain strength and then
tossed up on that stage to prove once again
that I was willing to fight to survive. After
that, I was hauled off stage again, dragged to
Ethan's suites and made to perform in a
different way entirely. I didn't mind the
performances - either on stage or with Ethan.
Both had their merits.
 Imprisonment will change a person. The
long, desolate hours give you plenty of time to
explore yourself, not the physical body -
although in a male prison, maybe - but in this
prison, for me, it was an internal exploration,
hours of my day taken to look deep inside to
ponder all my likes and dislikes, my hopes
and my fears. Rather than keeping busy with
what life would have been in Boston, I was
left to discover my inner self, that soft voice
that talks to us all the time, but we're always
too distracted to hear. What I found when I
finally took the time to gaze deep enough was
that, no matter what the situation, I had the
fortitude to make the best of it.
Prior to the studio, I would have never
guessed it could become easy for me to kill a
man. And even though I would dread the act
when first pulled from the cages, I learned
that there was a fierce aggression inside me, a
warrior that could set aside her heart to take
revenge on the demons who stalk their prey
when they're helpless to escape. That's the
type of man who paid to fight me, the type
who would easily rape and kill me with no
regrets if I didn't kill him first. I harbored no
guilt for their deaths and if I were to be
completely honest, I enjoyed being their bitter
end. They deserved it, I had no doubt about
that, and the act alone was enough to help
release aggression. It was enough of a spark to
light the fire in me for what would come next.
Ethan and I didn't simply make love, we
didn't fuck and we didn't have sex. It was
nothing as normal as that. We battled for
superiority, we devoured each other, glutted
ourselves on both pleasure and pain,
submission and dominance. I'd be lying to say
I didn't let him win that particular dance more
often than not. What he would do to my body
when given authority to do as he pleased was
indescribable. After he was through taunting
and teasing, biting and licking, tasting and
consuming, I was left in a state of pure bliss, a
euphoria so light and airy that at times I
wondered if I would ever come down.
Ethan was a drug and I'd become the
addict. He was a touch of happiness in an
endless nightmare, a bit of passion within a
cold, callous existence where routine had
become my undoing.
It was with him that I discovered other
parts of myself that had never been allowed to
exist, the parts that had been held down and
blanketed by societal demands, by a set of
expectations and rules of what was deemed
appropriate to enjoy and what was simply
depraved and without taste. It was in my
moments with him that I realized that human
life isn't simply about the happy times and
heartwarming moments. There was no true
line between right and wrong because, in each
of us, both light and darkness exist. To refuse
one was to diminish the other. To never fear
was to never feel brave. To never hurt was to
never find joy. To turn away from what
society deemed disturbing was to never fully
understand that even in ugliness there was
beauty.
For that understanding alone, I could find
solace in my imprisonment, I could convince
myself that, although this was not the fate I
would have willfully chosen for myself, it was
still a life lived full of experience and
discovery, a moment rare for most people
because they refuse to step outside the lines
drawn by humanity to truly look at what lies
within shadow. In the end, I felt whole for
once, strong for refusing to close my eyes and
look away from truth.
It's what Ethan meant by truth in his films.
If the world is a stage, we are all just actors
wearing our masks and dancing to the
choreographed routines of whatever is
deemed acceptable during our particular time
period. But beneath those masks, and when
one steps away from the dance to simply
watch what exists in all of us, we discover the
duplicitous nature that makes us human.
There is no good or bad. There is only life
and death. To ignore one is to never fully
understand the other.
"Is it possible they've made it colder in this
place? Even with the blanket, I can't stop
shivering."
Leaning my head against the bars between
Melanie's cot and mine, I stared with concern
at a woman who was practically skin and
bones, whose eyes were so shadowed by
defeat that they didn't shine with any sort of
life anymore. In the time I'd spent in the cages,
I'd enjoyed talking to her, felt happy to know
that although she would remain a prisoner, at
least she wasn't subjected to the constant
abuse the others endured. But as time moved
on through days that were just one long day of
never-ending sorrow, Melanie had lost her
will to survive.
Often, I reminded her of her son, of the
potential for finally seeing him again, even if I
knew the chances were slim to none. I would
ask her to tell me memories of the only person
in this world who could warm her heart
despite her circumstances. For a while, at
least, it worked, but after so much time, she'd
run out of memories to give, and even the
ones she could dig out from the deep confines
of her mind weren't warm enough anymore to
light the dark path she walked day in and day
out.
I needed to find a way out of this place,
even if Ethan swore to me it didn't exist. It
was difficult to believe there were any
buildings in existence that were impenetrable.
Criminals escaped all the time in state prisons
and county jails, even the ones deemed
inescapable. I just had to bide my time. Pay
more attention. Learn exactly what it would
take to slip past all the security and get
outside.
"You're up, Killer. The boss says you'll be
filming tomorrow."
Lifting my eyes from where Melanie was
balled up beneath her blanket, I bared my
teeth at the guard standing outside my cell
door. They'd taken to calling me 'Killer' after
the amount of films I'd made and survived.
Sadly, I'd learned that the guards weren't so
bad once you earned their respect. They were
just lumbering men with their automatic
security blankets, running their own routines
through life.
Reaching in Melanie's cell, I brushed my
fingers down her cheek. My voice dropped to
a whisper when I said, "I'll be back before you
know it. And then we'll talk about how to get
out of here."
She nodded her head and I stepped to the
cell door, waited for the guard to unlock it and
then followed him to the pneumatic door. He
keyed in the code and I realized it was the
first notes of Three Blind Mice. At least, that's
the electronic tune it carried.
Delivered to the dive motel room, which I
now referred to as the warming room, I
shuffled to the bed and lay down to curl up in
the scratchy blanket.

It was the same routine, the same steps, the

same experiences.
The same.

Day in.
Day out.
Nothing changed...except for my moments
with Ethan.

I fell asleep and ate breakfast the next

morning. I went to makeup and wardrobe. I
killed. And while the warm blood of my
attacker's body was still dripping from my
skin, I was led to Ethan's suite to be cleaned
up and used in ways that made my toes curl
and my body dance within Ethan's glorious
heat.
But then, something else changed.
"I need to be in my office tonight," Ethan
explained as we lounged on the couch of his
living room, naked and exhausted. "You can
stay here or come with me, but I have work to
accomplish and I left everything I need in the
office."
Through a yawn, I answered, "I'll go with
you. Even if I just have to sit there and watch
you work. It won't be much different than
what happens in your suites."
He looked down at me and arched a brow
as his hand took possessive hold of my breast.
There was a purr to his deep voice when he
said, "I have been meaning to pry your legs
apart over my desk and find out how you taste
in a different room. Perhaps the lighting will
make the experience more succulent."
A shiver coursed through me. He could
taste all he wanted. Anywhere he wanted. Just
as long as I benefited from the experience.
Grudgingly, we got up, got dressed and
walked to the halls in route to his office. As
soon as we entered, Ethan darted to his
computer, tapping a few keys as his gaze
wandered across the screen.
"Are you in that much of a rush to get back
to whatever film it is you're working on?"
 He grinned, stood up to his full height and
stared over at me. "I was handling the
cameras. The guard in the security room will
now see a boring loop of me sitting at my desk
alone. At least, that's if he reviews the tapes.
Normally, they don't."
He'd made the comment casually, but it
was just another piece of information I could
use eventually in my effort to escape. How I
would use it, I wasn't sure, but I'd save that
concern for when I had lonely hours of time in
the cages to ponder.
Stepping around his desk, he walked past
me to start a fire. It was blazing by the time he
stepped away again to pour himself a drink.
I watched, curious. Breaking the
comfortable silence between us, I asked,
"Have enough for me?"
His eyes slid between the bar and me.
Angling his head to the array of alcohol, he
offered, "Help yourself."
I did, and after enough drinks that I'd lost
count, I grew bored sitting by the fire while he
tapped and clicked, scrolled, and jotted notes
on a pad of paper by his computer. The man
was a workhorse. And I still had my doubts
about whether he slept or not.
"I'm bored," I finally blurt out, sitting up
and throwing my legs off the couch to press
my bare feet against the soft area rug.
Wrenching my neck to look at him, I felt
sluggish and uncoordinated, inebriated by the
amount of alcohol I'd consumed. Pouting my
lip enough to appear overly dramatic, I tried
to tempt him to help curb my boredom. "Will
you play with me?" I asked, my voice far too
sweet and girlish.
He merely cocked a brow, his eyes flicking
in my direction for a brief second before
returning to his screen. The blueish glow was
eerie across his skin. "I don't have time to play,
little kitten. Why don't you find a piece of yarn
to keep yourself entertained?"
Sober Emma would have left it at that and
laid back down. Drunk Emma, however...
Searching the room, my eyes landed on a
sleek looking stereo, complete with flashing
lights and hidden buttons. My brows pulled
together as I wondered what type of music
Ethan listened to. There were no CD cases in
sight, no indication of what his tastes were.
Standing up, I crossed the room carefully on
precarious steps. I had to balance myself on
the heavy furniture with one hand while
attempting to turn on the stereo. I must have
finally pushed something correct because
music rolled through speakers that were
hidden throughout the office. It was a soft
classical number. Classy. Elegant.
I peeked at Ethan to find him still ignoring
me in lieu of his work. Arching a brow in
challenge, I threw caution to the wind and
decided to seduce him into paying attention,
to take away all choice until those observant
grey eyes were watching me intently.
I'd grown to love when he watched.
Pressing the dial to scroll through satellite
stations, I finally found a song that was lively
enough for this performance, a song I
happened to love back when I was a free
woman. It didn't matter that I was drunk
beyond reason. In fact, that particular factor
was quite helpful in what I planned.
Lips pulling into a wide smile, I decided to
shirk the heavy blanket of darkness in this
place in order to simply live for once. Despite
the circumstances, it didn't always have to be
so dreary, and if you could find even a few
seconds of time to let go and simply be, then
you should take those seconds to do
something that brings happiness.
Ethan's full attention would make me
happy, and to persuade him to give it to me, I
decided I would show him my seductive
dance.
 ETHAN
Emma had become many things to me: a
muse, an entertainment, an investment, an
obsession, a curiosity and an enigma.
In my time with her, I'd discovered she had
numerous sides. Some were hidden and other
were in plain sight, but ultimately there were
so many different facets of her personality that
it would take a lifetime to explore them all.
Emma was always surprising, always
showing me where I'd been wrong to assume
she'd do one thing in any given situation
when, in fact, she did the opposite. Watching
her was the same as watching poetry walk
around on a predator's glide, Pandora's box
tucked discreetly beneath her arm as she
teased and cajoled, drawing you closer just so
you could feel the fierce lashing of her storm
and the delicate, soothing winds that came
after. She was temptation behind a mysterious
curtain, a puzzle that I never wanted to solve.
When it came to Emma, I enjoyed not always
knowing what ridiculous experience would
occur next.
Such as this experience when Emma
surprised me by losing herself in an upbeat
song, but also proved there was one thing I
could never call her ... a decent dancer.
I didn't know if it was the alcohol or a
matter of zero training and lack of
coordination, but while she swayed and
shimmied, spun and rolled her hips, she
resembled a pigeon attempting to be sultry, all
gangly legs and a bouncing head. I had to bite
the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Dropping my pen to my desk, I lifted my
gaze to stare at her, my body still hunched
over the papers I was reading. My shoulders
shook with the soft laughter I couldn't contain
and my gaze locked to her moving body as
she smiled back at me with pure light shining
in her heavy lidded eyes. It broke my heart to
see it, to know that this moment would come
to an end.
The ink had barely dried on the paper
beneath my hand, my signature and a date
scrolled over the sheet setting in place the
details of what would be Emma's final
performance. Over the months, money
stopped pouring in for her videos, the
audience having grown tired with the same
woman who no man had been able to defeat.
They needed something new, somebody
weak and alluring for their depraved and
perverted tastes.
The studio heads had delivered their
decision via letter that morning and I'd spent
the day wondering whether it would be better
to tell Emma or not. I'd watched her on stage
knowing it would be the last man she ever
killed. I'd taken her back to my studio and had
given her rare moments of tenderness and
devotion, knowing it would be the last time
for that, as well.
Maybe not the last, not while watching her
bounce around my office floor attempting to
give me no choice but to take her. Fortunately,
I hadn't been kidding when I claimed I
wanted to taste her while her body was
splayed over the surface of my desk.
Relaxing back in my chair, I gave her my
full attention, my lips tugging up every time
she almost tripped over her own feet to fall on
her ass. Her beauty even in this was
staggering.
It was becoming obvious that I cared for
this woman despite having lied to her. So
many lies. But what Emma didn't know was
good for her. Her lack of understanding is
what helped me shape her. The fire in her
beating heart is what made her so remarkable.
She was and would always be the muse of my
lifetime, that one shining star that was so
bright and alive that I'd finally found the truth
I'd always sought in film.
But like any star, she was doomed to lose
her luster, fated to go tumbling across space
while some person made a wish to see her fall.
There would come a day that Emma was no
longer, her story would be finished, her film
made.
I regretted knowing when that day would
come. It was a knife driven through my heart,
a bittersweet agony that made you rue the
ending but appreciate the moments that
happened. For me, those moments had been
an answer to a lifelong dream.
Standing from my chair, I rounded the desk
to rescue the horribly coordinated woman
before she broke something by falling down.
She laughed without concern as soon as my
arms were wrapped around her. Craning her
neck, she stared up at me with unfocused eyes
and a vixen's grin. I shook my head in
bemused disbelief.
Turning, I lifted her off her feet to sit her on
the edge of the desk. And after kissing her
until her body was swaying in place, I spread
her legs like I'd promised and dropped to my
knees for a taste.
 EMMA
It would have been nice the following
morning if I hadn't woken to flashing lights
and alarms blaring so loud that they were like
a taut chord snapping me up into a seated
position on Ethan's bed. The blanket dropped
from my body as I threw my legs over the
side, my head pounding as soon as the sudden
movement caught up with me. With a hand
pressed to my head, I stumbled toward the
bedroom door, opening it to find Ethan
rushing from around his desk to run out into
the hall.
I threw him one panicked look in question
and he returned a silent command to stay in
his suite quietly. Fear tightened the muscles
across my bones, my body frozen in the
doorway and my head pounding harder from
the blaring sound and increased blood
pressure assaulting my veins.
Tears welled in my eyes, part fear and part
pain, my arms wrapping around my naked
abdomen as I struggle to break free of the
anxiety holding me in place. What was
happening? Why were alarms going off that
made me worry that the building was on fire
or some other horrible thing?
Drawing in a deep breath, I clenched my
teeth against the pounding in my head and
forced myself to walk back to Ethan's bureau
to grab a shirt. What would they do if the
building were on fire? Would they attempt to
rescue the women, or would they simply save
themselves and watch the rest of us burn?
Dread rolled in my stomach with the
remnants of the alcohol from the night before.
Swaying on my feet, I sat down on the edge of
the bed, covering my ears with my hands to
block out the horrendous noise.
It must have been a minute or two before
the alarms stopped blaring, their silence a
miracle that sent me tumbling backwards onto
the mattress. My eyes closed as I waited for
the pounding in my head to stop.
A door opened in the living room and I
turned my head to watch Ethan walk into the
bedroom. Leaning against the doorframe, he
stared down at me with sad panic in his grey
eyes, his hands tucked in his pockets and his
white shirt unbuttoned at the top. Even
disheveled, he was suave. But I didn't like that
look in his eyes. Didn't like it at all.
"What is it?" I asked, pushing myself up to
sit on the end of the mattress. "Is something
wrong with the studio? Do we need to leave?"
The volume and pitch of my voice grew with
each hastily asked question. Ethan simply
shook his head, his lips pulled into a tight line.
Pushing away from the doorframe, he
walked slowly to stand in front of me,
eventually squatting down, pulling my legs
apart with his hands and shuffling forward to
wrap his arms around my waist. Leaning his
head against my body, he breathed deeply,
the slow rhythm a drumbeat that warned of
sorrow.
My palm slid over his head, my fingers
playing in the thickness of his hair. "Ethan,
what happened? What is it?"
His shoulders tensed as the questions
poured from my tongue. Finally looking up at
me, he gripped his hands over my hips, his
expression so shadowed that the dread inside
me grew to become foreboding. "Ethan?" I
asked, my voice a whisper.
Squeezing my hips with his hands, he
parted his lips to tell me what I wanted to
know. The words wouldn't make sense the
first time I heard them, and when they finally
did, they would tear through me with
crushing fingers and razor sharp claws.
"I'm sorry, Emma. So sorry I have to tell you
this." Pausing, he searched my eyes, waiting
for what, I wasn't sure.
"Just say it," I finally demanded on a hiss,
too afraid to hear whatever it was now that
Ethan had started with an apology.

Ethan Cole never said he was sorry.

Never.
For him to do so could only be a sign that
whatever those alarms had been for was
detrimental.

Swallowing, he blinked his eyes slowly

before saying, "Emma, there was a problem in
the cages. An emergency, which is why the
alarms sounded."

No...

I was shaking my head with disbelief even

before the words could leave his mouth.
"I'm sorry, Emma, but Melanie killed herself
during the night. They found her body this
morning while pulling the women from the
cells to walk to the showers."
No, I thought again, the bottom falling out
from beneath me while agonizing sorrow
traipsed through my body curling its deathly
tendrils over my bones and pulling me in all
directions. Not Melanie. Please, not her!
"No," I said, mirroring my thoughts by the
denial leaking from my throat. My eyes
pleaded with him to tell me he was lying. My
heart barely beating as I begged him to tell me
he was wrong. "Not, Melanie. Sh - she
wouldn't have done that," I argued, sobs
rumbling up my throat to burst from my
mouth. "She couldn't have done it. There's no
way -"
Oh, god, it hurt. Every part of me. Every
single part was pounding now, closing up,
tightening to a point where I feared I would
shatter if anything touched me. "Tell me
you're lying!" I yelled, tears streaming down
my cheeks to drip into my lap.
Standing up, Ethan dragged me with him,
wrapping his arms around my trembling body
as he tucked my head to his chest. He was
talking so softly that I couldn't make out his
words muffled by the violent heartache in my
sobs. I cried so hard that I couldn't catch my
breath, my mind conjuring images of
Melanie's young son as if I had been there to
witness the memories she'd told me.
Holding me between the steel bands of his
arms, he stood patiently while I crumbled into
pieces, while I accused him of lying before
calling him every rotten name in the book,
while I begged and pleading that he would
tell me he was wrong, while I shook against
him as every bitter emotion that I'd felt in this
godforsaken place poured out of my eyes, my
mouth, and my lungs.
Eventually, even the strength in the body
that comes with unrelenting trauma and
sorrow failed me, my knees weakening, my
body collapsing until I was lying on the bed,
curling over myself as Ethan crawled up
behind me to tuck me to his chest. Tremors
still shook me like aftershocks following a
massive earthquake. I never knew when they
would come, but it seemed every time I
opened my mouth to ask him what happened,
more agony would pour out of my chest, a
dam bursting without any conceivable guess
as to when the deluge would stop.
I hated this place all over again. Hated the
unrelenting horror and inescapable pain that
seemed to seep from the walls to drown me.
The shadows stirred so deep that even those
pinpoints of light I'd once found were now
smothered out by eternal midnight.
Eventually, the fits of violent sorrow
drained from my body, and I was left
dismantled across the bed, weak and useless,
decimated by having lost the one person in
this place I could take credit for helping.
"How did she do it?"
The questions had already echoed in my
head, over and over again until I couldn't
make out one from the next. But on that
question, I'd only come to the conclusion that
she must have willed herself to die, or done
something as stupid as drowning herself in the
bucket.
There was no other way...
"She hung herself with the blanket," he
answered, his voice gentle yet firm.
Except for that.
My heart clenched harder. Not only had I
lost her, but I'd given her the means to
succeed in her surrender to the ether.
I didn't answer, couldn't answer, couldn't
find a single word inside me that was strong
enough, or even soft enough to hold a flame to
what I was feeling. Guilt was too simple.
Anger was just wrong. How could I be angry
with a woman who had lost the will to endure
this prison?
Ethan's deep voice rolled through the air to
fill the silence, to ease me away from an edge
so that I wouldn't fall to be shredded by the
jagged teeth of reality. "I know it hurts, Emma.
I know you cared about your friend. But in a
way, it's better like this. Every woman here
dies eventually. Every light that is walked
through those doors has expired and gone
dark by the time their body leaves the studio
again. Every single one of them." He paused,
letting the words sink in so that I truly
understood the consequence of them.
More gently, he said, "At least in this way,
your friend met death on her own terms. She
wasn't being raped or beaten. She didn't suffer
the violent abuse of the others. She simply
faded until she wasn't strong enough to go
on."
I wasn't sure one was more preferable than
the other. Being beaten and raped, at least you
knew you'd done something to survive. You
were able to hate the person stealing the life
away from you, able to blame them as the
darkness swept in to swallow you whole.
But to simply fade? To lose the strength to
go on and have to make that choice on your
own? It was the same thing as giving up, the
same thing as relenting to routine because
those were the cards fate dealt you. You had
no one else to hate, no one to blame when you
closed your eyes that final time and let go.
She would never see her son again, and
she'd died knowing it.
"You would have killed her?" I asked, the
final, cold tears slipping down my cheeks as I
felt Ethan's chest move against mine. Tucking
his arm tighter, he pulled me so close that his
face rested against my cheek, his breath a
comforting warmth brushing down my neck.
His tone was delicate but unapologetic
when he answered, "I would have. If the order
had arrived, I would have had no choice.
That's how it works, Emma. I've been warning
you of that."
Hot tears returned again, new and
revolting, angry and soul crushing. "Will you
kill me, too?" I asked on a whisper.
Ethan stilled behind me, the muscles in his
arms like steel again as they tightened against
me. Breath steady, he didn't immediately
answer the question, didn't want to give me
the answer I already knew he would give.
Of course he'd kill me. Every woman in this
place has a time limit. It doesn't matter how
the death occurs, just that it does. The timing
is chosen by the studio heads, and Ethan, their
faithful puppet, would choose the method.
The continued silence disturbed me.
Turning until I faced Ethan, I looked him in
the eye to find only sorrow and secrets that
he'd done a good job of hiding. Searching his
hard expression, I didn't have to ask, didn't
really want to know, but I asked anyway.
Despite my better judgment, my curiosity
would always win.
"Do you know when I'm going to die,
Ethan? Has an order been sent for my head?"
Blinking once, he released a soft sigh over
his lips, his palm sliding up my arm, over my
shoulder, until his fingers could touch my jaw
and trace its shape.
"Tell me, Ethan. At least give me that
courtesy."
For several long seconds he battled whether
he would answer me or not. But eventually
those lips parted, and a deep voice that had
always been able to seduce me revealed the
answer I didn't want to know.
"Yes," he breathed out. "Your final
performance has been scheduled."
My heart was crushed, and yet, strangely, I
felt relief. This nightmare would end and I'd
be free of the routine, free of the films I was
forced to watch, free of the stage where I'd
abandoned civility and had become a warrior
in order to survive.
Brushing my fingers over the fullness of his
lips, I dropped my hand down to the mattress
beneath us. "When? When will I give my final
performance?"
There was pure heartache in his grey eyes.
"In three days, Emma. I'm not returning you
to the cages. You'll stay here for the remainder
of your time. But in three days, I'll take you to
Stage B, and we'll be forced to say goodbye."
 EMMA
Three days. I'd been given three days to
live by the man who would ultimately decide
how I would die. Ethan wouldn't be the man
to physically perform the act, he couldn't be
bothered with such a trivial concern such as
that. He would simply prepare the script,
approve the design of the set, and would nod
his head toward the woman with the
clapboard to tell her it was time to start.
It would be like every other performance
I'd given in this place, except this time I
wouldn't live long enough to hear him call cut.
I spent the first of those three days walking
around in a fog. I didn't eat, didn't sleep,
didn't do much of anything but mourn the loss
of Melanie and come to terms with the stone
cold truth that I, too, would die.
Much like that moment between childhood
and adolescence when you lose the magic of
what life could be and discover that we all
have an eventual date with the reaper, I faced
my own mortality with tears in my eyes that
only ran dry when I finally learned to accept
it. It's a strange and wonderful feeling,
terrifying and yet comforting. It wasn't death
itself that scared me, either I would go on in
my afterlife or disappear altogether. Either I'd
find peace in the warmth of heaven, or I'd find
peace in the sad reality that I simply stopped
existing.
No. It wasn't death itself that set my teeth
on edge and forced a tremor across my bones.
It was the actual act of dying that did that.
After the first day passed and I started the
second with a new outlook and forced
acceptance, I began the process of discovering
just how I would die.
Would it hurt? How long would it take?
Would my body be sliced apart on the blade of
a sharpened knife, or would my head be
bludgeoned until my face was no longer
recognizable? Would he be allowed to rape
me first? Or would he go directly for the kill?
I didn't know, and Ethan wouldn't tell me.
"Why would you want to know something
like that?" he'd ask, the words spoken on a
low, aggravated growl. But I hadn't let his
stubbornness and warnings deter me from
pestering him for the answer. I wanted to
know what he had planned for me, and if I
had to hold him down and force the answer
from his lips, I would.
Only...I didn't. Over the course of that
second day, Ethan had been an expert of
distracting me away from the topic through
sex or some other carnal activity. And when
that stopped working, he'd slipped from his
suites for a few hours to go hide in his office.
He'd been on edge all day, his attentions on
me both wonderful and distracted.
I'd fallen asleep by the time he returned
that night, and for the first time in the months
I'd known him, I woke up with Ethan sleeping
soundly by my side.
So he did sleep after all. I only wished I could
have enjoyed it. Feeling his warmth against
my back as his arms held me close was a
moment of peace and safety before the
approaching storm.
One day was left, but rather than poking at
the man who had scripted my last moments
on Earth, I loved him instead. There was no
point spending our last hours together battling
each other. I'd most assuredly lost this game
we'd played, but that hadn't left him a winner
either. It was obvious he cared, even if he'd
pivoted and weaved around answering that
question for as long as I’d known him. It
seemed Ethan was more of an actor than me,
the only difference was where I had been
strong enough to drop the mask and expose
my vulnerabilities, he had been too frightened
to open up and allow somebody to explore his
hidden insecurities, to tell him that he
mattered regardless of the choices he'd made
that imprisoned him in this hellhole studio.
For twenty-four hours, Ethan and I focused
on each other. Secrets weren't revealed and
epiphanies hadn't been reached. We simply
knew each other in every way we could before
finally settling down for the night and
surrendering to exhaustion.
The next day I opened my eyes to find
Ethan absent from the bed. I'd searched his
suite for him, but found that that, too, was
empty. After taking a shower and brushing my
teeth, I pulled a t-shirt over my head and
stumbled into the living room to find a guard
positioned by the door. To his side was a tray
of food, my final meal before execution.
Eyeing the guard, I didn't bother with my
tough girl act. It didn't matter anymore.
"Where's Ethan?" I asked, not expecting
much of answer.
It surprised me when he said, "He had
some work to do and asked that I bring your
meal and escort you to wardrobe when you're
done eating."
 So, it will be like this, will it? Another
performance that followed the standard routine.
Staring at the man who held his gun tucked
to his chest, I shrugged. "Might as well take
me now. I'm about to die. I'm well aware of it.
That's not exactly the best circumstances to
make a girl hungry."
The guard frowned and almost looked sad.
I angled my head in exasperated surprise.
"Don't tell me you'll miss me. I know we've
had so much fun together since that first day
in the shower when you slammed your gun
against my head. Surely you can find another
woman to replace me when I'm gone."
His frown pulled into a soft smile. "Come
on, Emma. I need to get you to wardrobe." His
voice was actually kind for once, not the
barking command of a rabid dog at the end of
his taut chain.
We walked the halls together, weaving
through the maze on unhurried feet. I was a
little upset that Ethan hadn't walked me
himself, but I assumed he would be waiting
for me in the studio, his attention focused on
ensuring the set would be just right for my
final performance. Anxiety nipped at my
empty stomach, my body going cold as I
remembered where I was walking. But there
was nothing that could be done about it, and
rather than spending my last minutes crying
and sobbing, begging and pleading, I decided
to save my dignity even if it did lead me to
my bitter end.
Even the makeup lady wasn't her usual
chirpy self. As usual, she was quick to get me
in costume, and flawless in her application of
my makeup and the styling of my hair, but as I
was led from that room toward the hallway of
studio B, I noticed a quiver to her bottom lip to
say goodbye.
Shrugging it off, I followed the guard again,
taking a deep breath and blowing it out slowly
as he opened the door and led me into the
studio.
I stepped forward a few feet, but the guard
grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me
back. Turning, I snarled at him, but he simply
frowned and said, "Ethan ordered me to keep
you in back until the set is ready."
Confusion drew my brows together, my
head spinning to search the room for the one
man I'd expected to see first thing in the
morning, but had been conspicuously absent.
"Where is Ethan?" I asked softly, the
question intended more for myself than the
guard.
"I'm sure he'll be here soon," he answered.
Reluctant to just sit and listen like a good
girl, I stayed at the back with him as he
wanted, my gaze slowly taking in the typical
rush of activity with the production crew
running about preparing their equipment and
the set, but it was the set itself that drew my
attention most.
The standard bedroom design was gone.
There was no bed, no makeup table, no rugs,
no fake fireplace. Instead there was a single
pole set in the center of the stage. Painted
black it blended into the backdrop of crimson
red curtains, the base locking down on the
polished wood of the stage floor. But still, that
wasn't the one detail that stood out the most,
instead it was the candelabras set with
glowing black candles. Everywhere you
looked you saw the flicker of flame, the haze
of heat that jumped from the fire to brush
across the other predominant feature of the
stage that I'd just now noticed. There were
hundreds - no - thousands of blood red roses
that were set into the walls, into vases on the
side tables, a few heads of which had been
torn apart for the petals to be scattered across
the ground. Crystals were set within the
bouquets, so many that they caught the light
of the flickering candles and shimmered like
starlight across the stage.
The scent of those flowers hit my nose, the
elegant beauty of the design stealing my
breath away as I stared at a stage that was
dark, yet exquisite and stunning.
It was too much. Too emotional. The
finality of it hitting me like a runaway train,
knocking me from the little control I'd had
over this moment and catapulting me into
bitter, excruciating sorrow. Tears slipped from
my eyes before I even recognized I was crying,
my knees going weak and my body
crumpling. The guard reached out and caught
me before I fell fully, his arm wrapping tightly
around my waist as he held me upright.
"Where's Ethan?" I asked again, but instead
of answering the question, the guard squeezed
his hand at my hip, his low voice soft against
the sound of rushing bodies and electronic
clicks as they readied the cameras, sound gear
and lights.
"I'm not sure what you did to deserve that
stage, but you must have done something
right. I've never seen one designed like that."
I wasn't sure what I'd done either. No. That
wasn't true. I knew what I had done. I just
wasn't sure why it hadn't been enough for
Ethan to at least try to escape with me.
While that question echoed through my
thoughts, the activity died down, a female
voice shouting to be heard over the last bits of
preparation. "One minute everybody. We have
one take and we need to get it right."
My eyes narrowed on the woman standing
in the center of the room. As usual, she held
her trusty clapboard, but why was she
announcing time when Ethan still hadn't come
in the studio?
The door to our right popped open, a
familiar face walking through that wasn't the
one I'd hoped to see. "Brent," I called out,
grabbing his arm as he attempted to pass by.
"Where's Ethan?"
Brent's pudgy expression tightened, his lips
thin and his eyes filled by fear to be near me.
Clearly he hadn't forgotten what he’d seen me
do in my previous films. After darting a glance
between the guard and me, he finally
breathed out and explained, "Ethan's not
coming."
My heart shattered into tiny slivers. "What
do you mean he's not coming? He has to direct
the film."
Shrugging a shoulder, Brent answered, "He
said he can't do it. He can't watch. So he sent
me to get the shots in his place."
Eyes as wide as saucers, I stared at him
open mouthed, the shock I was feeling settling
in to every cell of my body.
"Everybody in place!" the woman yelled.
"Where's the actress?"
At the moment, the actress didn't give much
of a fuck about the film. All I was concerned
about was why Ethan wanted me to believe he
wouldn't be directing my final film.
Spinning back to Brent, I started to ask that
exact question, but was grabbed from behind
by the guard. Struggling against him, I'd
almost broken away when another set of
hands landed on me and assisted him in
dragging me backwards. Before I could get my
head on straight, I was being lugged up the
rickety stage stairs and tied to the pole in the
center.
Everything happened at once. The bitch
with the clapboard took her place with a smug
expression stretching her lips, and Brent went
to stand in the spot reserved for the director.
None of this was making sense, and in the
confusion and heartbreak of it all, I forgot I
was being executed as soon as the top of the
clapboard slapped down.
My lips pulled into a malicious snarl, my
mind racing over the way Ethan had betrayed
me from day one. I wondered if he ever really
cared about me, convinced myself that every
word he'd said, every tender and gentle brush
of his hand on my body these past few days
had been nothing but one big game.
 And now he wouldn't even bother to show
up? He was a fucking COWARD!
"Final Act," the woman callously
announced, "take one!"
The clapboard slapped down, a gunshot
through the soft whir of cameras, an echo
bouncing off the walls and ceilings as music
filtered through the room, ominous and
foreboding, but seductive and tantalizing at
the same time. It was just one more factor that
didn't make sense. Ethan never used music in
his films.
Time froze at that moment, my eyes
scanning the faces of the production crew, my
mind still denying that Ethan would truly
leave me alone to face this end. But he wasn't
there, wasn't among the sea of faces that
stared back up at me with no expressions
other than the professional focus of a team
filming the death of a helpless woman.
The door behind me opened. The cameras
continued filming. The production crew stood
silent as music filtered through the room in
soft crescendos and elegant, the sound
diminishing again until only a single note
hung in the air, punctuated by the rhythmic
click of shoes against the stage floor. Tied as I
was, I couldn't turn to face my attacker, was
made completely immobile by the ropes
binding my wrists and tied at my abdomen.
A hand slid over my shoulder from behind,
the soft brush of leather against my cheek as
my attacker's masked face came down beside
mine.
"Did you miss me?"
My heart jumped into my throat. I opened
my mouth to respond, but he slipped his hand
over my mouth to prevent it. His voice was
barely a whisper, a soft tendril of deep sound
against my ear. "Don't answer me. They'll
know. Just go along with everything I do if
you want to survive this. Do you understand?"
I didn't understand, but I nodded my head
regardless.
"I'm going to untie you from the pole. I'm
going to put on a show to make this appear
real, and then I'll need you to fight back,
Emma. Not just a pretend fight. I need you to
rage with all the fury I know is inside you."
His hand slipped down to the strap of my
silk negligee, slowly slipping the material from
my body. The slinky garment slipped from my
body, baring me to the cameras. But I wasn't
bothered by that, didn't care now that I knew
Ethan was beside me. His fingers traced up
my body, his hands taking possessive hold of
my breasts just as he demanded in a hushed
tone, "Make me believe it, Emma. Let me hear
you scream."
His fingers pinched down on the sensitive
skin and I obeyed him as easily in that
moment as I'd ever obeyed his sexual
demands. A scream tore from my throat in
response to the pain, my heart racing beneath
my ribs in response to the man that was as
charming as he was infuriating.
As the music continued to filter through the
studio, Ethan moved around my body, cutting
me free of the ropes that bound me, his strong
arm wrapping my waist to pull me away from
the pole. Remembering his instructions, I
fought against him, kicked and slapped, went
at him to rake my fingernails down his chest.
The mask he wore prevented me from seeing
the expression on his face, but I hoped he
understood I wasn't just following orders, I
was trying to hurt him for making me believe
he'd deserted me.
His laughter rumbled from his chest, his
hand snatching my hair between the fingers
and pulling me tight to his body. Our eyes
locked for only a brief second before his foot
swept to kick my feet out from under me, both
our bodies dropping to the floor.
Hitting the wood floor hard enough for the
pain to radiate up my nerves and into my
bones, I wasn't prepared for his full weight to
drop on top of me. Logically, I knew it was
Ethan, I knew he would never hurt me, but
instinct took over and I was fighting to break
free, losing quickly when he grabbed my
wrists and pinned my arms above my head.
He looked ridiculous with that stupid black
leather mask with a zipper across the mouth,
his grey eyes glaring down at me as I slammed
the heel of my foot into his back. Wearing
nothing besides black leather pants, his naked
chest was crushed to mine, his fingers
squeezing my wrists so hard that I feared the
bones were about to snap. More pain rushed
from my mouth on a piercing scream, his knee
forced between my legs until he could push
them apart.
From the erection pressing between my
legs, I realized the son of a bitch was enjoying
this.
His head came down next to mine, his hips
pressing in to me to still my raging body. On a
whisper, he said, "Toss me toward the front of
the stage. Do it now."
Not knowing what was happening, I
decided to do something one should never do
with Ethan Cole. I trusted him. Blindly.
Rolling my body toward the front of the
stage, I shifted Ethan's weight off me. He
swung out with an arm as if to break his fall,
knocking over the candles that lined the front.
Flames erupted in an inferno, the blaze close
enough to singe my hair. Ethan had my wrist
before I could scream and scramble away.
I tried to crawl away, but he held me in
place. The flames continued to roll and grow,
the smoke blanketing the stage. Coughing, I
tugged to break free from Ethan. He only
tightened his hold, his eyes focused on the
flames, his body crouched close to the ground.
The heat was too much, screams tearing up
my throat as one thought came to mind: Did
Ethan plan on killing us both?
Panic spiked through me, my screams
becoming more shrill as the smell of singed
hair wafted past my nose. The floor below the
stage was filled with the loud voices and
running feet of the production crew. Some
were trying to extinguish the fire, others were
abandoning the studio.
Ethan's head snapped in my direction, his
eyes searching my face before he leaned down
and spoke against my ear, the stupid zipper
scratching my skin. "Stay low to the ground,
move toward the door where I came in. Do
not stand up higher than the flames. Go now
and go quick or we're both going to die up
here."
Nodding my head, I pushed up into a
crouch, staying as low as possible while
following Ethan to the door. Pushing it open
just enough for our bodies to squeeze through,
he closed it again, pulled me with him to our
feet, and shoved me down the hall.
Urgency laced his voice as he ripped off his
mask. "I suggest you run now, Emma."
Lungs wheezing from the smoke, I didn't
ask questions, just hoped that this crazy ass
plan of his would work. It took ten minutes to
clear the hall, a large steel door closed tight at
the end. "Push through," Ethan yelled, "the
alarms are already going off because of the
fire. It won't trip the system."
I slammed into the door, my hands hitting
the push handle that crossed it. Ethan's palms
landed against the surface of the door on
either side of my head. With his added
strength, it opened. We tumbled out into the
cold air of night, the door shutting at our
backs. I was desperate to take a breath,
needed just one fucking second to clear the
smoke out of my eyes and lungs, but Ethan
wouldn't stop, refused to slow down and
pulled me along with him.
"Where are we going?" I asked, still
coughing, stumbling on bare feet over sand
and rocks, the sharp edges digging into the
skin.
 Eyes wild, Ethan's hair was a mess around
his head, his shoulders and chest heaving,
beads of sweat sliding down his skin. "I'm
helping you escape."
Stumbling over my feet to keep up with his
ground-eating stride, I pulled my arm from his
grip, but then slipped my hand in his. I had no
more questions after that answer, no more
doubts. I was finally leaving this place, finally
walking away from a nightmare that had kept
me trapped for longer than I knew.
Behind us the alarms were still blaring
around the building. Floodlights illuminated
the area, but Ethan and I had already outrun
them. Heading deeper into shadow, Ethan
continued his speed, not slowing down until
taillights came into view.
"Who's that?" I asked.
"That is the man who will be driving you to
the docks. From there, you'll be hidden on a
cargo ship and returned to the States. You'll be
free, Emma. Free and alive."
Warmth spread through me that I hadn't
felt since the day I was stolen. Starting in my
center it rippled out as small waves,
expanding and strengthening into naked and
raw hope. "We're really leaving?"
His pace slowed, the idling white van
finally coming fully into view. "No," he
answered, his voice regretful. "We're not
leaving."
Stopping finally, he turned to me. "You're
leaving, Emma. You're going home where you
belong and I'm staying to make sure they don't
know you're still alive."
The warmth of hope inside me chilled to an
icy stillness. Disbelief flavoring my thoughts,
agony threatening to stroll in and take the
throne hope had once held.
"What?" Tears broke free as the question
burst from my mouth. Slapping them away, I
shook my head refusing to believe that he was
staying. It would be so easy for us both to
leave. All he had to do was get in the van with
me. We could both leave and never look back.
If he would just get in the van.
"No," I insisted, my voice trembling and
hoarse, "no, Ethan, you're coming with me." I
wrapped my hand over his arm, gripped
down with the refusal to let go. "We're leaving
together."
His eyes met mine and behind them I saw
remorse and pain, but also a fierce
determination to follow through with
whatever insane idea he'd devised to help me
leave.
"Please," I begged, the pain in my chest
making it impossible to speak the word with
any strength. I had to convince him to leave
with me, had to do something, say something.
Stepping close, Ethan wrapped an arm
around my waist, pulling my body to his.
Tilting my chin so that he could stare down
into my eyes, the expression on his face said
everything he was thinking before he had the
chance to voice the thoughts in his head. "I
can't leave. Not if I want them to believe you
died in that fire."
"Who cares if I died in that fire? Just get in
the van. We'll go back to Boston together and
figure it out. But I'm not leaving you here!"
Lips trembling, my eyes searched his looking
for the faintest sign that he would change his
mind. "You're a prisoner to this place as much
as me. You don't have to stay here."
Leaning down, his kiss was gentle, just a
brush of his mouth against mine. It stilled me,
allowed to believe that I could convince him
to come with me, to escape a nightmare that
both of us had lived for far too long. Pulling
back, he brushed his thumb across my lip, his
eyes focused on my face as he dedicated this
moment between us to memory.
"They will find a woman's body on that
stage and believe you died in the fire. They'll
find the mask in the back hall and believe the
male lead fled. But if they don't find their
director, they'll start asking questions. And
those questions could lead to you. I won't
allow that, Emma. You need to go home, you
need to get back where you can be safe and
you need to hide."
Body? What body? I'm standing right here.
"What body?"
"I used one of the other women to make it
look like it could have been you. They won't
be performing an autopsy-"
"Who? Who did you kill so I can escape?" I
knew it didn't matter, that women would
continue dying in this place regardless of
whether I was here or not. But still, to think
somebody died so that I could live? I couldn't
live with that, I couldn't accept that my life
had been more important that somebody
else's.
"I used Melanie's body, Emma. I didn't kill
anybody." Honesty poured from his gaze.
Honesty and the resolute truth that he wasn't
getting in the van. He had no intention of
leaving.
My body crumbled, my legs too weak to
hold me up, Ethan's arm tightening around
my waist to keep me from falling to the
ground. Violent sobs wracked my chest,
furious tears bursting from my eyes with so
much heat they burned my cheeks where they
slid down the skin.
Tilting my face up again, he locked his gaze
to mine and I tried to memorize his eyes, his
face, every last detail I could because although
my mind refused to accept that this was
goodbye, my breaking heart knew it was true.
"You have to go," he said, his voice soft,
apologetic. "I have to get back before the
alarms stop if I have a chance of sneaking back
in without anybody noticing. The men helping
me will get you home, Emma."
"Why?" I asked, tossing out stupid
questions because I didn't want this to end. I
didn't want to let him go.
A wry smile tilted his sad lips. "It appears
you impressed more people in the studio than
you realized. They're loyal to me, and they
saw the happiness you gave me while you
were here. For that, they will make sure you
get home safely. But they can't do that if you
don't leave immediately."
I could barely speak around the sobs, the
trembling and the tears. I could barely think
around the pain of my heart, the desolation of
my soul. This man had carved his name into
every part of me and I couldn't just let that go.
"Goodbye, Emma. Don't ever stop fighting
for your life. Don't ever give up. Don't let the
fire I saw the first day I laid eyes on you die."
 His hand gripped the back of my head and
he kissed me again, deeply, slowly, as if he
knew it would be the last time he had the
chance. I died during that kiss, not physically
but spiritually. I came apart and shattered in
his hold. And when he pulled away, when he
looked down at me one last time, I died again
knowing that I would never again be the
same.
"Go," he said, his hand landing on my
shoulder as he led me to the van. Reluctantly,
I climbed in and he smiled one last time
before slamming the door closed and tapping
on the outside. The van lurched forward, tires
grinding over the pebbles and rock, taking me
far from a nightmare that would forever
imprison my heart.
 EMMA
"I may have escaped that place, that fucking
hellhole where I was surrounded by death and
pure evil. Physically, at least. But there are
days where I feel like I haven't escaped at all.
Like I'm still stuck there praying that it will
end."
Shoulders withered with defeat, I blotted
my cheeks with a tissue, tried to stop the tears
that angered me more than anything else. I
shouldn't have still been crying, still been
screaming inside and wishing that everything
could have been different. However, over the
years since I'd left the studio and returned
home to my life, I understood that, in truth, I'd
never left the studio, not whole. Ever since the
night I was carted off in that van, blindfolded
so that I could never return or report where
the studio was located, I'd remained fractured
despite everything I'd done to rebuild my life.
There would always be a part of me that
remained trapped. My sanity, maybe. Or my
dignity. At least, that's what I told the people
who still picked at the story, hoping to find
that one small thread they could pull to make
it all unravel. They knew I held one secret to
heart. One secret that, for as long as I lived, I
would never admit.
"It's normal to feel the way you're feeling,
Emma. Many women who have gone through
experiences like yours struggle to regain
footing in their lives."
Adrienne Eglan stared over at me from
behind the thin wire frames of her glasses, her
legs crossed demurely, her prim and proper
skirt suit unwrinkled and perfectly
accessorized. Hair pulled into a bun at the
nape of her neck, she scribbled down notes in
her attempt to dissect me, but she wouldn't
succeed. Only one person had been able to see
past the mask I wore, the side of me I allow
people to see, and that person was gone.
After returning to the States, and after
going through the horrible weeks that
followed where I'd been forced to repeat my
story to every federal agent who demanded to
hear the same details over and over again, I'd
moved home with my parents and had spent
several months coming to terms with the
horrors I'd witnessed at the studio.
At first, I'd hoped the agents would find the
studio, would free the women still trapped,
would free...him. But as the months wore on
and they couldn't find the place where those
horrible films were made and distributed, I'd
given up hope of ever finding Ethan again.
Depression overtook me in those months.
My body changed, my heart broke, but
eventually I discovered a new reason to live, a
bright shining star that had come in to my life
to remind me that I had the strength to go on.
My mother convinced me that going to
therapy would help me come to terms with
the events in my life, but now, as I stared
across the room at a woman who had no
fucking clue what it felt like to have your heart
ripped from your chest only to be returned as
a mere sliver of what it had been, I was
beginning to believe that nothing would help
me forget a man who had been the only
person to ever really understand who I am.
I needed to stop my sessions with
Adrienne. I'm sure she meant well, but after
spending two hours a week listening to her
infuriating psychobabble, I was afraid I would
snap and tear off her pretty little head.
She must have noticed the way my teeth
were clenched, or the fisting of my hands,
because she did the reasonable thing of
shooing me away as quickly as possible. With
a professional smile stretching her glossed
lips, she darted a glance at the wall clock and
said, "It looks as if we're out of time for today.
I'll see you again next week."
Relief flooded me. Yes, I was the one who'd
willingly signed up for these sessions, but I
still felt like a lab rat every time I walked in to
tell a stranger my innermost thoughts.
It was odd how leaving my shrink's office
felt like more of an escape than the night I left
the studio. Walking from the building, I milled
over that thought in my head, the whisper of
truth that echoed until I could feel the weight
of it. Pain still clenched at my heart each time
I thought of the final night I saw Ethan Cole. I
wondered where he was. What he was doing.
If he'd ever found a way to leave the studio
behind and rebuild his life away from the
depravity and death that had surrounded us
when we fell in love.
Over the two years since I'd returned, I'd
given the police, FBI agents and the members
of human trafficking task forces who'd
interviewed me every detail I could about my
abduction and the studio where I'd been held.
It had surprised me to learn that I was missing
for close to a year before being freed to go
home. But, of all the details I gave them over
the grueling hours of those interviews, there
was one detail I never revealed.
I never told them about Ethan. About the
director who had been the artistic mind
behind all of those awful films.
As it turned out, the authorities were
familiar with the films, had been tracking
them for years to discover the fates of other
abducted women, had withheld the details of
those women's deaths from the families they
left behind.
There hadn't been a film showing how
Melanie died, but I'd given them the details,
had cried while explaining where her family
could be found and the name of her son. By
now, that information must have been
delivered, and they'd most likely had a
funeral despite no body being recovered for a
burial. I promised myself that one day I would
visit her empty grave, would apologize that I
couldn't save her, and thank her for being the
reason I could slip away unnoticed.
The police had done well to keep my return
and my identity out of the press. Using
witness protection protocols, I was identified
simply as Jane Doe and it was reported I'd
escaped a trafficking ring without details of
the studio or films. I'd demanded those terms
before ever speaking a word of what I knew.
What would have been the point of Ethan's
plan if I'd returned for my name and photo to
be blasted all over the news?
Breathing out, I walked at a clipped pace
down the breezy sidewalk toward my car.
Unlike the careless woman I'd been before
being ripped from the streets and delivered to
Hell, I was now cautious, constantly looking
over my shoulder and peering into alleys
while walking by myself. My experience had
born in me the paranoia of my mother, but
instead of laughing at her now, I apologized
for not having listened to her when she’d
explained to me how to stay safe.
My electric car started with a few beeps
and soft whir, barely made a sound as I
pushed the pedal and drove down the street.
Tears leaked freely down my cheeks, my heart
pounding as sorrow pulsed through my veins.
It was always like this after a session, after a
hour spent hiding the fact that while trapped,
I'd fallen in love. I didn't need to see the
sympathetic stare, the eyes that told me I was
weak for having fallen for the man who held
me. I didn't need the judgment for admitting
that even two years later, finding him was all I
wanted to do.
Ethan was still a part of my life, in more
ways than he knew. And for that, he would
never be a stranger to my thoughts, would
never fall into the backdrop of the past to be
lost among the women who never had the
chance to escape.
Pulling into my driveway, I quickly wiped
away the tears and stared into the rearview
mirror to check that my eyes weren't swollen. I
hated it when I walked inside and saw my
pain reflected in the eyes of my family.
Thankfully, my parents were both out running
errands, eating lunch, living their routine. Only
one car was outside the house, and it would
be leaving now that I'd arrived.
I stepped into the house and heard the
television sounding softly from the living
room. Rounding the corner, I smiled at
Ashlynn Cates where she sat working on
homework. "Hey. I'm home. Where's Kane?"
Smiling brightly, Ashlynn swept her long
blond hair from her shoulder. "He's sleeping.
Just went down about an hour ago. It should
give you a few hours of peace before he's up
and running around again."
Relieved to hear it, I dropped my purse and
keys on a side table and said, "I'll take over
from here. Thank you for babysitting."
Ashlynn gathered her things and took the
money from my hand as she passed by in
route for the front door. Turning to watch her
go, I was startled when she spun back
suddenly. "Oh! I forgot to tell you. A package
came for you. I put it on the kitchen counter."
Brows drawing together, I asked, "For me?
Are you sure? I haven't ordered anything."
Shrugging, she shifted the strap of her
backpack up her shoulder. "It was for you. I
didn't see the return address. Some strange
man delivered it. Have a good night."
As soon as the door slammed closed, I was
walking to the kitchen. On the counter sat a
large manila envelope. Picking it up, I found
that it was addressed to me, but there was no
return information, no clue as to who had sent
it. My heart rate picked up as I ripped it open.
Was it possible?
Pulling the contents free, I found a letter
scrawled in masculine script and a plastic
encased DVD. My body stilled, my heart
pounding so hard that I could feel the pulse of
it in my cheeks. Unable to force myself to open
the letter, I hurried up the stairs to my
bedroom, sat down on my bed and brought
the paper to my nose to see if I could smell
him.
I knew the instant I saw the writing on the
package that Ethan had been the one to send
it.
More tears fell and I half laughed at how
sick I was of crying. It took several minutes to
settle my heart and rate of breath, and after
counting to ten, I blinked my eyes one more
time before opening the letter...

To My Muse,
I hope this letter finds you well. In fact, I hope it
finds you better than that. I hope it finds you
healthy and whole, happy and living a life
deserving of the light and fire you carry inside. It
would break my heart to learn that you retreated
inside yourself again after returning home.
By now you know that the studio was never
discovered after your escape, and I'm sure you
know that the films have continued being dispersed.
What you don't know is that I'm no longer the
man directing them. I'm not sure that it matters to
you, or if you still feel for me now as you did when
we last spoke, but it was important to me that you
know I left the studio behind and have moved on
after completing my life's most important work.
I guess I should make some confessions before
going further in this letter, confessions that will
most likely anger you or hurt. But I hope you can
understand why I did what I did, why it was
important to me to get the details just right.
You're a hard woman to miss, Emma, and it
doesn't surprise me that the men who stole you had
chosen you specifically to take. Despite your belief
that you're simply an average person with nothing
special that sets you apart, you're so much more
than that. Your humility alone is astonishing, but
when combined with the beauty of your face and
the force of your inner strength, you stand out
among the crowd without even realizing it. It's
what drew me to you the instant we met. It's what
inspired me to direct my greatest film, to fulfill my
life's dream.
You inspired me. Like no other person has or
will ever do again. It's a shame that the
accomplishment will be one that only a few people
will see. How many depends on you, and your
decision is your own. If you take it to the police, I'll
understand, but something tells me you won't.
Why have you never given the police my name?
And thank you for giving, at least part of it, to our
son…

My heart stopped beating as I read those

lines, my lips parted on expelled breath, my
eyes rounded to discover that Ethan knew
about Kane. Both fear and elation flooded me,
the mixture toxic within my veins.
Within a month of returning home, I'd
discovered that I was pregnant. My family
had left it up to me whether to have a child
they believed had been conceived in rape, or
whether to terminate the pregnancy. There
had never been a question of what I would do.
But I never admitted to them that Ethan's
child growing inside me had been one of the
only reasons I'd been able to continue living
after losing his father. After discovering I was
pregnant, I'd researched Ethan online. Too
afraid to name our son with his first name, I'd
used his middle name instead. Ethan Kane
Cole had become the unknown father of Kane
Christopher Hart.
Swiping at the tears, I continued reading.

My first confession is the hard one, so I'll just

get it over with and hope you read the rest. I was
never a prisoner to the studio like I led you to
believe. I could have left at any time, could have
taken you with me, could have lost you far too soon
and never completed your story. I won't apologize
for that lie, won't feel sorry that I made a decision
to finish the project you inspired just by being
alive. When you see what I saw, I hope you'll
understand why I did what I did. I hope you'll see
the beauty in it, and the truth I finally found in
film. I wasn't lying when I told you that I'd
planned to move on before you arrived. What I
failed to mention was that after finding you, I chose
to stay to complete one last project.
Which leads me to my second confession. The
inspiration you gave me wasn’t about what you did
on stage. It wasn’t about the attempted rapes and
death of your attackers, had nothing to do with
what was created for the dark web. My vision for
you was so much more than that. Included with
this letter is your completed film. A movie not
about depraved acts and crushing endings, but
about a woman who was so fierce in spirit that even
when trapped in a nightmare that was never
ending, she'd still found the strength inside herself
to love.
That is the truth you showed me, and that is the
film I made. Nobody else could have played your
part. No other person could have inspired a story so
tragic, yet beautiful at the same time. There is not a
single woman in this world that could have burned
as brightly as you did on film, and I'll never regret
lying to you just so I could see the project through
to its end…

My fingers tightened over the paper, my

eyes tracking to the DVD I'd tossed on my
bed. Curiosity got the better of me. Dropping
the letter, I grabbed the disc and hurried
across my room to my computer. Sliding the
disc in, I waited impatiently for it to load, my
breath held when I pressed play.
The film started on the day I arrived to the
studio, at the moment I walked through the
front doors to meet Ethan Cole. He must have
had more cameras inside the building than he
admitted, because as I watched my life inside
that prison, I realized he'd missed nothing
about the year I'd spent with him. But the
images weren't simply the blurry, off color
shots of a security camera, they were close-ups
and wide angle candid shots of the most
significant moments of my life.
He'd captured everything: my arrival, my
first fight with the guard, my reaction when I
first saw the films he made. He'd caught me
telling him I chose to die, he caught my first
conversation with Melanie and the argument
I'd had with him after being led to his office
for the first time. I sat watching with eyes
steadily leaking out the pain I was feeling, but
I couldn't look away from a film that depicted
what it looked like when a woman fell in love
with the man who'd captured her.
Ethan was right to say there was truth in
this film, and I felt every minute of it as I
stared unblinking at the perfect transition of
scenes. I cringed at the scenes with James and
Brent, held my breath at the scene of Ethan
and I in the shower. I sobbed at the scenes
he'd caught of the last film he made in Studio
B, of the fire and the conversation we'd had by
the van.
Everything. He'd captured it all, and he'd
condensed it down into an hour long film that
revealed the true story of a woman fighting to
fall in love. My eyes were so blurry as the
camera showed the van driving off, that I had
to pause the film to keep from missing the
end. I sat crying for what felt like hours, but
could only have been minutes.
Grabbing the letter, I opened it without
watching the last scenes of the film. I was too
afraid of both, but eventually chose to read
what he had to say rather than watch what
could have come on film after my escape.

You helped me realize a dream, Emma. And I

hope it's something you can live with and forgive.
I'm no longer the man I was before you walked into
my life. And having accomplished the one task I set
out to achieve in film, I've retired in a way, have
gone into hiding in a place where I'll never hurt
another person again.
Thank you for who you are, and thank you for
who you became in my life. I could have never done
this without you.
I want you to know I'll never forget the time we
spent together, and I'll never truly let you go. I
know that your film had its ending, but that your
life story continues forward with a twist I never
saw coming.
Kane is the most beautiful child I've ever seen,
and it is my hope that you'll protect him with the
fire you carry inside and that'll you'll inspire him
to realize his dreams as much as you inspired me to
realize mine. We'll see each other again. That much
I know, but until then, I hope our son fills the
empty places inside you that were left behind from
what I've done.
Love him as ferociously as you loved me. And
until the day comes when I can touch your cheek
and stare into those frustrating and glorious eyes
again, just know that I'll be watching.

The letter ended without a signature,

without another word, without anything other
than the flourished script of Ethan's hand on
the last letter of his confession.
A bark of laughter shook my shoulders like
a small burst of insanity slipping free. I should
have been running this letter to the police to
turn in a man who'd so callously done this to
me, but instead I found myself clinging to the
tiny bit of hope that he really was watching
like he claimed.
 Focusing my eyes back on the film paused
in place on my computer screen, I hit play to
see the last scene Ethan used to complete his
vision of me.
My jaw went slack, my heart came back to
life in my chest, and I stared in a state of shock
at a film that couldn't have been completed
until just recently. How I'd not noticed, I
wasn't sure. How had I'd been so focused that
I wasn't looking over my shoulder at just the
right time?
Before me the final images played of me
standing in the small park across the street
from my house pushing Kane in his swing.
Ethan had been so close, and I'd somehow
missed him entirely. It had only been a few
days since he could have shot that scene,
which meant...

Some strange man delivered it...

Running from my room, I almost fell down

the stairs to get to my purse in the living room.
I found my cell phone buried at the bottom
and dropped the purse to the floor as I hastily
dialed Ashlynn's phone number. She picked
up on the third ring.
"Hey, Ms. Hart. Is everything okay with
Kane?"
 On a rush of breath, I answered, "Yes,
everything is fine with him. That's not what
I'm calling about." I paused, took a breath and
tried to speak at a slower pace. But the barrage
of emotion inside me was pushing me too fast,
filling me to such an extent that I couldn't hold
it inside. "Ashlynn, what did the man look
like? The one who delivered the package?"
She was quiet for a moment, so quiet that I
pulled the phone from my head to make sure
the call was still connected. "Ashlynn?"
"He was handsome and wore a suit," she
finally answered. "Um, black hair that had
some grey in it, clean shaven. He kind of
freaked me out a little bit though. His eyes -"
"What about his eyes?"
"Nothing. It's just that it felt like he could
see through me. I don't know, it's weird and
I'm being stupid. He had really pretty grey
eyes, but I just, like, froze when he looked at
me."
Leaning against the wall, I pressed the
phone closer to my ear and closed my eyes.
She wasn't stupid to feel that way. Ethan Cole
simply had that effect on people.
"Is everything okay, Ms. Hart? You sound -"
"Yes," I blurt out a little too quickly.
"Everything's fine, Ashlynn. Thank you for
telling me."
 I hung up before she could say anything
else.
Every last bit of energy drained from me in
that moment, my body sliding down the wall
until I was sitting on the floor with my eyes
shut and my hand still clenching the phone.
It's hard to describe what I was feeling,
probably because I was feeling so much of
everything at once that I couldn't cling on to
one thought, one emotion, one single, solitary
response that would make sense to any person
besides Ethan or me.
It wasn't until my heart slowed and my
breathing was normal, wasn't until I could
wipe away the last of my tears and actually
think again that one truth broke free of the
chaos to make itself known.
No matter what Ethan had done to me, no
matter the lies, the horror, the films, and the
effect that year had on me, I couldn't deny
that the film was beautiful.
And I couldn't lie to myself - or to Ethan -
that I wasn't happy to discover he was still,
and would always be, watching.
THE END
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