Descended (The Red Blindfold Book 2) Page 9

  “I have to be somewhere, that’s all.”

  “Oh, okay. You’ve gotta be somewhere.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “What’s with the sexy outfit, anyway? You go out in public like that?”

  “Better leave, okay? You’ll miss your flight.”

  I turned and started toward the door. In a second he was behind me, his hands on my waist.

  “Hey – what are you doing?” I said, pushing against his arms. “Don’t touch me.”

  “What’s wrong? You like it this way, don’t you?”

  “Come on, Trevor. I mean it.”

  “I bet you do.”

  I stopped struggling and sighed. “Are you finished being an asshole? Because I’d like to go to lunch if you don’t mind.”

  “Hold on, I’m the asshole? I just asked you to marry me, remember?”

  He spun me around and backed me against the wall, shocking the breath out of me. It wasn’t his roughness that scared me as much as the vacant look in his eyes.

  “Trevor, stop it.”

  “Does he even know I’m here?” He lifted my dress and grabbed my thighs where the stockings met the satin garters.

  “Of course he does.”

  He leaned in until his face was an inch from mine. “I don’t think you’re telling the truth, Sophie. I don’t think he has any idea. I don’t think he’s coming home for hours.”

  “This is fucking ridiculous,” I said. “Let me go.”

  “Why didn’t you ever dress like that for me?”

  “Because you never asked,” I said flatly.

  He tousled my hair roughly. “I guess they like this look over here,” he said. “They have a different idea of what pretty is.”

  I shook my hair out of my eyes. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s not like you ever had men falling all over you. Maybe you should have appreciated me while we were together.”

  “Door’s that way,” I said, pushing against his shoulders. “Have a nice trip.”

  “Now, hang on, don’t rush me out. I want to see what’s underneath that dress.”

  With a quick tug, he pulled the thin tie knotted at my hip. My dress fell open, revealing the pale purple lingerie and garters. Trevor looked down and let out a bitter laugh.

  “Holy shit. What have we here?”

  I tried to cover myself but he was too quick, grabbing my wrists and pinning them to the wall. As he ground his pelvis against me, I realized that he was hard. For a fleeting instant before panic seized my brain, I thought how much larger Marc was than Trevor, and how humiliated Trevor would be if he knew.

  “All right, can I go now?” I said. “I get it. You’re pissed off and you’re stronger than I am. Congratulations.”

  “That Marc dude does this to you and you get off on it. You keep coming back for more.”

  Twisting my arms behind my back, he locked both of my wrists in one hand. With the other, he yanked my panties to mid-thigh and pushed his hand between my legs. For the first time in weeks, I was bone dry.

  “You don’t want to do this,” I said. “I’ll scream.”

  Adrenaline racing through me, I tried to drive my knee into his balls. He blocked it with his hand and gave me a sickening smile.

  “Go ahead and scream. It’s nothing a gag won’t take care of. I bet you have one around here somewhere, along with fuck knows what else.”

  I heard the sickening rip of lace and my panties dropped to the floor. Fingers gripping my shoulders, Trevor shoved me ahead of him into the living room. I grabbed the sofa back but he pulled my hand away.

  “Where’s the bed?” he hissed, pushing me down the hall. “That’s where you spend most of your time, isn’t it? Getting your brains fucked out?”

  Before I could yell, Trevor wrapped his hand around my mouth. He peered into doorways, finally coming to the master bedroom. My shoes slipped on the carpet as he forced me inside and kicked the door shut.

  Spinning me to face him, he tore my dress and corset off, leaving me in nothing but stockings, garters, and heels.

  “Why are you doing this?” I cried. Black spots flickered across my vision and for a second I thought I might pass out.

  He threw me onto the bed and got on top of me, wedging his knee between my thighs. Screaming now, I pounded my fists against his face and chest. He snatched the red blindfold – our blindfold, Marc’s and mine – from the nightstand, forcing it between my lips.

  “Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut up.”

  I heard his zipper opening and felt his erection against my stomach. My body went rigid. I stared at the ceiling, the same phrase running through my mind again and again.

  I don’t believe it. I don’t believe it.

  I’d awakened this morning thinking that I knew how every hour would pass. This wasn’t my life. It couldn’t be happening.

  He was between my legs, about to tear into my flesh, when his erection went soft. “Fuck!” he said through clenched teeth.

  I lay perfectly still with the blindfold in my mouth, tasting the perfume Marc had given me. The smell was so painfully comforting, so evocative of my feelings for Marc, that I started to cry silently.

  Trevor shoved me away and got up, zipping his pants. I heard him going through drawers and then, rummaging around in the bondage closet. He snickered, mumbling something under his breath.

  If I was very quiet, I might be able to get to the hallway without him knowing. But as soon as I stirred he barked, “Don’t you dare move.”

  A moment later, he was tying my wrists to the headboard with the rope Marc had used three days before. Though it bit into the cut I still had from the M Society’s restraints, I hardly felt it. He pulled the rope so tight, my fingers tingled. He did the same to my ankles, and then knotted the gag behind my head.

  When he was done he stepped back, tilting his head from left to right. “This the way you like it?” he said, his voice edged with scorn. “Tied up like some dumb animal?”

  I bit the gag and braced myself for the inevitable. Any moment now he’d be back on top of me, and this time I had no chance of escape. I should have struggled when he tied my hands. I should never, ever have let him inside the apartment.

  More than anything, I should have told Marc that Trevor was in Paris. Things would have turned out differently if I had. Somehow, being honest would have protected me. It could have changed one seemingly meaningless event, altering everything that came after. This was how terrible things happened, one little mistake building on another until it was too late to undo a disaster.

  Trevor watched me for what felt like an hour, walking around the bed with an expression of sullen contempt. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

  Eventually, I heard him in the bathroom, the toilet flushing, water running. He cleared his throat loudly. When he came out his face was darkened by shame and confusion. I could imagine him seeing himself in the mirror, the jolt of recognition and the horror that followed.

  “I’m sorry I had to do this,” he said, standing in the doorway. “It isn’t fair, though. I gave two years of my life to you and you shit on my heart.”

  Turning his back, he walked out. A minute later I heard the front door close behind him.

  I lay there, every limb shaking. I was sure he was coming back. I would hear the door open, and I’d know by the loping rhythm of his footsteps that he wasn’t Marc. He would come into the bedroom with a terrible mocking smile and this time he’d finish what he started, leaving me beaten and violated, or worse.

  Time passed. Shadows were moving with aching slowness across the ceiling. The sky had cleared – I saw a patch of blue through the window when I craned my head. I started to nurture the faint hope that Trevor had gone back to his hotel and to the airport, and I was safe.

  It would be hours before I’d know for sure.

  A distant horn blared. I dropped into a brief, troubled sleep, waking with a start to find the room empty and the sun still bright. It couldn’t be
more than two o’clock. An entire afternoon to endure before Marc came home. By that time, my hands would be numb and I could be dehydrated, weak, slowly suffocating on the gag.

  But I couldn’t think that way. I had to stay calm, take one breath at a time. In and out, in and out.

  Through the interminable afternoon, I thought about Trevor. How did I not see this coming? What had I missed?

  He’d always been sensitive and easily offended, the loudest guy in the bar and the one most likely to start a fight. Under his cocky exterior I’d sometimes sensed a simmering frustration. Even small things could set him off, like the weather or a rude cab driver. He’d slammed a lot of cabinets and yelled during arguments, but he had never been violent with me.

  Of course, I’d never rejected him before. I’d never made him feel small, weak, and inadequate.

  This was what I got for spending two years with a man I never really knew or cared about. I’d been so stupid to be alone with him and turn down his proposal. I could have said I’d consider it, anything to get him out the door. Now I was paying the price for being honest with him, and dishonest with Marc.

  My stomach rumbled and my dry throat ached. Twice my phone rang distantly from my handbag in the living room – Marc calling, maybe, or Katherine.

  I struggled as hard as I could against the rope, rattling the headboard and screaming into the gag. I fought until my shoulders throbbed and blood rushed in my ears.

  Now I knew what it was like to be tied against my will, truly overpowered and forced to submit. It was nothing like what I’d done with Marc, not even when he’d roped my arms behind my back and taken me from behind over a chair. With Marc there was persuasion and gentleness, a hint of danger but no cruelty or coercion.

  Trevor didn’t understand that. I hadn’t either, until now.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It was almost dark when I heard Marc’s footsteps in the foyer.

  The front door closed and I saw a light turn on down the hall. Though I tried to make noise, I was too exhausted to move.

  I heard music and then, a cork popping out of a wine bottle. He moved around the apartment, hanging something in the coat closet, opening a living room window to the clear night. Ten or fifteen minutes went by in agonizing slowness while I lay there, so depleted that even swallowing took tremendous effort.

  Finally, I saw his backlit figure in the doorway. He didn’t see me until he’d crossed the room and switched on the closet light.

  “Sophie?” he said, sounding confused.

  All I could manage was a quiet moan.

  He rushed over to the bed, throwing his suit jacket to the floor. “What the hell –”

  As soon as he pulled the blindfold from my mouth, I began to cough. “I can’t feel my hands,” I whispered hoarsely.

  Frantically, he tried to untie the knots binding my wrists. “For Christ’s sake. How long have you been like this? Did somebody break in? Is that why the alarm wasn’t set?”

  “No,” I said, but after that my voice failed.

  As the blood flowed into my hands, my palms prickled, a thousand tiny stab wounds so painful I started to cry.

  “It’s okay,” Marc said, pulling me against him. “I’m here now. You’re safe.”

  I’d never felt so weak. Without the strength of his arms, I would have slumped back helplessly onto the bed.

  He stroked my hair and held me until I could speak again. “What happened? Who did this to you?”

  “Trevor,” I said against his shirt.

  He held me away and looked into my face. “What? What was he doing here? Did that son of a bitch rape you?”

  “No. He tried to but he couldn’t.”

  Between gasps for air, I told Marc everything. About Trevor showing up at the other apartment. Our agreement to meet this morning before he left. Trevor walking into the building and going upstairs. The marriage proposal and the unspeakable things that came after it. Trevor catching a flight back to the United States, leaving me bound to the bed.

  “I didn’t tell you he was in Paris,” I said. “The whole thing is my fault.”

  Marc shook his head and held my face in his hands. “That fucking bastard,” he said. “You must have been so scared. If I’d come home I’d have ripped him apart.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t tell you the truth. I didn’t want you to find out he was here.”

  “Let’s not talk about that,” he said, and kissed my nose and forehead. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter! None of this would have happened if I’d been honest with you.”

  He held me to his shoulder, which was wet with my tears. “No, no, no. If there’s any fault here, it’s mine for making you feel like you couldn’t talk to me.”

  When I’d finally caught my breath and finished crying, he turned on the lamp. He examined my wrists and ankles, and the dark purple bruise on my upper arm.

  “I want you to see a doctor,” he said.

  “No, Marc. I’m okay.”

  His face was stern. “You’ve been tied and gagged all day, and you need to be looked over. They make house calls here.”

  “All right.”

  “Do you want to call the police?”

  “I don’t know. He’s on a plane by now. There’s no evidence.”

  “Except his fingerprints all over my apartment and the injuries on your wrists and ankles. It’s up to you, but I think you should make a report.”

  Later, I would have trouble remembering the events of the next few hours.

  I knew that a doctor arrived, a kind, gray-haired woman in her early sixties. Then three police came, and there was a policewoman who spoke passable English, but I couldn’t recall the questions she asked me. Someone took photographs of the bedroom and my bruises, and various surfaces were dusted for fingerprints. A middle-aged policeman wearing latex gloves deposited the cappuccino cup and my torn panties into plastic bags.

  There were frowns, and cocked heads, and endless questions in French as Marc tried to explain the closet filled with paddles and handcuffs. Too shattered to be embarrassed, I watched the proceedings as if they were taking place behind a glass wall. Whole hours vanished in a shadowy blur, and it was almost ten o’clock when the door shut and Marc and I were alone again.

  I took a long, hot shower and tried to scrub off the feeling of Trevor’s hands on my skin. Marc dried me with a towel and wrapped his robe around me, then took me to the kitchen. Though my stomach felt like a tight fist, he cooked pasta primavera and made me sit at the table with him. He was very quiet. His jaw muscles flashed as he chewed and his eyes were smoky slits.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, voice scratchy from shouting into the gag.

  “What’s wrong?” He looked at me, his lips trembling with barely-controlled rage. “The rope is what’s wrong, Sophie. The closet in my bedroom is what’s wrong. I made it very easy for your thug of an ex-boyfriend to tie you up, didn’t I? And then I got to explain it all to the police, who didn’t believe a fucking word I said.”

  “Look, Marc,” I said, trying to sound calm, “if what happened today isn’t my fault, then it certainly isn’t yours.”

  It was as if I hadn’t spoken. “I should have burned those things years ago. If I didn’t think you might need them as evidence I’d torch them all right now.” He wouldn’t even look at me. His anger was a force-field, a blast of heat I couldn’t penetrate.

  “Please don’t be upset,” I said. I felt almost sick after three forkfuls of food.

  He laughed joylessly. “I passed upset three hours ago. Now I just want to put my hand through a wall. I promise you, if that weak little prick weren’t on a plane right now I’d destroy him.”

  I drank a glass of red wine too fast, prompting a flood of pent-up tears. Putting my face in my hands, I sobbed. I was turning into Lydia before Marc’s eyes, and though the reason was different, the result was the same: a complication he hadn’t bargained for, the opposite of exciting and a
rousing.

  “Pet,” he said, getting up and crouching by my chair.

  “I’m okay,” I said, hiccupping.

  “No, you’re not. Come here, sweetheart.”

  He pulled me out of the chair into his arms. I sat on the floor and let him rock me until I was out of tears. As much as I needed his touch, my body felt dead and unreachable, just as it had before I’d met him.

  How could I make love with him tonight, or ever again? The idea of lying underneath him gave me the feeling of being buried alive.

  As he stroked my hair, I had a sudden image of the red blindfold stuffed in my mouth and shuddered. Could we ever again be the people we were? Would this disconnected feeling pass, or was I scarred for life, frightened back into the cold shell I’d only just escaped from?

  Though I tried to block out everything but the feeling of Marc’s soothing hand, the truth was inescapable. Trevor hadn’t been able to rape me, but his plan – to humiliate me, to ruin my happiness – had worked perfectly.

  Even after Marc changed the sheets and erased every sign of Trevor from the master bedroom, I wasn’t able to get past the doorway. Lovingly, he made up the bed on the other side of the apartment and joined me there, wrapping his arms around me and rubbing my back in a futile effort to relax me. Though the doctor had given me a tranquilizer, nothing could quiet the turmoil spinning through my head.

  If only, if only, if only.

  I could think of nothing else as I lay there, feeling Marc’s warm breath against my shoulder. If only I hadn’t followed Trevor inside the building. I’d have gone to lunch, and written all afternoon at the dining room table, and thought about Marc and smiled. We’d have laughed over dinner and made love, and afterwards, talked about whether I should stay in France for a few weeks, a month, or even longer. It would have taken only the slightest bit of persuasion for me to say yes. Our future – my future – would have been there for the taking.

  But now, staying with Marc seemed like another in a long line of reckless decisions: moving in with Trevor. Dropping out of law school. Becoming a travel writer for no other reason than that I craved adventure. Getting involved with one of the Marquis de Sade’s descendants, for whom I’d honestly considered tossing my life aside and moving to Europe. I’d imagined that I could continue to write for magazines and websites, but I wasn’t sure how, and I spoke no French, and that night as I lay in bed next to Marc it all seemed like a pathetic fantasy that would hurt both of us in the end.