He yanked her from the counter and slammed his knuckles into her face. She managed to stay on her feet as jolts of pain fired through her skull. A warm trickle wet her lashes and smudged her vision. The ache in her heart was worse, but she would not give him the perception he’d hurt her beyond the cut of his fist. She kept her hands to her sides and met his biting silver gaze head-on.

Angry red splotches stained his neck and cheek, and she imagined his blood simmering beneath the skin. He clutched the counter’s edge on either side of her hips, his face level with hers. “When I dispose of your body, no one will ever find it.” His voice dropped to a chilling rasp. “You know why?”

Her heart sped up, increasing the throb above her eye. She held her muscles as motionless as her glare.

“Because no one will care enough to search for it.” He angled over the plates and hocked a foaming bubble of spit on one of the sandwiches. “Clean up your face.” His smirk flared the bruise around her heart. “You look more like a slave than your little cunt boy.” He grabbed an unsoiled sandwich, sat at the table, and dug into the roast beef.

What they were, what they’d become together, wasn’t sane or healthy. It was in his blood to spew nasty things in a fit of rage, including threats on her life, and she’d conditioned herself over the years to bury it. His temper would eventually ebb, and the hurt from his words would, too. Because she didn’t love him, he didn’t have the power to leave a permanent scar on her heart. But that reminder didn’t help the rawness of the moment as she moved to the sink and turned the tap to warm.

Ducking her head, the spray showered her face, renewing the pain around her eye. The water ran red, but no amount of cleaning would remove the evidence that she was just as much a prisoner as the ones in chains. And somehow, she would have to stand before the boy with a black eye as his Mistress.

Van finished his meal and reclined in the chair, studying her. No hint of civility, but the tension in his jaw loosened. “If you spent your allowance on makeup instead of your skydiving bullshit, you’d be able to cover that before you went upstairs.”

She dried her face, blotting the hurt over her eye. Her fingers recoiled from the bubbled scar on her cheek, the cut that makeup could never cover. Not that she would waste a dime on meaningless luxuries. Their monthly funds from Mr. E paid for basic expenses, groceries, gas, and tools for training. She and Van split whatever was leftover, and she used her allotment on freefalling. Her only freedom.

As she replaced the ruined sandwich top with a new slice of bread, Van tossed a bag of frozen peas on the counter beside her. It wasn’t an apology, but an offer to move on.

She held the icy bag to her eye. Too bad it couldn’t numb the emotions swelling her throat.

Chapter 17

Josh chewed the hell out of his cheek. Fifteen minutes alone with the naked girl and she wouldn’t answer any of his questions. She was probably thinking, Fifteen minutes with the naked man, and he wouldn’t shut up. Too bad. The need to hear about her experience coiled him into a restless chatterbox. He didn’t just want to make sure she was okay. He needed to hear everything she knew.

He tried to draw her in with highlights from his family farm, his coursework, and football achievements while shifting his weight from one knee to the other to transfer his discomfort on the hard floor. When she said nothing, he switched back to questioning. “Do you know what they have planned next or why Van was ticked off?”

She remained statuesque in her folded pose on the cot.

He pressed his lips together and tried to rein in his frustration. “Does anyone ever visit?”

Her hands and arms were limp, her silence ominous, indicative of psychological trauma.

He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “Have you ever left this room?”

She stared at her lap.

“Who is Mr. E?” His stomach growled. What he wouldn’t do for Mom’s biscuits and gravy right now. He winced, thinking about her safety. “Have you ever met him?”

A big empty nothing.

He sighed but refused to admit defeat. “You seem like a nice girl. Pretty, too, though I’ve yet to see beyond the top of your head.” Okay, that last part wasn’t entirely true. “I’m not looking at the rest, I promise.”

Funny how quickly he’d become unconcerned with his own nudity. He yanked his wrists, clattering the chains, and her head didn’t move from its downward position.

“We’re in this together, right? I just need your help understanding what this is.”

Was she even breathing? The threat that compelled her to ignore him could walk through the door any moment, which only fueled his impatience. “Look at me,” he shouted.

Her head snapped up. Finally! The deep set blue of her eyes widened, flitted to the door, and back to him.

“Hi.” He kept his smile soft and unassuming. “I’m Josh.”

“Your name is boy.” A whisper. “Please, stop talking.” From the thready plea, the tensing of her body, and the heave of her chest, she seemed to be crawling in her skin with fear.

Pressure swelled behind his ribs. “Hey, it’s okay.” He stretched his arms to reach for her. Impossible. He let them drop, his elbows bent on either side of his head. “We’re just chatting. What’s your name?”

“Girl.”

He had to strain his hearing to make out her heartbreaking whisper. Commands were clearly more effective than questions. He hardened his voice. “Give me your birth name.”

She glanced at the door, and the nervous twitches in her cheeks tightened his chest. At least she wasn’t peeking around the room at hidden cameras. Perhaps Liv had been honest about no recording devices. Or maybe the girl was as in the dark as he was.

Her attention dropped to the floor between them. “Kate.”

Kate. The excited race of his heart redoubled as he considered what to ask, or demand, next. How much time did he have? Something had been tightly stretched between their captors when they left. Perhaps they were just eating lunch. Or planning the next training session. Maybe they were having sex.

He slammed his teeth together. Good grief. Where the hell did that thought come from? “Tell me about the relationship between Van and Liv.”

With another peek at the door, she shook her head.

Did the huddle of her shoulders mean this subject terrified her? “Does he force you or Liv to have sex with him?”

Her chin lowered, her body returning to its earlier frozen state.

Dammit, now he was glancing at the door, the hairs on his nape standing on end. What bothered him wasn’t the hostility vibrating from Van so much as the song humming from Liv’s throat when she ran out.

She’d sung in his truck as she’d led him into this nightmare. She’d sung when he was in the box, right before she closed the lid. Singing seemed to be a mechanism she employed when something bad was about to happen. So what was going to happen? What made her bolt from the room? All of his questions liquefied to one conclusion. “Van’s in charge, not Liv. She puts on a good show, but the fact is he’s a rapist—”

“Master is not a rapist.” Her eyes flashed to his, lit with fire, her words heated and rushed. “He doesn’t touch me like that, because he loves Mistress, and she loves him.”

What? No way in unholy hell did Liv love that man. His insides twisted and turned at the idea, and it pained him to see Kate’s perception so emotionally distorted by what she’d been through. And what did she mean, he didn’t touch her like that? Forcibly or not all? “You’ve been here a month? Two months?”

She shrugged, and it was wooden and completely absent of hope. “I don’t know.”

Was he staring at the harbinger of his own future mental state? How would his judgment fare after ten weeks of captivity? His head ached, and his impatience with her and the chains that held him set his skin on fire. He rolled his arms in a useless attempt to escape the shackles. “I want to help you, Kate. Please, talk—”