Repaying the Mafia’s Dept

Catherine

I can ask him anything at all. Anything I want. “Why me?” I ask simply. I want to know what I did that put a target on my back.

“Well. I told you I was supposed to kill you,” he says. The reminder makes my stomach churn. “You were on my list, and like everyone on my list, I did a little digging. In your case, I liked what I found.” He spears a small piece of pepper and puts it to my lips.

“Have you… done this before?” I ask before accepting the bite. I fucking hope the answer is no. If it’s yes, I know what my next question will be, but I’m afraid of the answer. Did you kill them when you were done with them?

“I’ve played before, but it was only play. You’re the first real submissive I’ve had. And the first complete 24/7 power exchange.”

I don’t know why, but I hate that there were others before me.

“What happened to them?” I ask before receiving another bite.

“We weren’t a good fit,” he answers without looking at me. It’s the first time he’s done that, and I don’t like it.

“What did you do to them?” I ask before I can think twice.

He cocks a brow at me. “You mean, did I kill them?” he asks.

My throat closes as I answer in a choked voice, “Yes.”

“No, kitten. I didn’t kill them.” He doesn’t answer my unspoken question. If we don’t fit, will he kill me? He holds another piece out for me to take. But I shake my head. I’m not hungry. The thought of eating another bite makes me sick to my stomach. Of course he will. I’m already supposed to be dead. If we don’t fit, or once he’s done with me, I’ll be dead.This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

Tears prick my eyes, but I push them back. I need to be good. I need to be fucking perfect until I can get out of here. And the first chance I get, I need to run as fast as I can. I can never stop running. Never.

His strong arms wrap around me as he picks me up and pulls me into his lap to lean against his chest. “I chose you for a reason, kitten.” He gently strokes my back and I concentrate on how good it feels to distract myself from the pain. He kisses my hair and then pets me as I lay my head flat against his hard, hot body. I hear his heart beating as he speaks. “You fit me, and this is exactly what I wanted. You are exactly what I want.”

For now. I focus on the plan. Survive until I’m given an opportunity. I’ll be as perfect as I can be. I’ll make him want to keep me. I pull back and he readjusts me so I’m sitting in his lap.

I don’t know what to say to move past this, but I really just want to move forward and forget that this breakdown ever happened.

“Do you like your new home?” he asks. I’m grateful to discuss a more casual topic, but I can’t forget that the fact he’s even asking me that question is fucked up. I didn’t need a new home. I loved my cabin, and I want to go back.

I glance around the room again. It’s as perfect as a gilded cage can be. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

“Do you have everything that you need?” he asks.

“There are a few things I’d like to get,” I say quietly.

“Yes, you told me that. Other than a few trinkets, is there anything important that I’ve forgotten?” I feel like he already knows the answer to his question. Like this is a test.

What’s the one thing I need here? One thing he hasn’t given me is my laptop. I’m afraid to ask for it. It’d be stupid to ask. There’s no way he’d let me go online.

He reaches past me to the cart and my mouth drops open.

“I told you earlier, you only need to ask,” he says.

I stare at my laptop in his hands. My fucking life is on there. I reach out to take it, expecting him to snatch it away, but he doesn’t. Instead he kisses my hair and gently rubs my back. I hug it to my chest and wait for the other shoe to drop.

“Go ahead. I know you have work to do.” I swallow the lump in my throat and slowly open my MacBook Pro. It’s ten years old. I got it in college. It’s really past time to get a new one, but I fucking love my baby.

I type in my password, and the same screen pops up that’s greeted me every morning for the last year. It’s a meme that says, “You can’t read all day, if you don’t start in the morning!” I can’t help my smile. I instinctively look to check the internet connection. I have a few books loaded on here that I need to put on my Kindle, but what I really need to do is catch up with my FB group and my blogs, plus the editor for my column. I also need to check my email, my website for beta readers, my Goodreads account, and the reading groups online. I take a deep breath and click on my web browser and then hold my breath and stiffen as the screen pops up. I quickly hit exit and look back to Anthony self-consciously.

“Go ahead, kitten. I want to watch you work.” I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and look back at Anthony with disbelief.

“I told you I’d give you your life back. I’m a man of my word.” I search his eyes for anything but sincerity, but that’s all I see. I bite my lip and look back to the computer.

I have work to do, and this is going to take me fucking forever. I shift in his lap. This isn’t going to work, but I don’t want to push my luck.

“You typically write on your bed, don’t you?” he asks.

A chill runs through me at the reminder that he watched me before taking me. “I do.”

“Go ahead. I’ll sit here. I have a book I’d like to read.” It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when they do, I take my chances and get my ass up and move to the bed with my laptop. I keep my eyes on him as I put the pillow against the headboard for support, and another on my lap for the computer. I’ve always typed this way. I imagine I always will. It’s a bad habit to break.

I watch as Anthony rises and walks to the bookshelf, choosing a paperback and lying down on the sofa. He crosses his ankles and it’s the sexiest sight I’ve ever seen.

It’s fucking unreal that he’s letting me get online.

Something’s up though. And I don’t fucking like it. Everything is a test. Every last fucking thing. My eyes stay on him as I type in my password. My email is slow to open, but it does. I click on my emails one at a time and type my responses, but I keep looking back to Anthony. He simply turns a page, appearing fully engrossed in his reading.

I feel so fucking uneasy. He’s not at all what I expected, and the thought that I’d be able to do this is just… insane. He’s fucking insane. Not just mentally unstable, but certifiably insane if he thinks I’m not going to message someone–anyone–that I’ve been taken. I don’t give a fuck that he’s been nice, or that he’s hot, or that this is literally a fucking dark dream come true for me. There’s no way I’m not going to try to get the hell out of here.

I click on a new tab and bring up Facebook. Cheryl’s my personal assistant and my go-to gal for everything. My cursor hovers over the box to message her, but she’s already sent me five messages. The third one was her freaking out that I didn’t respond at all yesterday, but the fourth and fifth are her fixing my shit and wishing me well because she refuses to believe that I’m dead and I better fucking message her back or she’ll find me and kill me. Yeah, that’s Cheryl.

I type in a lame excuse and don’t mention shit. Yet. I want to. Every fucking voice inside of me is screaming to do something and tell someone. But I’d be stupid to think I’d get away with it, right? I watch Anthony for a minute as I copy and paste an email to send to another reader.

What would he do to me if I did? Kill me. The answer is obvious, but he hasn’t hurt me yet. My ass smarts at the thought. It still fucking hurts, although the cream he rubbed in did wonders for the worst of the pain. I don’t know where I am. I’m not sure that there’s any way they’d find me.

Hey, Cheryl. Some psycho took me, I’m not sure where. Could you figure out a way for someone to rescue me?

Yeah… that’s not going to fucking work. My heart races and my fingers itch to type something, anything to help me get the fuck out of here.

I will be good. I will not email the police and post all over social media that I’ve been kidnapped. ‘Cause that would be fucking obvious. But I could sure as fuck sneak in some clues.

I type in, Busy with Comfort Food, hoping she’ll catch on. It’s a classic book where the heroine is kidnapped. I hope she understands and catches the subtlety. Maybe she can help me. She can relay information for me, and I can figure out where the fuck I am.

She instantly replies, Whatcha eating?

Jesus, Cheryl. I barely keep myself from rolling my eyes. As I consider what to type next, Anthony’s phone pings in his pocket. He takes it out and looks at it and then right at me. My heart stops. But he merely gives me a tight smile and goes back to his book.

I can’t help but think that message was about me. That I’d been caught. My skin prickles with goosebumps and my hands shake. What would he do if he caught me? What good would it do for people to know I’d been taken if they had no way to find me? It takes me a moment, but I’m finally able to type back, Omelets, brb.

No more of that shit. I go back to checking all of my notifications. I post a few memes, along with a fun pic of a hot man with a question for the readers to answer about Linda’s new book release. I download four betas to my Kindle as I message three authors that I’m a day behind. The hours tick by as I make small dents in my work.

I only look up when I see Anthony rise and stretch. I hold my breath and wait for him as he strides toward me.

“I’ll be back, kitten.” He leans down and looks over my computer for only a second and then gives me a smile. I feel that sexual tension between us, the need to lean forward and kiss him.

But instead his brows furrow and he looks back at the screen, reading over the posts in my group. After a moment he breaks the silence. “I wonder what your group would suggest, kitten,” he says, taking a seat next to me. His arm wraps around my waist. Like this is normal, like we’re a couple.

“Ask them this.” It’s a command.

I click the box and prepare to type in a question. My heart beats chaotically in my chest as he tells me what to write. “What would you do if you woke up in a basement and a man gave you two choices: die, or be his?” I type in his words and hover over the submit button. It’s fucking insane that he’s having me ask them. But it’s also a common thing I do. I pose a question by picking a scenario from a common trope to engage them. I already know what most will answer.

I hit enter, and it doesn’t take long for them to start commenting. They love these questions, and frankly, so do I. But not this one. Because this is real.

“Well, your friends have some good ideas as to what you should be doing.” I consider pointing out the comment from a reader about gouging his eyes out, but I don’t.

I read down the list of responses. Nearly forty comments already. Most say the same thing.

Be his!

I choose the second option!

Well, if he’s hot–that’s a no brainer!

All their responses seem so natural online. They’re meant for humor, and to be cheeky replies. A week ago, I would have said the same. But it’s not real. You wouldn’t really do that. It’s not that easy. I want to yell at Anthony. I’m pissed that he would do that shit to me, that he would make me feel like I’m the one holding back.

“Given that the choice is to die or to be his, it’s clearly a given.” I read the words flatly. It’s one of the comments, but also the truth. I keep my voice even and my eyes on the screen.

I can feel Anthony’s eyes on me, and I regret opening my mouth at all. I can’t look at him, so I stare at the screen. The comments continue coming in.

Agree to be his… duh! lol

Well I wouldn’t make it easy for him…

Agree! It could be hot as hell 😉

I close the laptop and try to swallow the lump growing in my throat. I can’t read them. I hate the ease at which the replies come in. Normally I love them. I love my group of readers and authors. But right now I can’t stand how easy they make giving in sound. Anthony pulls the laptop from me and cradles me in his lap.

“I just wanted you to see why it was easy to pick you.” His voice is gentle and it vibrates up his chest. I lean deeper into him. “You’re primed to enjoy this because deep down you know how good this can be.”

I shake my head against his broad shoulders. Those are fantasies.

He grips my chin in his hand and leans into me. Our lips are closer than they have ever been before. “Real life and fantasy can blur, kitten. This can be whatever you want it to be.”

My heart aches in my chest. Be his. How easy it seems to give in.

And I do. A piece of my armor cracks enough that I lean into his embrace and brush my lips against his. He doesn’t kiss back, not at first. And it kills something deep down inside of me. Before I can pull away, his hands grip my hips and he pushes me down onto the bed and kisses me with passion. His erection rubs against my clit and he rocks against me as our tongues meet and our kiss turns into something more. I feel my walls falling down around me. It would be so easy to give in to him. To live something I’ve only ever thought would be a dream.

Just as the word touches my tongue, please, he pulls back and stands, leaving me panting and lost in lust. I slowly push myself into a sitting position as he climbs off the bed and gives me a heated glare. I know he wants me. I would have begged him though.

I close my eyes and turn back to my computer. A moment of silence passes. I fucking would have begged him. I was going to do it. What the ever loving fuck is wrong with me?

“Time’s up, kitten,” he says, reaching for the laptop.

“I need to work.” I speak without thinking. His eyes narrow and I reword my plea. “I’m really far behind. Please, Anthony.” I sound so pathetic and weak. I hate it. I’m so fucking weak.

“You can download the books and write your articles without going online,” he answers, and he’s partly right, but he’s fucking wrong, too. I have to be available. That’s why I’m so successful. I respond immediately. If they need something done, I get it done that fucking second. Yesterday took a toll on my work already. I’m going to have to bust ass to get it back up. And his internet is so god damned slow that everything is taking longer than it should.

“You don’t understand, I have to be available,” I say.

“You want to be able to go online without being monitored?” he asks.

I nod my head even as I realize how ridiculous my request is. But he said he’d give me my life back. And this is my life. It’s my passion.

“Alright, kitten,” he says as though it’s perfectly normal. As though there’s no harm whatsoever in allowing me to do this without him here. I remember the ping from his earlier text. But that had to have been a coincidence.

Hope rises in my chest. Maybe I can get the fuck out of here after all. I don’t need him fucking with my emotions and manipulating me into fucking begging him like he just did. He hands me back the computer and I take it as gently as possible to hide my intentions. I’m going to escape. I just need to figure out how.