Once Betrayed, Twice Shy

Mixed feelings

FARAH

I freeze, my blood turning to ice as those dark blue eyes hold mine.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Time seems to suspend itself, stretching this moment into something unbearable.

Then everything happens at once.

Caspian launches himself from the chair with a speed that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size, grabbing my wrist in his left hand with bruising force and driving his right shoulder into my body with the full weight of his power behind it.

I go crashing down hard, my back slamming against the floor with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. His full weight lands on top of me, crushing and inescapable, pinning me beneath him like I’m nothing more than a butterfly under glass.

“Get off me!” I scream, my voice raw with desperation.

I’m still trying to twist the knife, desperately attempting to jam it into the back of his hand or anywhere I can reach, but he manages to wrench it out of my fingers with embarrassing ease. He flings it across the room where it clatters against the far wall, spinning uselessly out of reach.

“You’re a monster!” I spit the words at him through gritted teeth.

I’m wriggling and thrashing beneath him with everything I have left, bucking my hips and twisting my shoulders. Now that I’ve lost my weapon, I know there’s no hope of me even remotely winning this fight, not against someone with his strength and size. But that doesn’t mean I won’t put up the best fight I can, that I won’t make him work for whatever he plans to do to me.

I’m fighting like a wildcat, kicking and punching and squirming, trying to snatch up anything I can get my hands on.

My fingers scramble across the floor, searching for something—anything—I can use as a weapon. I grasp the bedside lamp by its cord, yanking it close enough to grab hold of the base with desperate fingers, and try to bring it crashing down on his skull with all the force I can muster.

He knocks it away with his arm, and the lamp flies across the room, shattering against the wall. I respond immediately with a vicious kick aimed at his groin, putting every ounce of strength I have into it. It just misses the mark, my heel striking his inner thigh instead, but it must have still caused some pain because he doubles over slightly, a grunt escaping his lips.

Before I can take advantage of the opening, he seizes me by the throat, his large hand wrapping around my neck. He’s not squeezing hard—not yet—but the threat is clear in the pressure of his fingers. I go still instantly, my body freezing as I stare up into his blue eyes, my chest heaving with exertion and fear.

He stares back at me, his body still pinning me down, our faces only inches apart. I can feel his breath on my skin, hot and steady, so different from my own ragged gasping. His eyes are impossibly dark in the dim light, unreadable and intense.

“If you move one millimeter, I’ll snap your neck,” he says, his voice low and dangerous, leaving no room for doubt that he wouldn’t hesitate to carry out his threat. “Don’t. Test. Me.”

A shiver runs down my body despite my best efforts to control it.

“Why are you doing this to me?” The question tears from my throat, desperate and broken. “What did I do to deserve this?”

His jaw tightens, something flickering in those cold eyes before it disappears. “You know what you did.”

“I don’t!” My voice cracks. “I don’t remember anything! Please—”

“Quiet,” he growls, and the word is so final, so absolute, that my protests die in my throat.

I’m all too aware of how strong this man is, how easily he could end my life right here and now. I’ve witnessed his cruelty first hand with how he tortured that guard. This wouldn’t work up a sweat.

He pulls me up roughly, hauling me to my feet like I weigh nothing at all, and before I can even think about struggling again, he’s maneuvering me toward a chair.

“No—stop—” I struggle against his grip, but it’s useless.

His movements are practiced and efficient as he deftly ties me up, binding my wrists behind the chair’s back with what feels like rope or cord he must have grabbed from somewhere. The knots are tight but not painful, clearly the work of someone who’s done this before.

“Please don’t do this,” I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds.

“You don’t have to—”

“Don’t I?” His voice is cold as he stands up and walks across the room to where the knife landed, bending to pick it up from the floor.

He seems to be moving in slow motion as he approaches me again, each step deliberate and measured. He points the tip of the knife at me, and I can’t help the way my breath catches in my throat.

“You’re evil,” I breathe, the words escaping before I can stop them. “You’re a cruel, evil man.”

Something flashes across his face—pain? anger?—but it’s gone before I can identify it.

He positions the blade at the base of my stomach, right where the fabric of my thin dress begins.

“Maybe I am,” he says quietly, and there’s something in his tone that makes my skin prickle. “But you made me this way.”

Then he slices upward in one swift, sure motion, cutting through the material like it’s made of paper.

“What are you—stop!” I cry out, but my voice is lost in the sound of tearing cloth.

He slits the fabric from base to neck, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room, and then with two quick slashes he cuts down the sleeves as well, pulling the whole ruined thing away from my body.

Though he’s moving deliberately fast, showing me how easily he could cut me to ribbons the same way he did to my dress, he hasn’t left a single scratch on my skin. I feel the cold metal whisper across my flesh, raising goosebumps in its wake, but there’s no pain, no sting of a cut.

“Please,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes. “Don’t—”

Now I’m tied to the chair in only my sports bra and panties, feeling more exposed than I ever have in my life. He hesitates for just a moment, his eyes sweeping over me, and then he cuts the bra away too, the knife flashing upward between my breasts with terrifying precision.

“I hate you,” I say through clenched teeth, trying to hold onto my anger, my defiance—anything to keep from breaking completely. “I hate you so much.”

“Good,” he says, his voice rough. “Hold onto that.”

He takes a step backward, his eyes roving over my body with an expression I can’t decipher. With my arms bound behind my back, my breasts are thrust upward, displayed for his perusal whether I want them to be or not. I can feel my n*****s stiffening from the chilly air in the room, and from something else I don’t want to name—from the heat of his gaze as it travels over every inch of exposed skin.

No matter how hard I try, I can’t meet his eyes now. I’m looking down at the floor, unable to hide the bizarre mix of emotions racing through me like wildfire.

I’m embarrassed, yes—humiliated at being displayed like this, vulnerable and bare.

Afraid, of course—terrified of what he might do next, of how far he’ll take this.

Angry, unarguably—furious at him, at myself, at this entire impossible situation.

But also, inexplicably and horribly, aroused.

It’s sheer madness. But I can’t help it, can’t control the way my body responds to his presence, to the danger radiating off him in waves.

I’ve spent years learning to suppress my emotions, to keep control of myself in even the most difficult situations. But somehow, with this man, everything feels beyond my control, like I’m being swept away by forces I don’t understand. I can’t succumb to fear—I usually have such a strong resolve, such an iron grip on my reactions.

But being tied nearly naked to this chair, with this brutal, virile man looming over me like some ancient god of war, that’s doing it. That’s breaking down the barriers I’ve so carefully constructed, crumbling them faster than I can rebuild them.

I have to get a hold of myself before I lose what little dignity I have left.

I look up at Caspian, forcing myself to meet his eye once more despite every instinct screaming at me to look away.

In my most saucy tone, trying to inject some defiance into my voice even as it trembles slightly, I say, “Well, it’s not like I’m going to try to escape now.”

I see a tug at the corner of his mouth, something that might almost be amusement. It’s almost imperceptible, there and gone so fast I might have imagined it, before his expression returns to that unreadable mask.

“No,” he agrees quietly. “You’re not.”

I see the slightest tremble of his hand—not the one holding the knife, but the other one hanging at his side. I think he wants to reach out that hand to touch me, to trace the path his eyes are taking across my skin, and for reasons I don’t want to examine, the thought makes my pulse race even faster.

But he stops himself, his hand clenching into a fist.

“This is what you deserve,” he says, but there’s something hollow in his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.

“For what?” I demand, finding my voice again. “What could I have possibly done to deserve this nightmare?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he scoops up my underwear and the remnants of my clothes from the floor, gathering them in one hand.

“Wait—” I call after him as he turns toward the door. “You can’t just leave me like this! At least tell me what you want from me!”

He pauses at the doorway, his broad back to me. For a moment, I think he might actually answer. But then he carries the clothes out of the room without another word, and I hear the distinct sound of the door locking behind him.

“Caspian!” I shout at the closed door, but there’s no response.

For now, I’m left alone in the room once more. It’s a lot chillier without my clothes. But somehow, my skin is still burning.

He doesn’t return throughout the night.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​