Branded

two

two

The confined space got hotter with every turn of the wheel. Bumping along the road at what felt like an insane pace, she was shifted and lifted. Banging and bashing herself when they turned corners and hit potholes, she scraped her hands and legs trying to brace herself. Without ever knowing if she’d be thrust up, down, left, or right, it was difficult to anticipate where the next knock would come from.

Her sense of time was warped by being so enclosed, and claustrophobia distracted her from trying to figure out where they were going or how far from the club they’d got. Her abdominal muscles ached from being constantly tensed to absorb impact of the erratic, frequent motion.

Her arms were stiff, her skin bruised, and her head pounded. But she couldn’t focus on her injuries. Staying alive was going to take everything she had; keeping her senses would be tough but essential. Though after seeing what Jamie endured, she wasn’t sure she’d want to make it out the other side of whatever this experience would hold.

Jamie. The girl was younger than her, not a lifetime younger, sure, but she had much more life in her than Nya could boast. The light in that pure soul would have dimmed because of what she’d gone through and there would be no igniting it again.

Nya knew that too well.

Her body was hurled toward the front of the car in time with the screech of brakes. Because she was still dazed from the latest blow to the head, she didn’t register the engine turning off or the driver’s door closing. Nor did she notice the trunk lid rising until she was grabbed up and tossed over his shoulder again.

In darkness and in an upside down position, all she could see was asphalt, glowing under the artificial flares of the occasional streetlight. He turned sharply to the left, bounded up one stair and pushed through a communal door.

Urine, dirt, and body odor poisoned the air. Glimpses to each side showed graffiti and grime covering the water-stained walls. He ascended stairs, squeezing her ass to keep her secure as he took them two at a time.

Regaining some of her wherewithal, Nya figured that if he took her into one of the apartments in this dilapidated block, she’d never come out again. So using his back, she rubbed the tape from her mouth, working it off into a tight flap, making it easier to breathe, but no easier to shout.

Trying to move only made the span of his large hand spread and close, grasping at her flesh. The invasive action enflamed the hatred in her belly. How dare he touch her? How dare he use his strength against her, against any woman?

Just as she tried to snatch for the bannister, he walked away from the stairs down a hallway.

One arm loosened and he dug a hand beneath her to pull keys from his pocket. She saw her chance. When he let her go to put the key in the lock, she kicked out on the wall, using everything she had to make him stumble. He didn’t go far, but his grip loosened enough to let her flail.

Falling to the floor on her face, she landed on her hands and shoved up, scrambling away in the direction of the stairs.

A strong arm hooked around her belly and she was hoisted from the floor. Still fighting, Nya tasted futility and opened her mouth in a desperate screeching howl. But he flung her to the wall. She smashed into it so hard that lights flashed in her vision and she choked for breath that she couldn’t suck into her aching, shocked lungs.

A heavy form crashed into hers and she clawed, trying to free her smothered body. Metallic jangling sounded. The keys. He was unlocking the door.

After being shunted down the wall, she was propelled forward and fell into an apartment. A rug caught on her foot, but before she could fall, he grabbed her again, half-carrying, half-dragging her to the back wall and down a short dark corridor.

Throwing her into another room, she came up hard against a sink. The door was slammed and she whipped around. He was gone.

Alone in the space, she searched for an escape, but there were no windows and only a narrow vent not big enough for a cat. A bath ran the width of the wall opposite the door; it had a fixed shower over it, and a mildew-stained shower curtain.

No sign of a weapon.

The door opened and he hauled her forward, forcing her onto the floor; she was squashed down into a tiny space.

Contorting her leg, he coiled a cold, hard chain around the narrowest part of her ankle and clamped a padlock in the links. Tugging away did nothing, he hung over her to work, fastening her wrist to her ankle with a handcuff. With the sink to her left, the bath to the right and the toilet opposite, there was no route to run.

After fastening the chain to the pipe running from behind the sink to under the bath, he stroked his hand from her ankle to her thigh as he rose to full height. Without pausing to examine or question her, he went to the door.

“Wait,” she called, at a loss for why he’d bring her here and not attack or interrogate her. “What’s happening? Where are you going?”

“Bed,” he replied and came forward to press a new length of tape to her mouth. Reversing his course, he stepped out, slamming the door in his wake.

The bath faucet dripped all night and he’d left the overhead light on. Sleep was already impossible in this awkward corner. Listening to the plop, drip, splash, plop, drip, splash coming in its irregular rhythm all night was driving her insane.

Nodding off in short bursts, Nya rested her head on the edge of the tub, but the acidic scent of citrus shocked her awake. The sink pedestal was cold and the basin hung over her head. The floor around the toilet looked clean, but there was no way she’d rest her head there just in case it wasn’t.

Discovering anything about the man who’d put her here could give her a foothold in trying to find a way out. From looking around, all she could deduce was that he brushed with whitening paste and used bar soap. Magazines on the back of the toilet were related to weapons and survivalism. Nya didn’t recognize the titles but was surprised to see something other than tittie mags or Anarchist Monthly.

Whoever this Archer was, he wasn’t concerned about being caught holding her hostage. Carrying her over his shoulder in the street and through the hallway of this building showed confidence. He didn’t blink at her protests and didn’t exude any signs of anxiety that he might be caught manhandling a woman.

Unless someone had done this before, it would be unlikely that they’d have chains and padlocks lying around. Attaching her to this pipe seemed practiced, he hadn’t had to think about where to take her or how to restrain her, he’d done it on autopilot.

Considering who he might be and his reasons for restraining her like this, she passed the arduous time. Though maybe it was the predicament that made each second drag. Hours passed that felt like days. She was hanging off the edge of the bath when the door next opened.

Startled by his entry, she gasped and plastered herself to the wall, ducking her head into her neck beneath the basin.

But her captor didn’t look at her. Wearing only his boxers, she was stunned by the definition in his tanned physique. Lithe, but muscular and ready, the sinews in his ribs moved when he raised an arm—which was adorned with a full-sleeve black tribal tattoo—to scratch the back of his head.

The ridges on his belly were next on his scratch list as he lumbered over, yawning, and lifted the lid of the toilet. Her mouth fell open when he landed a hand on the wall and with his back to her, he began to pee like she wasn’t there to witness it.

Closing her eyes, she wished she could close her ears too. But at least sound signaled when he was finished. Dropping the seat, but not the lid, he flushed, yawned again and padded out, slamming the door as he had the previous night.

The light was still on when he next came in and her vision was blurring through lack of sleep or sustenance. The bathroom was cold and uncomfortable, but at least she had access to the toilet and water in the sink. Throughout the day, she’d picked the duct tape from her mouth with her hand and shoulder. Taking her time, so as not to cause pain, she’d guess it had left an angry red stamp across her face, but it was nice to be able to breathe freely again.

Archer pulled the cord to turn off the light and stayed in the doorway. Nothing but blackness shone from behind him. It was night again, but in the bitter winter, the light faded early so it could be evening or the dead of night, there was no way to tell from her current position.

“What’s the plan?” she asked when she could take the silence no more. Her voice was a deep, alien croak, but the last time she had used it was to scream for her life.

A night of sleep hadn’t softened his attitude. “I know how to make you cry. I can make you beg. I can cause you all kinds of pain.” Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. “But I don’t wanna. Do yourself a favor, Squirm. Cut your losses. You put up a good fight. Just tell me where he is and I’ll let you go. No hard feelings.”

Tag. This Archer might find it simple enough to betray a friend, Nya had a different outlook. “No,” she said. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

A deep nasal inhale suggested calm impatience. “Your call.”

The door didn’t close when he left it. Anticipating more from her captor, Nya squinted and crawled as close as she could to the door to listen to figure out what he was doing. Metal rattled like a cutlery drawer was being rifled through. Wooden legs scraped on a vinyl floor. A few moments of nothing then there was a flare of light and a zippo clicked shut. The light kept glowing.

A minute later, he came back. Stepping over her like she was a cast aside toy, he bent to loosen the chain from the pipe. When he tugged her away from the wall, Nya struggled, but he’d left the chain attached to her. The handcuff that locked one of her wrists to her ankle was still in place too, making it impossible for her to stand or run.

Her attempts to resist didn’t slow him down. He picked her up under his arm and carried her into the body of the apartment. The modest space contained the kitchen and living room, though the sparse furniture was hardly visible in the night. The windows were blacked out, not granting entry to even so much as a slither of light.

One candle glowed in the middle of a bare, square table. He dumped her in a chair at the table then crouched to lock her chain onto a huge, thick eyebolt driven into the concrete of the floor. Pulling and tugging didn’t budge it an inch, she knew because she tried as soon as he backed off.

Archer grabbed the perpendicular chair and flipped it around so he could straddle it and wrap his arms around the back to rest them on the tabletop. With her ankle and wrist connected, she had to remain in a half-crouch so her chin almost rested on the table making her position much less dignified than his.

Already pissed by how she’d been forced to spend the night on his bathroom floor, she was in no mood to be intimidated by his tactics. But she couldn’t relax; everything this guy had done suggested he meant to do her harm. She’d protect Tag’s life with hers if she had to, although she’d rather not die like this, at the mercy of an unforgiving stranger. Especially since Tag would probably face a similar fate when this Archer caught up with him.

Nya still didn’t understand how she’d ended up here or what was motivating this guy. “What do you want with Tag?” she asked.

“You think I’m gonna kill him?” he asked, bending to pick up a large roll of leather from the floor.

The breaths she gasped were short pants she resented. She didn’t want to show him fear, it came of its own volition, but he didn’t seem to notice it either way. “Are you?”

Untying a strip from around the leather roll, he laid it out flat at the other end of the table. Inside the pouch, the glint of sharpened blades in all shapes and sizes shimmered in the candlelight.

“Give me his location,” Archer said.

“Tell me why you want it.”

Carefully, he slid one wooden-handled blade from the sheath. Inhaling as each inch slid out, her fear made her speculate on what he might do with the never-ending blade, it ended at about nine inches long.

Rising from his chair enough that he could reach her arm, he wrenched it over the table. She swore and pulled, but his strength was too much and she couldn’t resist for long. With his fingers locked around her wrist he pressed her hand into the surface.

Holding up the knife, he turned it above the flame, admiring the blade. “This is a spear point,” he said, lowering the metal tip into the fire of the candle. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? The tip’s just perfect for piercing skin soft as butter like yours.” Her heartbeat kicked up. “I sharpen them every day, keep them ready.”

“Ready for what?” she asked.

The wry almost-not smile that squashed his lips wasn’t reassuring and neither was his non-answer to her question. He wanted direct answers to his questions but avoided hers without guilt.

“This was a gift from a very good friend.”

Did a man like this have friends? Turning the tip in the candle, he heated an inch, rotating the handle to coat the end in heat until it almost glowed.

Transfixed by the metal in the fire, she didn’t register him twisting her hand until his palm pressured hers. In a slick move, he pulled the blade from the flame and forced it flat against the tender flesh on the inside of her wrist.

Searing agony made her scream until her lungs were empty. When her nose filled with the sickening scent of her own skin cooking, her guts contorted until she wretched.

Kicking and shouting, she tried her best to get away, but couldn’t retreat because he held her firm without breaking a sweat. “Please! Stop! No!”

Her words didn’t reach him. Her screeching and yanking, failed to get through. When he did release the pressure, she whipped her hand away, and clutched it to her chest where the pain scorched through to her heart.

Tears soaked her cheeks. Cradling the injury, she turned her forehead to the table and sobbed.

“That’s what I call the warm up,” he whispered into the back of her bowed head.

She couldn’t bring herself to look up. The pain still permeated, pulsing through her injured limb until it reached the other. Numbness collided with agony and heat bled from her every pore. She didn’t know if she was dead or dying, whichever it was, she was ready for the hurt to be over.

“Ready to talk?”

Taking half a dozen deliberate breaths, she rolled her head, keeping her cheek on the table because she was unable to hold her head up without the support of the furniture. “Why don’t you just kill me?” she asked.

He was no longer at the table. At that moment, he was leaning against the sink, one ankle crossed over the other, a glass of water pressed to his lips. When he finished gulping, he put the glass by the sink and sauntered back. “No result and no fun.”

“Fun!” she wailed. “Do you think this is fun?”

Sinking astride his chair as he had before, he opened his hand. “Give me your arm.”

Yeah, right, like she was stupid enough to hand herself over to him. She wouldn’t do it; she wouldn’t make this torture easier for him. In defiance, she closed her lips tight. The pain was agonizing, but she’d endure it if it saved her friend even for a day.

With a scowl, he lunged over and wrestled her injured arm from her and slammed it onto the table, making her yelp again. Jolting her forward, he compelled her breasts to the blunt angle of the table edge to get her arm as close to him as possible.

But as she prepared for him to hurt her again, he grazed a thumb over the wound in a tender gesture rather than a vicious one. The perimeter of the pointed injury was an angry, bloody mess, suggesting the edges of the knife had pierced her with his pressure, but been cauterized by the heat.

Within the bowed triangle injury were two unaffected shapes and it was these shapes he traced with a fingertip. The intrigue and pride on his face appalled her. He wasn’t examining it out of concern, he was admiring his handiwork, impressed by his own despicable act.

His grip was loose enough that she could snatch her arm away, and he let her take it. “It’s clean,” he said, resting his arms around his chair back again.

Lowering her gaze to her wrist, she scrutinized the inflamed flesh that would always bear his mark. Peering closer, she tried to decipher the shapes of uninjured skin and she thought they almost looked like connected letters, C and A.

“What is this?” she asked, keeping her wrist straight to alleviate aggravation of the wound.

“What’s next, Squirm?” he asked, relaxed as he leaned away and selected a new blade from the flattened roll. “Do you like the smell of blood?”

His appetite hadn’t been satisfied yet. “Wha…? What?”

Grabbing her hair, he twisted her head back, and urged the point of his new dagger under her jaw. “It’s intoxicating,” he said. “Thick and rich, it’s so sexy when it coats the smoothness of the steel.”

Holding her breath, she waited for the cut, but he didn’t push it in, he trailed it down her shoulder and rose as he did. His letting go of her hair, meant that holding herself away from the blade was her responsibility. She was concentrating on that when he grabbed the back of her chair to yank it out from under her, sending her onto the floor with a thud.

Bruises were insignificant; the pain in her wrist was still her focus. Curling on her side in the fetal position, she waited until his shadow blocked the candlelight before she confessed the truth. “Beat me,” she coughed. “Cut me. Burn me. r**e me. It won’t change a thing, Archer.”

Using his name was meant to remind him of his humanity. Changing his mind about hurting her was Nya’s only hope. She wouldn’t break, but wanted to breakthrough his tough, detached exterior.

“What did he do to earn your loyalty?” Archer asked.

Rocking until she could see him crouched beside her with a knife still in his sure grip, she examined him to see the curiosity on his face outweighed the anger. Her hysterical smile almost made her laugh, but she didn’t have the energy to muster it.

“You’ll never know,” she said. “Even if you did, you’d never understand it.”

Archer was a mystery who’d come from nowhere and stolen her from her life to demand she betray her oldest ally. It wasn’t going to happen.

Expecting further interrogation and torture, she steeled herself when he grazed his knife over her cheek to move her hair away. The cool metal made her shiver, but there was no pain.

“We’ve got plenty of time, Squirm,” he murmured. “You need some time to get used to wearing my mark.”

Unfastening her from the bolt driven into the floor, he seized her arm and dragged her back to the bathroom, clicking the chain to the pipe again.

“I’ll leave off the tape,” he said. “If you get any ideas about screaming, forget it, you’ll piss me off. Around here, nobody gives a fuck.”

As if on cue, a distant argument became a feminine scream and Archer shrugged as he turned and walked out, leaving her with the light and the dripping faucet.

Nya grew up in places worse than this, she knew no one cared about domestic violence, crime, or any woman in need. That was why she didn’t call out before.

In this cramped internal room, she didn’t hear vehicles or foot traffic. She hadn’t counted how many floors they’d ascended, so she didn’t know how far above street level the apartment was. Muffled arguments and bangs were more distant than the barking dog that often became frantic about nothing.

Adrenaline and exhaustion weighted her body so much that she slid down the wall. Her spine cooled as it pressed to the bath panel and her head fell to the floor. Citrus buzzed her senses, but it wasn’t enough to waken her this time and she gave in to slumber.