Control E-Book

Jessa James

• Herausgeber: Jessa James
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: Treasure
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 208

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

I wake up terrified, humiliated, and chained to a wall.The shackles around my wrists mean only one thing.He owns me now. With his dark glares and barked orders, he is dangerous.He is my tormentor, my captor, a threat to my very existence. Not to be toyed with.Even if my frightened mind whispersmaybeEven if I am very curious how such a man came to be.I am still his dark and twisted pet, to cherish or to scorn.And I am starting to love the darkness...

Leseprobe

Control

Treasure: 2

Jessa James

Control: Copyright © 2020 by Jessa James

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electrical, digital or mechanical including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning or by any type of data storage and retrieval system without express, written permission from the author.

Published by Jessa James

James, Jessa

Control

Cover design copyright 2020 by Jessa James, Author

Images/Photo Credit: Deposit photos: Yafimik; SSilver

Publisher’s Note:

This book was written for an adult audience. The book may contain explicit sexual content. Sexual activities included in this book are strictly fantasies intended for adults and any activities or risks taken by fictional characters within the story are neither endorsed nor encouraged by the author or publisher.

This book has been previously published.

Contents

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1. Katherine

2. Katherine

3. Arsen

4. Katherine

5. Katherine

6. Katherine

7. Katherine

8. Arsen

9. Katherine

10. Katherine

11. Arsen

12. Arsen

13. Katherine

14. Katherine

15. Katherine

16. Katherine

17. Katherine

18. Katherine

19. Arsen

20. Katherine

21. Arsen

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1

Katherine

I sprint as fast as I can, away from the cops that are pursuing me. Toward what, I don’t know. Running towards the two sagging warehouses, placed side by side.

My heartbeat sounds thunderous in my own ears.

Ka-thump.

My muscles are moving me forward, but my arms and legs protest with every step.

Ka-thump.

My mind races, trying to put together a puzzle for which I don’t have all of the pieces. There’s not a lot of coherent thought going on, just a bunch of reacting based on pure instinct.

Ka-thump.

I reach the bottleneck, where the two warehouses eclipse me. My movement is hidden from anyone behind me. I run through the narrow gap, continuing to the right. I see a partially open door just twenty yards ahead of me. My lungs are screaming for me to stop now, so I sprint to the door, ducking inside.

As soon as I get inside, I miss the dusky light. In here, it’s dark and dank and moldy, and my eyes take a moment to adjust. The warehouse is full of old crates and boxes, stacked four times as tall as I am.

I need to move. Standing here like this, I’m a sitting duck. Three avenues open up between the boxes, forcing me to decide which one to take. I choose the left, moving as quickly and quietly as possible down the row of boxes that tower overhead.

There are some paths created by the boxes, here and there where a stack randomly ends and there is a gap before the next begins. I soon see that there are not just the three avenues, but actually a whole network of corollary pathways.

Darting right, off the main path, I work my way through the maze. As I go, I have to slow down because the paths that I travel are getting smaller and smaller, nearly trapping me amongst the towering boxes.

I start to get the same claustrophobic feeling that I felt earlier in the SUV begin to rise. If I die in here, the cops could just leave my body among the boxes and no one would probably even notice.

That is assuming that anyone would even look for me.

Based on the fact that my closest brother, Tony, just sold me to the cops who are pursuing me now, I seriously doubt that.

I clutch at my chest and refuse to let these thoughts settle in my mind. Not when there is so much else at stake.

I reach what seems to be the center of the maze, and realize the main problem with being among the boxes. There isn’t anywhere to hide here.

I stop, looking at the heavy cardboard box to my right, examining it for a way in. I find a seam, tracing it around the box with my fingers. But I would have to break into the box to get inside.

I glance up at the towering stack of boxes above it, biting my lip. There is no way of knowing that the box at the bottom wouldn’t collapse, trapping me inside. And that’s only if I managed to get inside, without any tools to help.

“Hey, in here!” comes a man’s voice. Although the voice is a bit distant, I recognize it as belonging to one of the cops. “She could’ve run in through this open door.”

Shit. They are coming my way, it’s only a matter of time. I look around, crazed. I have to start moving, that much is for certain.

I decide to move further toward the back of the warehouse, thinking there might be an exit or at least somewhere I can hide back there. In my rush to move quickly, I knock one of the stacks of boxes with my shoulder so hard that it actually rocks back and forth for a second.

Recoiling, I dart away from the boxes, praying that they don’t actually fall. I hadn’t considered that possibility yet, but I don’t want to alert the cops that I’m inside this particular warehouse. Knocking some of these giant boxes to the ground will definitely do that, at the very least.

Far behind me, I hear one of the cops curse, and I get the sense that he just figured out that the boxes are moveable too.

As I go, the pathway gradually opens up. I rush down the widening corridor, trying to make out what lies at the other end. My breathing sounds ragged and harsh to my own ears.

I silently pray that no one else can hear my breaths. I keep going, moving by willpower alone, and then, suddenly, I am running out of the maze.

I look left and right; on the left, at the far end, there appear to be a set of double doors. In front of me, there is a second floor of what appear to be offices. On my far right, there are stairs that lead up to the second floor.

I race for the exit, ignoring a rat as it scurries across my path. I pump my arms and legs, sprinting flat-out towards the doors. There is graffiti all along the walls here, all red and black, the artist practicing their tag over and over again.

“Skinx”, it says. “Skinx. Skinx. Skinx. Skinx. skinx.”

I can hear the cops yell to each other as they navigate the maze. I can’t tell exactly what they are saying, because their voices are muffled by all the cardboard, but I know that they’re still in pursuit.

I make it to the double doors, only to find them padlocked shut, a locked chain entwined between their individual push-to-open handles. I push on one door anyway, feeling panic rising again. It opens a quarter of an inch before the chain pulls tight.

Shit! I bang the door with my hand, only wincing afterward at the noise. I need another escape route, or at least a hiding place.

I glance behind me, then to my right. I don’t want to be locked in here, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. I start running toward the other end, focusing all my energy on the ratty looking set of metal stairs that lead up to the second floor.

My lungs burn as I reach them. I clatter up the first few before I realize how loud I’m being. Glancing into the forest of boxes, I slow my pace, hoping that I haven’t already given myself away.

Every slow step is gut-wrenching. I creep up the stairs on silent feet, taking off running the second I hit the landing. One of the offices is right in front of me, the door left carelessly ajar, and I scramble inside. I close the door behind me, but the door only swings three-quarters of the way shut.

I glance around, trying to get my bearings. There is a large plate glass window right behind me, part of the wall of the office. I don’t care, though. At least this way, I’m not as horribly exposed as I was on the stairs. I look around the office, which is filled with dozens of stacks of small boxes. I spy a desk back behind all the boxes.

Bingo. I can hide there.

Crouching low to avoid being seen, I make my way between the stacks, finding the desk in the far right corner. It’s made of musty old wood, leaning terribly under the weight of the boxes stacked on top of it. It looks as though it may collapse at any moment, but that doesn’t matter to me.

I gladly get on my knees and scramble underneath it, grateful for the cover it provides. I get a charley horse on my thigh as soon as I stop moving, my body protesting all the sudden activity of the last hour.

I massage my leg as best I can, sitting and straining my ears for the sounds of the cops. I try to breathe as regularly as I know how while my mind whirls desperately.

Is it possible that they will just give up, figuring that maybe they had the wrong warehouse? Can I please, please get one single break in this day of horrors?

When I hear the faint clatter of boot steps on the stairs, I swallow. I should’ve known that I’m not that lucky. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, fighting back the tears that prick my eyes.

There is no time for tears, not right now. I slap a hand over my mouth, terrified that if I make a sound, they will know just where to find me.

Thunk, thunk, thunk…

I listen to the sound of heavy boots leaving the metal stairs, prowling in my direction. Shivers begin to wrack my body as the sounds grow closer and closer.

“In here, Hunt,” one of them says, just outside the office. “Look at how the dust has been disturbed, here and here.”

“Could’ve been whoever tagged downstairs.”

“You ever knew a tagger who explored any area without leaving a mark?” The cop chuckles.

There is the long, sad sighing creak of the office door being opened.

“You ought to come out right now!” the cop calls to me. “We’re not going to hurt you unless we have to.”

No, you’re just going to sell me on to some crazy person. A person who believes that they can and should own people.

I clamp my mouth shut, trying to squelch the bitter tears that threaten to overwhelm me. Huddling under the desk, I pray to God, even though I don’t believe in him.

Please. Please, if you’re listening… save me. Please!

I jump as the cops overturn one of the stacks of boxes.

“Come on!” the same voice calls. “Don’t make me hunt for you! Just get out here!”

“She’s not in there,” the other cop says, his tone bored.

“Yes, she is.” The voice grows closer and closer. “And she had better come out if she knows what’s good for her.”

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

All I hear are the footsteps, circling, ready to jump on the slightest sign of life.

“Let’s check some of the other rooms up here, man.” The cop sounds impatient. “We don’t have all day to deliver the girl. I have shit to do.”

There is a long pause. I sit there, terrified, while the cop tries to make a decision. Then a dissatisfied male sigh.

“Yeah, okay.”

The footsteps start to recede. I am so relieved that I almost let out a whoosh of breath. I shift a little to my left, and the desk creaks loudly.

The footsteps pause. There is a muttered curse.

“I fucking told you she was in here,” the cop says. “I fucking told you!”

Their footsteps fly my way. I close my eyes, shivering convulsively, unable to watch the cop search for me. He grabs my arms, dragging me out from under the desk. My eyes pop open as he hauls me upright.

“You fucking stupid bitch,” he hisses, triumphant. “You are going to regret ever running from us. We are going to make sure that you are sold to a buyer who makes you beg for your death.”

I see the other cop approaching, a syringe at the ready. I open my mouth to reply, although what am I supposed to say? Instead, I just start blubbering, making incoherent sounds.

“Get her right here, in the arm,” the first cop says, holding my arm out.

The officer jabs me in the arm, a quick pinprick of pain. Everything starts to blur, the whole world around me losing shape.

“Should’ve dosed her right off,” one of them murmurs.

And then everything goes black.

2

Katherine

I wake slowly, realizing that I am lying face down, resting on something hard. I push myself up on shaky arms, looking around the space I find myself in. I’m on the floor of the room, my body heat being seeped away by the cool cement. I try to focus.

I’m in a small bedroom of sorts, with a cot, a scratchy gray wool blanket, and a bucket. Everything is dreary and gray, the same color as the cinder block walls. There is no window in the whole space, which can’t be more the eight feet by eight.

It’s a jail cell, I realize. I’m in a jail, and no one knows or cares that I am here.

That thought swirls around in my head, but I can’t hold onto it. I can’t hold onto anything for too long, which is okay with me right now.

The world is still fuzzy, which I blame on the drugs the cops gave me. Whatever I was injected with, has left a bitter tang in my mouth, and makes even my bones feel weak. I sit up, noticing that my pale pink dress is gone, replaced with a starchy grey shift dress, the material prickling my bare skin.

My bra is gone too, which means that someone saw me all but naked when they changed my clothes. I check for my panties, and I’m relieved to find that I’m still wearing the same slip of white satin as before.

At least there is that.

I get to my feet, my whole body aching from running for my life yesterday. My bare feet protest the most. I can feel fresh blisters that have sprouted all along where my toes were in contact with my shoes and the pads of my feet.

I limp over to the cell-like door, pressing my hands against the flat metal. There is a slot halfway down the door, just six inches by three. I bend down to look through it, my body protesting. On the other side, as far as I can see, there is just a stretch of bare wall.

“Hello?” I call out. “Hello? Anyone?”

Silence is the only answer, and it is deafening. I turn around, facing my tiny cell. My brain is still mushy, which keeps me from pondering the worst parts of my situation.

The look on Tony’s face just before the cops hauled me away. Guilt, anxiety, maybe just a little bit of smugness.

My father, who apparently, sold me to an unknown buyer. I can’t even unpack those feelings without feeling enraged, so it’s better to just leave them be.

The future shrouded in mystery.

Where will I be going?

Who will I meet there?

Will I even survive very long?

College is seeming like a faraway dream right now.

Instead, I spend the next few hours learning every inch of my cell. I trace the seams of the cinder blocks. I pull the cot away from the wall, finding a spot in the corner where somebody chipped out a pocket in the floor with some kind of tool. I fold and refold the blanket, searching it for hidden mysteries.

I realize about two hours later, that I have to pee. Like, really, really badly. I call out the door’s slot for a while, but there is no response.

With no one coming to my aid and my bladder about to burst, I am forced to use the bucket. I squat over it, hovering, and relieve myself. There is no toilet paper or anything, so I am forced to let myself drip dry.

Then I lie down on the cot, shivering and afraid. Eventually, the hazy effects of the drug are gone from my system. I draw the wool blanket around my frame, shaking. But the wool only keeps out the cool air; it can’t keep out the thoughts that threaten to overwhelm me.

The mysterious future. Tony. My father and the rest of my family. Will anyone even know that I’ve been kidnapped?

These thoughts, and variations thereof, repeat and repeat until I’m a sobbing, crazed mess. Then I cry myself out. I sleep for a while. I wake and remember where I am. The cycle begins again.

Stress. Cry. Sleep.

A whole day passes without any sign of life from outside my door. At one point, I sit by the door and yell for someone to come, but no one does. Not even when my belly starts to cramp with hunger

It’s only at the beginning of the third day that I hear heavy boots coming down the hallway, toward my cell.

I scramble off the cot, holding the wool blanket close.

“Hello?” I say, putting my eye to the slot.

Straining to look down the hall, I can see the shape of a large man dressed all in black heading my way. I stare at him, at his bald head, at his beady eyes, and the grim expression on his mouth, at the rigid, unyielding set of his shoulders. If I saw him on the street, I would cross to the other side to avoid him. But he’s a person, and I haven’t seen a person in three days.

When he approaches my door, I don’t know whether to be more excited or frightened. He doesn’t say anything as he unlocks my door and swings it open.

“Come,” he says simply, gesturing for me to leave the cell. I realize that he’s Russian, or maybe Polish or Ukrainian, just from the way he speaks.

“Where are we?” I demand, shivering with a mixture of cold and fear.

“You no talk,” he orders, moving toward me. “Just go out.”

I look at him for a second, wondering if I should resist him. Then again, what am I really resisting? I have no idea where I am now or where he is supposed to lead me to.

“Just tell me where I am—” I plead.

He cuts me off by grabbing me by the shoulder. He inserts a thumb into the flesh there, digging painfully into my skin until I cry out and begin to shrink from his touch. I reach for him, my fingernails finding purchase in his meaty forearm, but he doesn’t even blink in reaction.

“Move!” he yells, giving me a shake.

He rips the wool blanket away with his free hand as he shoves me out of my cell and into the long, sterile hallway. The hallway is shockingly white, broken up only here and there by doors to other cells.

He starts to propel me forward down the hallway. The white tile underfoot is as cold as the cement floors, and it shows some aging, the tiles chipped and cracked.

What is this place? How many other people have been kept here? I count at least six other cells as I am frog-marched past them, but they are all empty.

At the end of the hallway, my guard leads me to a painted white stairwell. I’m half-dragged down the stairs, flight after flight, each flight looking the same as the hallway I just left behind. Six flights, or seven… I lose count of them quickly.

“Where are you taking me?” I try again, but my guard only scowls.

When we reach the bottom floor, he opens the door and pushes me inside. I’m faced with another long hallway of cells, but this one is different.

Though I can’t see anyone, these cells are full of people. Women’s voices. Some calling out for help, some crying, some just murmuring quietly.

“You go,” my guard says, pushing me forward. “Third on right, that is yours.”

I drag my feet, trying to see through the tiny slots in the grey doors, but all I can make out are a couple pairs of eyes. My guard has no interest in the moans or pleas coming from the cells; it is almost as though he is immune to them somehow. He hurries me along, swinging the door to my cell open.

“Go in,” he says. “You get nekkid.”

“Please—” I try, only to have his hand descend onto my shoulder again. This time, when he pushes his thumb into my flesh, he does some serious damage.

I cry out, falling to my knees, tears springing to my eyes. While I’m stunned, he leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Wait!” I call after him. “Please wait!”

But he is gone. I crawl on my hands and knees to the door, peering out the slot. Like before, it is made so that I can only see white walls. I can hear plenty, but nothing really sticks out.

“Hello?” I call. “Can anyone hear me?”

If the other women can, they don’t respond to me directly. I sink down, despondent.

Mostly, I’m wondering, what now? Why am I here? What is about to happen?

Not too long after my guard leaves, a tiny old Asian woman opens my door. Scowling at me, she holds a fancy white dress on a hanger in one hand and a little,0 zippered pouch in the other.

I sit up, studying her face. “Can you tell me where we are?”

If she speaks English, she doesn’t care to answer. Instead, she just motions to the shift dress I’m wearing. “Off!”

“Please, where are we?” I say, imploring her.

The woman looks nonplussed and sets the little pouch down.

“Off now!” she says, raising her voice.

“No!” I argue.

A taser appears from the woman’s voluminous skirts. She brandishes it, impatient with me. “Off!”

I bite my lip, gauging the distance between me, her, and the door. She sees me looking and steps more fully between me and the door. She rattles the hanger.

I wouldn’t have made it anywhere even if I had tried. I know that.

“Off!” she repeats, her tone growing panicky. She glances over her shoulder. I realize that maybe isn’t here of her own free will either.

I turn my back on her and pull the shift up over my head. The woman tsks, turning me around. I shiver and try to use my hands to cover my nakedness. I am extremely ashamed, but my red cheeks do nothing to give the woman pause.

She just puts the taser back in her skirts and motions for me to put my hands up over my head. I lift my hands up, and she slips the dress off of the hanger, forcing it down over my head.

I help work the white tulle dress down over my body, dropping its full skirt to the floor. It is a stunning dress; I feel stupid wearing it, not having showered or shaved for three days.

I want to ask what I am being dressed up for, but the more time I spend with this woman, the less convinced I am that she knows anything at all.

The woman grabs the little pouch that she dropped on the floor, unzipping it to reveal a basic makeup kit. She says something in her native tongue, motioning for me to be still. I close my eyes as she dabs some silver eye makeup on my face with her fingers, then does a lot of bright pink blush with a long brush.

When she’s done, she looks at me, appraising me. She gives a decisive nod, then turns to leave.

“Wait—” I say, but she doesn’t, shutting the door behind her.

Instead, my guard reappears, a syringe in his hand. My eyes widen as I realize that I’m going to be dosed again, and I struggle as he grabs me.

“No! No, I don’t want that!” I cry. “No, please—”

He injects me in my upper arm, ignoring my struggles. Instead of everything going black though, the world just seems to soften. The light takes on a golden hue and my interest in resisting…

Whatever that was, it’s gone now.

My guard leads me out of my cell by the arm, and I go, utterly docile.