Pieces of Autumn (7 page)

He was leading me down the hall, to another room that lurked behind a heavy oak door. After he pushed it open and pointed me inside, he slammed the door behind me, and I dimly heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway.

No windows. That was the first thing I noticed. As if he would be stupid enough to put me in a room I could easily escape from.

You don't want to escape, remember? You need him.

I shuddered. As much as I wanted to ignore the voice in the back of my head and run, I couldn't forget why I was here.
 

The week before I went to Stoker, I'd had yet another close call. They were getting more frequent, and too close for comfort. I was being as careful as I could, keeping myself scarce and not letting anyone know my name. But still, some of Birdy's men were searching the city again, looking for me. Handing out booze, pills, even some batteries, wool socks, blankets, hats. Anything they could get their filthy hands on. All of it stolen, no doubt. Then again, what
wasn't
stolen from somebody, these days?

I needed protection. There was only so much I could do on my own, scraping just to survive. At least here, I had a roof over my head, heat, a soft bed - everything I'd been dreaming of for years. And I had a dangerous man. Whether or not he was really on my side, I couldn't say. But he was the best shot I had.

Once I'd walked the perimeter of the room, I sat down on the bed and hugged my knees to my chest. There was a small attached bathroom with a clawfooted tub, no shower, and the rest of the room was full of shelves piled with old books in languages I didn't recognize. A slight musty smell told me that no one had lived here for a while, which didn't come as much of a surprise. Tate didn't seem like someone who entertained visitors.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been sitting there when he rapped at my door.
 

Why knock? It's your damn house. I'm your damn property.

I went to answer him.

"Here," he said, thrusting a plate at me. His eyes didn't focus on my face. There was a hunk of bread, some grapes, and what looked like cheese. Next to it, a small cup of deep red liquid was nestled.
 

Taking a deep breath, I remembered the role I was supposed to be playing. "Thank you, Sir."

His mouth twisted as I took the plate, and he quickly slammed the door shut as soon as my arm was out of the way.

Damn it. This guy was going to be hard to win over.
 

As I poked at the food, trying to decide whether he was likely to poison me or not, I contemplated my options. By playing the willing slave, I thought I was giving him what he wanted. In fact, I was almost certain of it. The problem was that he didn't
want
what he wanted.

I knew what the conflict felt like. Whether he'd meant to or not, he'd taught me very well when he bent me over the bed. We both wanted things that disgusted us.

Come on, Autumn. You're nothing like him. He's the one who created the situation, not you. He's the one who touched you and spanked you when you didn't want it. You're just confused and overwhelmed. You can't have actually enjoyed it.

For once, my inner voice didn't seem so sure of my own motivations. I wanted to believe I was just responding to the stress of the situation, but that didn't seem right. Whatever this was, it ran deeper.

Much deeper.

No, poisoning me would take too much effort. He'd been willing to let me die, but that didn't mean he was willing to kill me. I took a sip of the liquid.

Wine. I hadn't tasted it in...

"Come on, it's not like it'll hurt her. Autumn, honey, come have a sip."

Walking over slowly, feeling like I'd been given the keys to some grown-up world that I didn't understand.

My parents were both bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, but their happiness seemed forced. Something was happening on the news. The radio was always talking, talking, talking now. Hardly any music anymore. Hardly anyone laughing. Just lots of men talking, talking, talking. Every day, on the TV there would be people yelling in the streets, getting dragged away by men in big black boots with plastic shields and helmets.

"For God's sake, it's just wine," Dad was saying, as my mom grimaced, shaking her head. "Who knows when she'll get another chance to have it, the way things are going."

Advancing slowly, waiting for Mom to stop me, but she didn't. I took a sip. A little bit dribbled on my shirt, staining it blood-red. It tasted sour and I made a face. My dad was laughing.

"See? I've basically guaranteed she won't drink until she's forty."

On the TV, people crying about their dead sons. Their dead daughters. It used to be they were talking about soldiers, but now they are talking about ordinary people. Students. Kids. The police chief being interviewed, saying they were just trying to "keep order."

The memory was so vivid, I almost dropped my cup. Tears pricked behind my eyes. When was the last time I'd recalled their faces so clearly? Even in my dreams, I was starting to forget their features, but the taste had brought it back.
 

For a while, I sat there, tears flowing freely, letting out quiet sobs that I hoped Tate wouldn't hear. All of the hopelessness and despair of my situation came crashing down on me, brightened and sharpened by the memory of the only people in my life who'd ever really tried to protect me. Who'd ever really loved me.

They would have given up their lives to save mine, but Birdy never came them the chance.

Instead, he just took.

Take, take, take. That was all men like him did. Men like him and Tate.

When I was finally exhausted from the rush of emotions, I turned back to the plate of food. It didn't look terribly appetizing, but then again, nothing did. I was used to going days without eating, and I didn't feel hungry yet. All the same, I knew I should eat.

There was another rap at my door.

I didn't bother answering, but he walked in a few moments later.

With my back to the doorway, curled up on my side, he couldn't see my red eyes or the tear streaks on my face.
 

"I came for your dishes," he said, softly. "Aren't you going to eat?"

I swallowed. "Not hungry," I said, hoping that my voice just sounded sleep-roughened instead of sad.
 

"Eat," he said. "Just a little, if that's all you can manage. You have to re-train your stomach to take regular meals."

So, he wasn't planning on starving me. That was mildly interesting.

"Why?" I asked.

"
You
don't ask questions," he growled, stepping closer. "Eat."

I sat up, glaring at him. He flinched slightly when he saw my face - or maybe I just imagined it.

I took a grape and shoved it into my mouth, just to shut him up. The sweetness burst on my tongue, and I soon forgot why I was irritated. Where the hell did he even
get
grapes, these days?
 

He was sitting down in the chair, a few feet from my bed. What the hell did he want? If he was going to spend another hour teasing me within an inch of sanity, I might actually snap and try to kill him. I had a feeling that wouldn't end well for me.

"How long has it been, since you had enough to eat?" he asked. His voice was dispassionate and detached, in a way that sent chills through me.

"I don't know," I said. "What, you mean, regularly?"

"Yes."

I shook my head. "No idea. I don't exactly mark it on a calendar."

Finally, his eyes lifted to my face. They pierced through my artifice so easily, the tough-girl act I was trying to put on for him, and I could feel the tears coming again. I swiped them away, roughly, staring down at the bed.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, quietly.

I let out a snort of laughter. "Pick a reason."

Tate worried at his lower lip with his teeth, and for a moment I thought he was actually going to apologize for his behavior. "There's no reason to cry when you're here," he said, at last. "You'll have plenty to eat. You can go where you wish. You can even try to run away, although I don't recommend it. You sold yourself into this life, and you did so with the understanding that you'd lose something in return. The fact that I'd be more than happy to send you out there into the wild - that's not relevant. Stoker will find you, and they will take back what belongs to them. You were only with them for a day. You have no idea how skilled they are at breaking people."

My throat felt thick and dry. I reached for the wine.

"I'm not your property," I said, finally, emboldened by the warm burn in my stomach. So quickly, my mask had fallen away. I couldn't do it. I couldn't keep playing the perfect submissive. "I don't care what you say. I don't care what Stoker says."

He smirked. "Call it whatever you want."
 

Unspoken, in his eyes, there was a taunt. The memory of how I'd behaved just hours before, melting at this touch. Aching to follow his commands. My face burned with embarrassment, and I hugged my knees in tighter.

"I won't be your slave," I whispered, finally. "If that's what it takes for me to stay here, then thanks, but no thanks. I'll go it alone."

"Slave?" he repeated, incredulously. "I thought that's what you wanted. That's what you signed up for, isn't it? And don't tell me Stoker lied to you, they lie to everyone. You're smarter than that. You knew. You thought maybe you'd be lucky, and you wouldn't end up with a cruel man. You'd just end up with someone who's lonely and confused and grateful to have you." His tone dripped with condescension. "That's what they all think - the smart ones, anyway. What kind of man wants to
buy
a girl, do you think?"

I stared at him. "What kind of man accepts a girl as a gift?"

He raised an eyebrow. "If you'll recall, I did try to 'return to sender.' It didn't work out so well."

Frustrated, I ripped off a piece of the bread and bit into it. The crust was chewy and crunchy, just the right amount of both, the fresh, yeasty flavor rising to my nose and making my mouth water. "How do you know so much about Stoker, anyway?" I demanded, only slightly distracted by the bread.

Tate's face darkened. "I said no questions," he muttered, getting to his feet and pacing the length of the room. "Why is that so hard for you to accept?"

"Because I'd like to know what kind of man
owns
me now," I said. "Or
thinks
he does."

He raked a hand through his hair, just a hint of a crooked smile playing at his mouth. "What happened? Not too long ago, you seemed so eager to follow my orders."

"I was pretending," I told him, defiantly. "I thought maybe you'd be a little nicer to me, if you thought you wouldn't have to fight me for submission."

He chuckled. "Maybe I
want
to fight you - did that thought ever cross your mind?"

I shivered, but didn't answer.

"I'm not talking about your transparent act, by the way," he said. "Pretending to be the perfect obedient little slave. I'm talking about what happened before that."

Glimmers of the man from the bedroom were showing through, again. Something thrilled inside me. Anticipation, fear, arousal. I wanted to meet that man again. He was much easier to read. Much more straightforward.
 

He was pure lust.

"It was all an act," I said, haughtily. "You really think I liked that? Check your ego."

His eyes flashed. "You're
lying
. Remember what happens when you lie to me?"

Laughing, I ate another grape. "I'm not afraid of you."

The biggest lie of all. But instead of leaping to punish me, he just watched me. His eyes searched for answers, and I tried to give up none. But something told me he was reading deeper than I could have imagined.

When he finally left, wordlessly, the echo of the heavy door left an oppressive silence in its wake. The room seemed even emptier than it had before he walked in. I ate some of the cheese, reveling in its sharp, salty flavor, and finally drifted off into a fitful sleep.

When I finally fell asleep deeply enough, I dreamt about Tate.

I dreamt that he touched me, grabbed me, spanked me and fingered me until I trembled and screamed and coated his hand in my juices. His eyes were dark, lustful, and filled with promise.

I woke up with my own hand clenched between my legs, waves of pleasure coursing through my body.

This was ridiculous. Absurd. I had to stop.

Shaking all over, I forced myself awake and went into the bathroom to wash up in the tiny sink. The old, slightly warped mirror showed me bloodshot eyes and a face flushed with guilt. How could I feel this way about such a dangerous stranger?

It was like my body already belonged to him, no matter how hard I tried to fight it. He commanded me. I hated it. I hadn't managed to stay alive this long by letting other people control me, and I wasn't about to start now. No matter how badly I craved him.

Without windows or a clock, I had no way to judge the time. Finally, I went to my door and tried it. Slowly, and silently, it swung open.

It was so hard to remember that I wasn't actually a prisoner here. Tate's presence was such a heavy shadow over me, like he was watching my every move.

Maybe he was.

I hadn't thought of checking for cameras. What if he'd seen me touching myself in my sleep? A sick sense of shame coursed through me, but what could I do?

I was about to step into the hallway before I saw a parcel sitting there, just beside my door. I glanced down the hallway to see if Tate was still in his room, but the door was shut. Faint sounds were coming from the kitchen.

The brown paper was clean and unwrinkled. I set it down in the center of the bed and stared at it, trying to decide what I should do.

Obviously, it was meant for me. Tate wanted me to have it. And I wasn't sure how I felt about that. It wasn't ticking, and it wasn't moving or growling or leaking toxic substances. I had no reason to be afraid. Except that I was, and I couldn't explain why. I felt like an icy hand was holding me back from the package, preventing me from satiating my curiosity.