Keep Me (13 page)

I hate you . . . If you love me, don’t do this . . .

As I pick up her unconscious body, Nora’s words echo in my mind, repeating over and over like a glitchy record. I know it shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. With just a couple of sentences, she somehow managed to flay me open, to break through the wall that has encased me since Maria’s death—the wall that has enabled me to keep a distance from everyone and everything except her.

She doesn’t truly hate me. I know that. She wants me. She loves me or, at the very least, thinks she does. Once all of this is over, we’re going to go back to the life we’ve had for the past couple of months, except I will feel better, more secure.

Less afraid of losing her.

If you love me, don’t do this . . .

Fuck. I don’t know why I care that she said that. I certainly don’t love her. I can’t. Love is for those who are noble and selfless, for people who still have some semblance of a heart.

That’s not me. It’s never been me. What I feel for Nora is nothing like the soft, flowery emotion depicted in all the books and movies. It’s deeper, far more visceral than that. I need her with a violence that twists my guts, with a longing that both demolishes and uplifts me. I need her like I need air, and I would do whatever it takes to keep her with me.

I would die for her, but I would never let her go.

Cradling her small, limp body in my arms, I carry her out of the bedroom to the living room. David Goldberg, our resident doctor, is already there, waiting with his medical bag and supplies on the couch. I’d asked him to stop by earlier today, so he can do the procedure as soon as possible after dinner, and I’m glad that he’s on time. I only gave Nora a quarter of the drug that was in the syringe, and I want to make sure everything is done before she wakes up.

“She’s already under?” Goldberg asks, getting up to greet us. A short, balding man in his forties, he’s one of the most talented surgeons I’ve ever met. I pay him an arm and a leg to treat minor injuries, but I consider it worth it. In my line of work, one never knows when a good doctor will come in handy.

“Yes.” I carefully put Nora down on the couch. Her left arm hangs off the edge, so I gently arrange her in a more comfortable pose, making sure that her dress covers her slim thighs. Goldberg won’t care either way—he’s far more likely to get a hard-on for me than for my wife—but I still don’t like the idea of exposing her unnecessarily, even to a man who’s openly gay.

“You know, I could’ve just numbed the area,” he says, pulling out the tools he needs. All of his movements are practiced and efficient; he’s a master at what he does. “It’s a simple procedure—nothing that requires the patient to be unconscious.”

“It’s better this way.” I don’t explain further, but I think Goldberg gets it, because he doesn’t say anything else. Instead he puts on his gloves, takes out a large syringe with a thick hypodermic needle, and approaches Nora.

I step back to give him some room.

“How many trackers would you like? One or more?” he asks, glancing in my direction.

“Three.” I’ve thought about this before, and that’s what makes the most sense to me. If she’s ever stolen, my enemies might think to look for a locator chip on her body, but they’re unlikely to look for three of them.

“Okay. I will put one in her upper arm, one in her hip, and one in her inner thigh.”

“That should work.” The trackers are tiny, about the size of a grain of rice, so Nora won’t even feel them there after a few days. I’m also planning to have her wear a special wristband as a decoy; it will have a fourth tracker in it. This way, if her abductors find the wristband tracker, they might be foolish enough to get rid of it and not look for any on her body.

“Then that’s what I’ll do,” Goldberg says and, swabbing Nora’s upper arm with a disinfecting solution, presses the needle to her skin. A small droplet of blood wells up as the needle goes in, depositing the tracker; then he disinfects the area again and tapes a small bandage over it.

The implant in her hip is next, followed by one in her inner thigh. It takes less than six minutes between the start and the end of the procedure, and Nora sleeps peacefully through it all.

“All done,” Goldberg says, pulling off his gloves and packing up his bag. “You can take off the bandages in an hour, once the bleeding stops, and put on regular Band-Aids. Those areas might be tender for a couple of days, but there shouldn't be any scarring, particularly if you keep the insertion points clean in the meantime. If anything, call me, but I don’t anticipate any problems.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

“My pleasure.” And with that, Goldberg packs up his bag and exits the room.

* * *

Nora regains consciousness around three in the morning.

I’m sleeping lightly, so I wake up as soon as she begins to stir. I know she’ll have a headache and some nausea from the drug, and I have a water bottle prepared in case she’s thirsty. I expect the side effects to be mild, since I gave her a small dose. When I took her from the park, I had to give her a lot more to make sure she stayed under for the full twenty-hour-plus trip to the island, so she should recover much faster today.

I hate you.

Fuck, not again. I push away the memory of her small, accusing whisper and focus on the present. I can feel her stirring next to me, a small sound of discomfort escaping her throat as the mattress rubs against the tender spot in her upper arm. That sound does something to me, gets under my skin for some reason. I don’t want Nora in pain—not from this, at least—and I reach for her, pulling her closer to me so I can hug her from the back.

She stiffens at my touch, rigid tension spreading through her body, and I know that she’s awake now, that she remembers what happened.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, keeping my voice low and soothing as I stroke the smooth curve of her outer thigh with my hand. “Do you want some water or anything?”

She doesn’t say anything, but I feel her head moving slightly, and I interpret that as a nod.

“All right then.” Reaching back with my hand, I grab the water bottle, fumbling a bit in the dark. Propping myself up on one elbow, I turn on the bedside lamp, so I can see, and hand the bottle to Nora.

She blinks a few times, squinting at the light, and takes the water from me, her slender fingers curving around the bottle as she sits up. The movement causes the blanket to slide down, exposing her upper body. I undressed her before putting her in bed, so she’s naked now, with only her thick hair hiding her pretty, pink-tipped breasts from my gaze. Familiar lust stirs within me, but I push it down, wanting to make sure she’s okay first.

I let her take a few sips of the water before asking again, “How are you feeling?”

She shrugs, her eyes not meeting mine. “Fine, I guess.” Her hand lifts across her body to her upper arm, touching the Band-Aid there, and I see her shiver slightly, as though she’s cold. “I have to use the bathroom,” she says suddenly and, not waiting for my response, climbs out of bed. I catch a brief glimpse of her rounded little ass before she disappears through the bathroom door, and my dick jumps, ignoring my mind’s directive to be still for once.

Sighing, I lie back on the pillow to wait for her. Who am I kidding? My pet always has that effect on me. I can no more ignore seeing her naked than I can stop breathing. Almost involuntarily, my hand slips under the blanket, my fingers curling around my hard shaft as I close my eyes and imagine her hot, velvety inner walls gripping my cock, her pussy wet and deliciously tight . . .

I hate you.

Fuck. My eyes fly open, some of the heat inside me cooling. I’m still hard, but now the lust is intermixed with a strange heaviness in my chest. I don’t know where this is coming from. I should feel happier now that the trackers are in, but I don’t. Instead I feel like I lost something . . . something I didn’t even know I had.

Annoyed, I close my eyes again, this time purposefully focusing on the growing ache in my balls as I pump my fist up and down my dick, letting the hunger build. Even if she does hate me, so what? She probably
should
hate me, given everything I’ve done to her. I’ve never let such concerns stop me from doing what I wanted, and I’m not about to start now. Nora will get used to the trackers just as she got used to being mine, and if the compound security is ever breached, she’ll thank her lucky stars for my foresight.

Hearing the door open, I open my eyes and see her emerging from the bathroom. She still doesn’t look at me directly. Instead she keeps her eyes on the floor as she scurries to the bed and climbs under the covers, pulling the blanket up to her chin. Then she stares blankly at the ceiling, as if I don’t even exist.

She might as well have slapped my face with her indifference.

The lust inside me turns sharper, darker. I won’t stand for this kind of behavior, and she knows it. The urge to punish her is strong, nearly irresistible, and it’s only the knowledge that she’s already hurt that prevents me from tying her up and giving in to my sadistic inclinations.

Still, I’m not going to let her get away with this. Not tonight, not ever.

Throwing off my blanket, I sit up and command sharply, “Come here.”

She doesn’t move for a moment, but then her eyes lift to my face. There’s no fear in her gaze, no emotion of any kind, in fact. Her huge dark eyes are lifeless, like those of a beautiful doll.

The heaviness in my chest region grows. “Come here,” I repeat, the harshness of my tone masking the intensifying turmoil within me. “Now.”

She obeys, her conditioning finally kicking in. Pushing away her blanket, she comes to me on all fours, crawling across the bed with her back arched and her ass slightly raised. It’s exactly the way I like her to move in the bedroom, and my breathing quickens, my cock swelling to an almost painful thickness. I’ve trained her well; even distressed, my pet knows how to please me.

“Good girl,” I murmur, reaching for her as soon as she’s within my grasp. Sliding my left hand into her hair, I wrap my right arm around her waist and pull her into my lap, gathering her against me. Then I slant my mouth across hers, kissing her with a hunger that seems to emanate from the very core of my being.

She tastes like minty toothpaste and herself, her lips soft and receptive as I plunder the silky depths of her mouth. As the kiss goes on, her eyes close, and her hands come up to rest tentatively at my sides. I can feel her nipples pebbling against my chest, and the realization that she’s responding the same as always sends a wave of relief through me, alleviating much of my uncharacteristic unease.

Whatever strange mood she’s in, she’s still mine in all the ways that matter.

Still kissing her, I lean forward until we’re both lying flat on the bed, with me covering her. I’m careful to handle her gently, so I don’t put any pressure on the Band-Aid-covered areas. The monster inside me may crave her pain and tears, but that desire pales in comparison to my overwhelming need to comfort her, to take away that lifeless look in her eyes.

Reining in my own lust, I set about caring for her the only way I know how. I kiss her all over, tasting her soft, warm skin as I make my way from the delicate curve of her ear down to her little toes. I massage her hands, arms, feet, legs, and back, enjoying her quiet moans of pleasure as I rub out all stiffness in her muscles. Then I bring her to orgasm with my mouth and my fingers, delaying my own release until my balls almost turn blue.

When I finally enter her body, it’s like coming home. Her hot, slick sheath welcomes me, squeezes me so tightly that I nearly explode on the spot. As I begin to move inside her, her arms close around my back, embracing me, holding me close—and then we detonate together at the end, our bodies straining together in violent, mind-shattering bliss.

I wake up later than usual, my head and mouth feeling like they’ve been stuffed with cotton. For a moment, I struggle to remember what happened—
did I somehow have too much to drink?
—but then memories of last night seep into my mind, twisting my stomach into knots and flooding me with confused despair.

Julian made love to me last night. He made love to me after violating me—after drugging me and forcing the trackers on me against my will—and I let him. No, I didn’t just let him; I reveled in his touch, allowing the blazing heat of his caresses to burn away the frozen hurt inside me, to make me forget, if only for a moment, about the ragged wound he inflicted on my heart.

I don’t know why this, out of all the horrible things Julian has done, affects me so strongly. In the grand scheme of things, putting the trackers under my skin—allegedly to keep me safe—is nothing compared to kidnapping me, beating up Jake, or blackmailing me into marriage. These trackers are not even necessarily forever. Theoretically, if I ever make it off the estate, I can go to a doctor and have the implants removed, so I may not even be stuck with them for the rest of my life. My fear yesterday definitely had an irrational component to it; I was reacting on instinct and not thinking things through.

Nonetheless, it felt like a part of me died last evening—like the prick of that syringe killed something inside me. Maybe it’s because I had begun to feel that Julian and I were growing closer, that we were becoming more like a regular couple. Or maybe because my Stockholm Syndrome—or whatever psychological issue I have—made me imagine rainbows and unicorns where there were none. Whatever the reason, Julian’s actions felt like the most agonizing betrayal. When I regained consciousness last night, I felt so devastated that I wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.

But Julian didn’t let me. He made love to me. He made love to me when I thought he would whip me—when I expected him to punish me for not being his compliant little pet. He gave me tenderness when I expected cruelty; instead of taking me apart, he made me feel whole again, even if it was only for a few hours.

And now . . . now I miss him. Without him by my side, the coldness within me is beginning to creep back, the pain slowly returning to choke me from the inside. The fact that Julian did this to me against my objections—that he did this even though I
begged him not to
—is almost more than I can handle. It tells me that he doesn’t love me—that he may never love me.

It tells me that the man I’m married to may never be anything more than my captor.

* * *

At breakfast Julian is not there, a fact that contributes to my growing depression. I’ve gotten so used to having most of my meals
with him that his absence feels like a rejection—though how I can still crave his company after everything is beyond my comprehension.

“Señor Esguerra grabbed a quick snack earlier,” Ana explains, serving me eggs mixed with refried beans and avocado. “He received some news that he had to deal with right away, so he’s not able to join you this morning. He apologized for that and told me that you can come to the office whenever you’re ready.” Her voice is unusually warm and kind, and there is sympathy on her face as she looks at me. I don’t know if she knows all the details about what happened last night, but I have a feeling she overheard the gist of it.

Embarrassed, I lower my gaze to my plate. “Okay, thank you, Ana,” I murmur, staring at the food. It looks as delicious as usual, but I have no appetite this morning. I know I’m not sick, but I feel that way, with my stomach churning and my chest aching. The fresh implants in my thigh, hip, and upper arm throb with a nagging pain. All I want to do is crawl under the covers and sleep the day away, but unfortunately, that’s not an option. I have a paper to do for my English Literature class, and I’m two lectures behind for my Calculus class. I did cancel my morning walk with Rosa, though; I have no desire to see my friend while I’m feeling this way.

“Would you like some hot chocolate or anything? Maybe coffee or tea?” Ana asks, still hovering by the table. Normally, when Julian and I are eating together, she makes herself scarce, but for some reason, she seems reluctant to leave me alone this morning.

I look up from my plate and force myself to give her a smile. “No, I’m okay, Ana, thanks.” Picking up my fork, I spear some eggs and bring them to my mouth, determined to eat something to alleviate the concern I see on the housekeeper’s softly rounded face.

As I chew, I see Ana hesitating for a moment, as though she wants to say something else, but then she disappears into the kitchen, leaving me to my breakfast. For the next few minutes, I make a serious attempt to eat, but everything tastes like sand and I finally give up.

Getting up, I head to the porch, wanting to feel the sun on my skin. The coldness inside me seems to be spreading with each moment, my depression deepening as the morning wears on.

Stepping out the front door, I walk over to the edge of the porch and lean on the railing, breathing in the hot, humid air. As I gaze out onto the wide green lawn and the guards in the distance, I feel my vision blurring, hot tears welling up and beginning to slide down my cheeks.

I don’t know why I’m crying. Nobody died; nothing truly terrible has happened. I’ve been through so much worse in the past two years, and I’ve coped with it—I’ve adjusted and survived. This relatively minor thing shouldn’t make me feel like my heart has been ripped out.

My growing conviction that Julian is not capable of love shouldn’t destroy me like this.

A hand gently touches my shoulder, startling me out of my misery. Swiftly wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand, I turn around and am surprised to see Ana standing there, an uncertain expression on her face.

“Señora Esguerra . . . I mean, Nora . . .” She stumbles over my name, her accent thicker than usual. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you had a minute to talk?”

Taken aback by the unusual request, I nod. “Of course, what is it?” Ana and I are not particularly close; she’s always been somewhat reserved around me, polite but not overly friendly. Rosa told me that Ana is like that because that’s what Julian’s father demanded of his staff, and the habit is difficult for her to break.

Looking relieved by my response, Ana smiles and walks up to join me at the railing, placing her forearms on the painted white wood. I give her a questioning look, wondering what she wants to discuss, but she seems content to just stand there for a moment, her gaze trained on the jungle in the distance.

When she finally turns her head to look at me and speaks, her words catch me off-guard. “I don’t know if you know this, Nora, but your husband lost everybody he’s ever cared about,” she says softly, no trace of her customary reserve in sight. “Maria, his parents . . . Not to mention many others he knew both here on the estate and out in the cities.”

“Yes, he told me,” I say slowly, eyeing her with some caution. I don’t know why she’s suddenly decided to talk to me about Julian, but I’m more than happy to listen. Maybe if I understand my husband better, it will be easier for me to maintain my emotional distance from him.

Maybe if he’s not such a puzzle, I won’t be drawn to him as strongly.

“Good,” Ana says quietly. “Then I hope you understand that Julian didn’t mean to hurt you last night . . . that whatever he did was because he cares for you.”

“Cares for me?” The laugh that escapes my throat is sharp and bitter. I don’t know why I’m talking about this with Ana, but now that the floodgates have been opened, I can’t seem to close them again. “Julian doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “You’re wrong, Nora. He does. He cares about you very much. I can see it. He’s different with you than with others. Very different.”

I stare at her. “What do you mean?”

She sighs, then turns to face me fully.
“Your husband was always a dark child,” she says, and I see a deep sadness in her gaze. “A beautiful boy, with his mother’s eyes and her features, but so hard inside . . . It was his father’s fault, I think. The older Señor never treated him like a child. From the time Julian was old enough to walk, his father would push him, make him do things that no child should do . . .”

I listen raptly, hardly daring to breathe as she continues.

“When Julian was little, he was afraid of spiders. We have big ones here, very scary ones. Some poisonous ones. When Juan Esguerra found out, he led his five-year-old son into the forest and made him catch a dozen large spiders with his bare hands. Then he made the boy kill them slowly with his fingers, so Julian would see what it’s like to conquer his fears and make his enemies suffer.” She pauses, her mouth tight-lipped with anger. “Julian didn’t sleep for two nights after that. When his mother found out, she cried, but there was nothing she could do. Señor’s word here was law, and everyone had to obey.”

I swallow the bile rising in my throat and look away. What I just learned only adds to my despair. How can I expect Julian to love someone after being raised that way? The fact that my husband is a stone-cold killer with sadistic tendencies is not surprising; the only wonder is that he’s not even worse.

It’s hopeless. Utterly hopeless.

Sensing my distress, Ana lays her hand on my arm, her touch warm and comforting, like that of my mom.

“For the longest time, I thought Julian would grow up to be just like his father,” she says when I turn to look at her. “Cruel and uncaring, incapable of any softer emotion. I thought that until I saw him with a kitten one day when he was twelve. It was a tiny creature, all fluffy white fur and big eyes, barely old enough to eat on its own. Something happened to its mother, and Julian found the kitten outside and brought it in. When I saw him, he was trying to coax it to drink milk, and the expression on his face—” She blinks, her eyes looking suspiciously wet. “It was so . . . so tender. He was so patient with the kitten, so gentle. And I knew then that his father hadn’t succeeded in breaking Julian completely, that the boy could still feel.”

“What happened to that kitten?” I ask, bracing myself. I’m prepared to hear another horror story, but Ana just shrugs in response.

“It grew up in the house,” she says, gently squeezing my arm before taking her hand away. “Julian kept it as his pet, named it Lola. He and his father had a fight about that—the older Señor hated animals—but by then Julian was old enough, and tough enough, to stand up to his father. Nobody dared to touch the little creature for as long as it was under Julian’s protection. When he left for America, he took the cat with him. As far as I know, it lived a nice long life and passed away from old age.”

“Oh.” Some of my tension fades. “That’s good. Not good that Julian lost his pet, I mean, but that it lived for a long time.”

“Yes. It’s good indeed. And you know, Nora, the way he looked at that kitten . . .” She trails off, gazing at me with a strange smile.

“What?” I ask warily.

“He looks at you like that sometimes. With that same kind of tenderness. He might not always show it, but he treasures you, Nora. In his own way, he loves you. I truly believe that.”

I press my lips together, trying to hold back the tears that threaten to flood my eyes again. “Why are you telling me this, Ana?” I ask when I’m certain I can speak without breaking down. “Why did you come out here?”

“Because Julian is the closest thing I have to a son,” she says softly. “And because I want him to be happy. I want both of you to be happy. I don’t know if this changes anything for you, but I thought you should know a little more about your husband.” Reaching out, she squeezes my hand and then walks back inside the house, leaving me standing by the railing, even more confused and heartsick than before.

* * *

I don’t join Julian in the office that afternoon. Instead I lock myself in the library and work on the paper, trying not to think about my husband and how much I want to be sitting by his side. I know that just being near him would make me feel better, that his presence alone would help with my hurt and anger, but some masochistic impulse keeps me away. I don’t know what I’m trying to prove to myself, but I’m determined to keep my distance for at least a few hours.

Of course, there’s no avoiding him at dinner.

“You didn’t come today,” he observes, watching me as Ana ladles us some mushroom soup for an appetizer. “Why not?”

I shrug, ignoring the imploring look Ana gives me before going back to the kitchen. “I wasn’t feeling well.”

Julian frowns. “You’re sick?”

“No, just a bit under the weather. Plus I had a paper to finish and some lectures to catch up on.”

“Is that right?” He stares at me, his eyebrows drawn together. Leaning forward, he asks softly, “Are you sulking, my pet?”

“No, Julian,” I reply as sweetly as I can, dipping my spoon in the soup. “Sulking would imply that I’m mad at something you did. But I don’t get to be mad, do I? You can do whatever you want to me, and I’m supposed to just accept it, right?” And taking a sip of the richly flavored soup, I give him a saccharine smile, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at my response. I know I’m tugging on a tiger’s tail, but I don’t want a sweet, gentle Julian tonight. It’s too misleading, too unsettling for my peace of mind.

To my frustration, he doesn’t take the bait. Whatever anger I managed to provoke is short-lived, and in the next moment, he leans back, a slow, sexy smile teasing at the corners of his lips. “Are you trying to guilt me, baby? Surely you know by now that I’m beyond that kind of emotion.”

“Of course you are.” I meant the words to sound bitter, but they come out breathless instead. Even now, he has the power to make my senses whirl and spin with nothing more than a smile.

He grins, knowing full well how he affects me, and dips his own spoon into the soup. “Just eat, Nora. You can show me how mad you are in the bedroom, I promise.” And with that tantalizing threat, he begins consuming his soup, leaving me no choice but to follow his lead.