The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 19

"Now," he whispered. "Are we going to play nicely, or not? Because I can cuff you to this bed, in fact, it's definitely looking like an option." His hand moved on my mouth until he was just pressing his fingertips very firmly down upon my lips. "In a minute I'm going to take my hand away. You scream, I'll gag you. You try to bite me and I'll pull those nasty little teeth out with pliers. Don't think I won't, Megs. Okay?"

It wasn't okay. Of course it wasn't okay, but I nodded anyway. Slowly, he lifted his hand off, brushing my bottom lip with his index finger as he did so, making me shudder. I could feel his breath on my face, inhaling and exhaling in heady exhilaration.

"Good girl," he said. "Let's get one thing straight. You do as I say and nothing bad has to happen here, alright? But if you fight this, or start getting ideas above your station, I'll have to put you in your place. I don't want to do that, really I don't. So if I let you go now, you stay put, understand?"

I nodded again.

"Say yes," he said, a hint of a smirk on his lips.

"Y-yes," I croaked. I just wanted him off me. I couldn't bear it.

He studied me for a moment, his dark eyes roving over my face. I hated the scrutiny. I hated the way the fabric of his jeans rubbed against my bare stomach. I hated feeling so damn helpless underneath him. Seemingly satisfied with what he saw, he let go of my wrists and sat up, but remained straddling me, his eyes flitting over my breasts.

Tears stung my eyes as I brought my hands down, wrapping my arms around my chest.

"I-I want my clothes," I stammered, hoarsely.

Brandon chuckled, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Megs, you don't need to be shy with me. I've seen it all before, remember?"

"I don't care. I want my clothes back." I hated how my voice sounded so high-pitched and squeaky. It was like listening to her. The old Megan. His Megan.

He sniffed in distaste, wrinkling his nose. "I had them destroyed. They were ruined anyway, but seriously Megs, I can't believe you were even wearing that bargain-store shit. You've always had much better taste."

"You always bought my clothes, remember?"

"Exactly," he grinned. "See? This is what happens when you don't have your husband by your side."

"You're not my husband anymore." I glared at him, feeling the tears slip angrily down my cheeks.

His smile faded, the veneer shifting into something cold and dark, something that sent the fear spiking in my gut. "Funny," he snapped. "Because I don't recall ever signing any divorce papers. Which means that technically, you're still mine."

I shrank back into the pillows as his body tensed and he bunched up the bed sheets in clenched fists by his side. And as quickly as the mask had slipped, he shook his head in disgust before slumping back on his heels and rolling off me. Backing away, he perched awkwardly on the end of the bed and I took the opportunity to sit up, feeling the nausea nag me as my muscles screamed in pain. I was healing, but my body still bore the aftershock of the attack. The bruises on my arms were still an angry purple. Cuts were suturing shut of their own accord but I could still feel the dull burn of the worst of the wounds. Pulling my knees into my chest, I tugged the sheets around me, still feeling exposed despite the protection that the bed linen offered.

I glanced nervously around the room, not wanting to take my eyes off him, just in case he decided the end of the bed was too great a distance.

"Where are we?" I asked.

The room was opulent, beautiful even, and it reminded me of a manor house we had stayed in during a spa weekend away in the Cotswolds a couple of years back. This room had similar decor, an eighteenth century baroque vibe, warmly coated in reds and golds. Rococo pattern wallpaper contrasted with the plush burgundy carpet. A thick, embroidered canopy bordered with gold fringing framed the bed on the wall behind where I now sat. Ornately framed paintings covered the walls and the furniture was antique mahogany with beautifully carved details and smooth lines. On the right hand side, there was a door, firmly shut and on the left hand side of the room was a large window, covered by luxurious drapes made from the same fabric as the bed canopy. Directly on the opposing wall was a grand wardrobe that looked like it would need a small army to shift it and next to the wardrobe, slightly ajar, was another door that looked as if it could lead to an adjoining room. I eyed it suspiciously, wondering what lay beyond before turning my attention quickly back to Brandon.