Breaking Beth Page 11

  It was why he’d used the drawer. Kept her in it for days, except for the brief interlude when he’d drugged her and hydrated her to avoid seizures, to ensure her kidneys wouldn’t shut down.

  The drawer should have worked.

  The drawer always worked.

  Yet, she had refused to say the simple word.

  Anthony despised it when things didn’t work the way they were supposed to, and this slut was clearly malfunctioning. The drawer should have shattered her mind, left her hopeless and begging — and she had begged, and cried, looking pretty and desolate on the tiny night vision cameras — but each time he had pulled her out, she had defied him.

  “I’m going to break her,” he finally answered.

  Marcus laughed, broke something else, cursed. “How the fuck do you plan to do that Anthony? No girl has ever lasted this long without submitting, and you think you can fully break her?”

  “Yes.” It was a quick response, almost too quick. He hadn’t even thought it through.

  Was this his pride showing?

  “HOW?” His brother yelled the word, and Anthony tilted his head, cracking the vertebrae in his neck in an effort to relax the tensing muscles.

  “She thinks she wants to die… I plan to give her a taste.”

  “A taste of dying? What the fuck does that mean?” Marcus was muttering curses, randomly shouting in his rage, but Anthony’s mind was finally clearing. A plan forming, organized and purposeful.

  “Watch and see. I will let her recover for a day or so, allow her enough strength so that she can be aware, and then I will break her.”

  “What if this fails too, Anthony? What will you do with her?” There was a thread of concern there, a nervousness in his brother’s voice, and it made Anthony smile.

  “I’ll destroy her.”

  Fourteen

  Beth

  Soup and sleep.

  Water and rest.

  The bed was soft, warm, an extra blanket atop the normal sheet. He hadn’t touched her since he had pulled her from the bathtub and settled her here, and she had only left the cocoon she’d created to use the bathroom.

  But everything still hurt.

  Beth had explored the whip marks in the mirror, stared into the face that used to be so familiar, but now it had changed. She had changed. Dark circles under dull, bloodshot brown eyes. Cheekbones sharper, lips chapped and dry. It wasn’t her, she felt disconnected from the girl in the mirror, didn’t want to be her.

  He was tearing her apart. More than just physically, the worst of the damage was inside. The parts she could only get a glimpse of when she had the courage to stare into her own eyes — but she couldn’t maintain it for long. It hurt too much.

  The last blow was the tattoo on the inside of her hip. A small thing. From what she could tell it was a ‘W’ with a crown atop it, underlined with a slash. Dark ink embedded in her skin, still tender to the touch, and she knew he had done it while she had been in the drawer. The time he had drugged her, given her the IV fluids.

  What else had he done while she was unconscious?

  Roaming her body with her fingers, she had explored every inch. Wound them under the collar, plucking at the small padlock that never budged. She was not as sore between her thighs, and the whip marks simply felt like bruises, although they hurt more than the ones on her wrists and ankles. There was nothing else that was new, no other tattoos, just a body that didn’t feel like hers.

  A body she wasn’t sure she wanted to hold onto anymore.

  The other one had claimed she had choices. At the time those choices had felt numerous, so many little battles of wills — some won, some lost — but now there was only one left. It was the only thing that mattered anymore.

  He wanted her mind like he had taken her body.

  But she would die before she gave it to him.

  Fifteen

  Beth

  At least two days had passed in silence.

  Every time he came to the room to leave a tray, or pick up another, she simply watched him. He would look at her too, that same analytical stare from the first night, except there were no strange smiles now.

  No words. No demands. No threats.

  Nothing except a quick exchange of gazes… which was fine with her. She didn’t want to talk to the monster.

  Beth felt stronger, her head clearer. Finally hydrated, and nourished, and well-slept. It seemed that all she did was sleep, but she needed it. The unconsciousness in the drawer, and all the other times, had never felt like sleep — there had been no dreams — but now she was dreaming.

  Scattered, whirlwind dreams of familiar voices. Flashes of friendly faces, her family. In one she was simply driving and listening to music, on one of the coastal highways with the sun glinting off the ocean.

  It had been simple and peaceful. No nightmares.

  But it wasn’t like her mind needed to create nightmares when she always awoke in hell, always awoke locked in the same room, in the same house, with the same man — and she knew this strange peace wouldn’t last.

  He was waiting for something.

  * * *

  Anthony

  The camera angle switched again, showing the flare of her blonde hair against the pillow, the shape of her body under the blankets. Tapping a few keys on the keyboard, he made the angle switch again, zooming in on her face.

  Asleep.

  His phone buzzed again, and he felt his shoulders tighten. It was another email. He knew it without checking. The customers were complaining, a few of them had offered to assist him with her, which had almost resulted in a hasty reply, but he had halted himself.

  Patience was key, especially with the customers, but the general summary of their feedback was nothing but dissatisfaction.

  Not only was she irritating him, now she was damaging their brand. So much money, and time, and energy building his reputation among these wealthy men across the globe. Getting them to trust him, to trust his security measures and his discretion.

  She was ruining everything.

  Anthony cracked his neck again, leaning closer to the screen where her face was formed in tiny pixels. The girl always kept the bathroom light on, and it meant she was still in color, albeit somewhat washed out — but he could see her face was fuller, that color had returned to her cheeks. She was more stable.

  Stable enough to survive what he had planned.

  Drumming his fingers on his desk, he felt another vibration from his phone and he swept it off the desk with a quick jerk of his arm. It clattered to the floor, lighting up, and he gradually became aware of the increased pace of his breaths.

  Anger, stress — if he were capable of feeling those things, he was feeling them now. None of it processed right in his head, but he knew the signs. Had observed them in Marcus for decades, and extraordinary circumstances had summoned similar things in him before.

  This girl was an extraordinary circumstance.

  One that he was about to rectify permanently. And then everything would return to normal, the process would work again, customer expectations would be met, and the cold calm of his brain would be restored.

  Drawing in a slow breath, he released it and pushed up from the desk. Calmly lifting the phone from the floor, he tucked it into his pocket and tugged his sleeves into place.

  It was time to get his world back under control.

  Walking to her room gave him enough time to solidify his expression into neutrality, to even out his breathing so that he was as composed as he needed to be to do this properly.

  The act of unlocking and opening the door had woken her. Eyes open, she simply stared at him, unmoving, and he felt a much more familiar urge overtake the strange flickers he’d felt before. He was going to make her suffer, to tear out whatever shreds of hope she had left — and watching this one finally break was going to be the greatest enjoyment he’d had in years.

  “Get up.” They were the first words he’d said to her in days, but he had not expected her
to obey. When she slid the blankets back, sitting up on the edge of the bed, it almost caught him off-guard.

  Her lithe form stretched out as she stood, her legs steady, and he reached back to press in the code for the door, opening it wide.

  “Come here.” Anthony felt a hint of satisfaction when she walked towards him in careful steps, a passing taste of her obedience that he knew wouldn’t last, so he grabbed onto the back of her collar. “Have you decided to submit?” he asked as he pushed her into the hall.

  She stayed silent, but she didn’t fight him as they walked towards the punishment room. Perhaps she felt it too, this inevitability of their interaction, the coming conclusion. When she was silent like this, pliant, he could almost imagine her becoming a good slave, but he knew her compliance wouldn’t last.

  Not when she saw what awaited her. Understood it.

  Walking into the punishment room, the girl finally jerked against his grip. The new furniture in the center of the floor had her complete attention, and he allowed her a moment to stare. She would never discern its use — if she did, she’d start screaming. “Get on the table.”

  This time her obedience wavered. When he released her, she stood completely still. The snap of the door shutting made her muscles jump, and she was aware, coherent, but not moving. Not obeying.

  Fisting the tangled mess of her hair, he forced her forward until they stood beside the shiny metal. Dark cuffs already installed and waiting for her, she whimpered quietly, and he could feel her leaning back from the table — as if that would stop him. “Up.”

  Increasing the strain, he pulled her onto it when she didn’t obey. Normally, he’d punish her with a shock, but it was best not to distress her before he began, and it didn’t take much effort to push her flat and then drag her down the table to strap her ankles into the cuffs.

  When he looked at her again, her eyes were glued somewhere on the ceiling, head subtly moving from side to side like she was saying no. It brought a smile to his lips.

  So quiet now, and soon there would be so much screaming.

  * * *

  Beth

  Save your energy. Save your energy. Save it.

  You won’t win anyway.

  It took more self-control than Beth thought she had, but she let him maneuver her body into place on the cold metal table. Cuffs at ankles and wrists brought back flashes of the drawer, but her collar wasn’t attached to anything, and there was light. Plenty of light.

  She was directly under the camera in the ceiling, unable to avoid staring into the dark, glass eye. People would see this, whatever it was, and she focused on the promise she’d made to herself.

  No matter what he does, I won’t give him my mind.

  If he wanted an audience for this, then she was going to make sure he failed in front of them. It was the only choice left for her, the only shred of power, of control. The table shifted and she lifted her head to see him turning some kind of handle out of sight. As he continued, the end of the table started to rise, but the cuffs held her in place as the angle increased.

  What the fuck is this?

  When he finally stopped, she realized the incline wasn’t severe, head slightly closer to the floor than her feet, but it was enough to make her uncomfortable. Then he was there beside the table, trailing his fingers over her stomach, between her breasts, catching her chin so that she had to look at him. “You know what I want you to say. Do you want to avoid all of this and just obey?”

  “Fuck. You.” Beth lifted her chin away from his touch as she enunciated each word, staring into those empty blue eyes that did nothing to hide the monster inside him. He was pure evil, a psychopath, and giving in wouldn’t stop this — he had told her over and over that she was never getting free.

  The bastard smiled. Satisfaction coating the razor-sharp edges of his expression, and despite her best efforts fear still bloomed in her stomach. “Since that vulgarity is your answer, we will begin.”

  He turned away, walking to the table against the wall as he unbuttoned one sleeve and rolled it up. The second sleeve was adjusted with quick jerks of his hand as he stared down at the metal table. It was almost empty except for a frosted pitcher, which he picked up along with a cloth. She twisted her head to keep him in her sight as he moved to the waterspout jutting from the concrete. The loud sound of the spray hitting the plastic made her swallow, trying to understand what he had planned.

  Was he going to electrocute her again?

  As soon as the water cut off, he raised his eyes to hers. “You only have one purpose, slave. You understand that, correct?”

  “No,” she spat, glaring at him, refusing to back down. No matter what he does. No matter what.

  “It will be so fun to watch you break.” His smile turned the fear into whirling blades in her belly, and she hated feeling so vulnerable, so weak, as he towered over her. Then he tilted the pitcher just enough to splash water onto her face. Clenching her eyes shut she shook it away, licking at the lingering drops on her lips before she returned to glaring at him.

  “You’re not going to break me. I’m not going to obey—” Cutting off her hissing rage with another little splash, he tsk’d as she jerked at the cuffs, blinking away the water from her eyes, muttering curses.

  “I will admit that you have held on to your defiance longer than other girls I have taken, but what you fail to grasp is that everyone breaks, slave. There is a limit to what your mind can take… and today we are going to find it.”

  “No.” Beth tried to sound confident, but the glint in his eyes promised violence. Pain. Suffering.

  “Tell me, girl, do you know what waterboarding is?” The word made her still against the table. Torture. That was torture, right? He ran his fingers over her cheek, leaning closer. “No? Let me show you.”

  Suddenly, there was a cloth over her face, held down by his hand around her jaw, and then she felt the water. She tried to gasp, jerking at the cuffs, but water poured into her nose and mouth. No air. Fabric stuck to her skin, blocking everything as he continued to pour.

  Oh God, I’m drowning.

  As soon as the water stopped, he pulled the cloth away and she choked, spitting water as she turned her head to the side, lifting her shoulders as much as possible to force it out so she could haul in a ragged breath. More violent coughs, and then his hand landed on her chest and slammed her back to the table. Eyes and nose burning, lungs aching, panic rising — he stared at her like an insect. Like prey. “I’m sure you understand the situation now. Will you address me properly?”

  Hauling air into her lungs, she clenched her fists, driving her nails into her palms. “You’re an asshole. A monster! A fucking rap—” The wet cloth was back over her face in an instant, his hard grip molding it to her face, making her jaw ache, and then the water came again.

  She tried to scream, but breathed water instead, and her body convulsed, choked, alarm bells ringing in her body. Dying. Can’t breathe. He’s going to kill me.

  Bright lights blinded her as she coughed violently, almost heaving as water flooded out of her nose, lungs convulsing to force out more. Her ears were ringing, but his voice came in loud and clear, “Say it.”

  Wheezing in air, she coughed again, and shook her head slowly. “Fuck you,” she whispered, voice scratchy and strained.

  His jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his neck, and then he backhanded her. Pain exploded in her cheek, and she yelped, couldn’t stop the cry. The cloth returned then, just as she tried to refill her lungs, and she was drowning again. Choking on screams until her heels kicked at the table, arms desperate to rip free of the cuffs, but there was no escape. Instinct demanded she try to breathe, but there was only water, and she fought it, fought it until even with her lips pressed closed her brain tried to draw breath through her nose.

  * * *

  Anthony

  The girl convulsed, chest jerking, breasts bouncing as he counted in his head. Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one… twenty-two. Finally he lifte
d the pitcher upright, moving the cloth free, and water spouted out of her like a fountain. Her first effective cough, and he watched her breathe. One, two… “Say it, slave.”

  Her body jerked violently, struggling against the cuffs, and then she screamed. It was filled with rage, fury, and he silenced her with the cloth, holding it down as he poured the last of the water in the pitcher over her face slowly. The jingling sound of the cuffs at her wrists and ankles, the muffled, guttural groans in her chest, all of it distracted him from the fact that he hadn’t counted.

  Don’t kill her.

  The last of the pitcher emptied, and Anthony pulled the cloth away. She threw up water, shoulder lifting as she turned to the side and expelled a torrent onto the table and floor. None of it bothered him. That was what this room was for — easy clean up — and she hadn’t hit him with any of it.

  Still, he needed her able to respond. Needed her alive.

  Marcus would be watching. As soon as he had turned the cameras back on, everyone had received the alert, including his wayward brother.

  Which meant he needed to control this situation. Taking the pitcher back to the faucet, he filled it, refusing to even look at her as he listened to the haggard breaths, the wheezing, and then she screamed again. Raw and desperate.

  A living thing wanting to stay alive.

  “Say it,” he demanded as he turned back towards her, gripping the cloth tight in his fist until he felt rivulets streaming between his fingers.

  Her brown eyes met his as her ribs jerked with another cough. “No. Just kill me.”

  A smile twitched at his lips, cock hardening in his pants, urging him to make her submit. To break her until she was nothing more than a mindless doll, an object, a slave.