Pam Godwin - Deliver

“Liv?” He raised his head, his stomach hardening. “What’s wrong?”

She recoiled, clutching a cell phone to her chest. In the next breath, her face blanked, her tone equally vacant. “I’m failing. I’ve tried everything I can think of.” She released a shuddering exhale. “You’re the worst slave ever.”

He wanted to laugh at that, but something was wrong. She hadn’t let up her grip on the phone. “What’s going on? What are you doing with the phone?”

She lowered it, staring at it like it was about to detonate. Then her eyes flashed to the door. “Mr. E is on his way upstairs.”

Josh was treated to the soft strains of Liv’s a cappella as they stood side by side before the door in her room. She stared at her phone, perhaps waiting for a text. He stared at her profile, trying to capture the quiet words woven in her melody. Something about hounds and chains and teams. The tune was familiar, but he couldn’t place it.

Her dark chestnut hair was smoothed into a ponytail that swung over the toned lines of her arm. Black vinyl painted her limbs and torso, giving her a sleek, wet look. The catsuit was so compressed, he could’ve spanned the cinch of her waist with two hands. He knew her costumes were intended to intimidate and hypnotize, but her musical voice held that power all on its own.

Her lips froze mid-verse, her attention locked on the phone’s blank screen in her hand. “Where are your eyes, boy?” The stiffness in her neck matched the aggravation in her voice.

She wasn’t pleased with his wandering eyes, but his last punishment had ended with her body curled against his. It gave him enough temerity to break more rules. He watched her beautiful, expressionless face. “What does this visit from Mr. E mean exactly?”

She turned, facing him with her back to the door and her stony eyes packed with grim promises. He considered it an accomplishment to stand before her, as he did every day, with his wrists wrapped in chains, every inch of his flesh bared and unprotected, and his backbone proudly intact.

Her scrutiny leveled on his raised chin, and her brown eyes melted for a millisecond before hardening again.

“I saw that.” He was being reckless. Despite the bumps and bruises riddling his body, the threat of her whip had lost its edge. But she could still threaten his parents. Or have sex with Van. His jaw locked, smacking his teeth together.

“You saw nothing, boy.” Her stillness suggested a disciplinary strike would follow, but her expression was hesitant, as if distracted by some inward conflict.

He stepped closer, raising his hands between them, the coil of chain around his wrists a reminder that he wasn’t the enemy. “If your boss is right outside this door, why are we in here?”

Her throat twitched as if she’d stifled a swallow a second too late. “Eyes down.”

Of course, she wouldn’t answer him. He’d have to make a guess and read her reaction. “He’s out there with Kate. Van’s probably catching him up on her training. When that’s done, he’ll text you to open the door, so he can inspect his new property. Do I have the gist of it?”

The flash of her eyes told him he’d guessed right. “On your knees. Now.”

Arrgh. He stayed on his feet. “You always do that. You deflect with those damned rules.” Still, she seemed off-kilter, and he might not get another opportunity to poke around for a soft spot. “I’m just trying to understand.” He searched her face. She kept it guarded. So he rested his fists against the door above her head, no physical contact, but the bond was there.

“Step. Back.”

Maybe bond was too strong of a word, but she could’ve ducked out from beneath his arms. Instead, she stared up at him with an unfathomable mien on her face. Something was hidden there, an expression, a truth, etched in the delicate creases around her mouth. Her lips parted and pressed together, bending the scar that mapped the struggles in her life, the ones he suspected she fought alone.

Then it clicked. “I know that song you were singing. Isn’t it about loyalty and friendship and—”

“Team.” Her eyes were wide, watchful, and maybe a little skittish.

“That’s right. ‘Team’ by Lorde.” He wanted to ask what the song meant to her, but she wouldn’t have answered. Didn’t matter. He could guess its significance, knew it had to do with why she slept where her prisoner slept, confining herself with him for five days, only leaving to fetch food. “Better to be enchained with someone on your side than to be alone with a false sense of freedom.”

The expression on her face transformed from that of captor to equal. Her posture loosened, her features gentled, the phone forgotten in her hand. She stared into his eyes, blinking, nodding slowly, subtly. It was a poignant moment of connection, the opening he’d been searching for.

He touched his forehead to hers, his chains rattling above her head, and waited for the punishment that never came. “We may not be trapped for the same reason, but we’re looking in the same direction, reaching beyond these walls together. Tell me what we’re up against.”

A low-pitched noise groaned in her throat, and her head relaxed against his. He kept his shackled arms balanced on the door, afraid the smallest movement might spook her.

Was she considering his words or formulating a safe response? Maybe she was worried about Van hitting her again. Or raping her. His throat hurt as he replayed Van’s groaning thrusts and the pain in her eyes. The two times he’d asked her to talk about it, she’d whipped him for speaking without permission.

Too soon, she straightened, breaking the point of contact. She took her time meeting his eyes, and when she did, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, her chin slowly moving left to right. “I give you an inch—”

“And I’d be six-foot-three.” He lowered his arms, nudging her chin with his bound hands. “I love your smile.”

Her lips trembled and stilled. The smile remained, but her eyes dulled. “You’ve got balls, distracting me despite the consequences.”

He blew out a breath and retracted his arms to his waist. “So you’re tallying my infractions?” He dreaded what those consequences might be and tried for a light tone. “When do I get my spanking?”

Her fingers touched his navel, sending a quiver through him. She traced the dusky trail to his groin and coiled a finger tightly through the thatch of hair. “Spankings aren’t effective. You’re a pain slut.” She tugged, sparking a twinge of discomfort over the sensitive skin there.

A half-laugh, half-groan escaped with his exhale. “I am not a pain slut, whatever that is.”

“Oh please. Five welts and you fall into a hypnotic trance.”

Okay, maybe he felt some out-of-body weirdness. Wasn’t that normal in adrenaline-charged situations?

She glanced at her phone, and a sharp line rutted between her eyebrows. Her anxiousness was bleeding onto him.

“What is it?”

She angled the phone long enough for him to glimpse the text.

Unknown number: Open the door.

An unnerving metamorphosis washed over her, stripping the emotion from her eyes, smoothing out her breathing, and hardening her body into an armored shell. “You want to be on the same team?” Her voice was cold and terse. “You want to save me?”

He nodded, hoping it wasn’t a trick. Her sudden change in demeanor tightened the muscles in his jaw.

She dropped a hand to her side, snapped her fingers, and pointed at the floor beside her feet, an unmistakable order to kneel. “Then don’t fuck this up.”

Whatever was about to happen, it was evident that her bearing, as well as his, needed to broadcast that she had the upper hand. He knelt at her side, holding her gaze as he lowered. Sure, she appeared dispassionate at a glance, but the hand at her side trembled.

As she entered the code in the keypad—too quickly for him to catch the pattern—he gripped the fingers digging into her thigh. The door clicked open, and she pulled her hand away but not before giving him a tentative squeeze in return.

He kept his eyes on the floor, taking in the scuffed black boots that entered first, followed by Van’s sneakers. The door shut, imprisoning the room with silence.

He’d expected trousers, paired with an expensive suit, a wardrobe that signified wealth and power. Instead, black cotton work pants gathered over the dusty boots. The mystery surrounding Mr. E compounded, surging dread through his veins.

“Raise your head, boy.” Her voice was so detached, even its iciness was absent.

His breath caught as he lifted his eyes and met the drab material of a cotton jumpsuit. The kind one would zip over regular clothes to change a tire or carry out an activity that might be messy. He stopped breathing altogether when his gaze reached the man’s head.

It was wrapped in a potato sack hood, cinched at the neck, with two crudely cut eyeholes and vertical stitching where the mouth should be. Rough-hewed seams rounded the skull, pulling the material taut to maintain the curvature. Then it spoke.

“Stand, slave.” The mouth, stitched as it was, didn’t move. The voice was soft and masculine and cruelly calm.

Van leaned against the door in a display of arrogant composure. Liv stared at her feet, frozen and pale, as if the masked man had chased her into some unseen recess of her mind.

Don’t fuck this up.

Josh climbed to his feet and let his bound wrists loll over his groin. At his full height, he stood four or more inches taller than Mr. E.

“You’ll address me as Sir.” Mr. E glanced at Liv and back to Josh. “Did you give her the black eye?”