Page 59 of Exiled

A tear escapes, slides down my cheek, appears beneath the rim of my sunglasses.

You reach up, wipe it away with a thumb.

“I’m sorry, Isabel. I’m sorry for all this. I...” You turn away, scrub your fingers through your hair. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Back to me, then. An abrupt whirl, two harsh paces. The hand still in your trouser pocket flies up and out, a black something clutched in your fingers, and then there’s that horriblesnickas a blade snaps open. I stumble backward, screaming past the gag.

You grunt in irritation. “Oh, shut up and hold still, would you? I said I would never hurt you. Surely you understand that much, at least.”

It’s a quick, efficient move, the way you slide the flat of the blade between my cheek and the gag. Twist, so the blade bites into the gag and parts it. I feel a sting, however, and you frown. Lick your thumb, and wipe at my cheek where the tip of the knife, razor sharp, nicked my cheek.

You lean in, kiss the wound.

I flinch away. Work my jaw.

Tears blur my eyes. “What do you want, Caleb?”

“You heard what I said. To talk, that’s all.”

“You could have called me.”

You laugh. “Oh no. That wouldn’t do at all. You and I, our history? It deserves so much more than a mere phone call.”

“But this?” I am cold with fury; you hear it in my voice.

My hands are still bound. The robe hangs from my wrists. My breasts are bare, my core exposed, and my thighs tremble with the furious, fearful knocking of my knees. I do not know any longer what you are capable of. Anything, I think. Anything at all.

You still have the knife out, and you spin the blade in a circle on your palm, a casual demonstration of mastery and familiarity with the weapon. You approach. Your motions are those of a predator, smooth gliding steps of a panther, a prowling lion. Your eyes rake my body. You move around to stand behind me, slink your knife-wielding arm around my neck, trace my cheekbone with the dull back edge of the knife. Your other hand toys with me, flicks at my nipple, cups my breast, smooths down my rib cage, flattens possessively against my hip.

“You are my siren, Isabel.” Your voice is a rough murmur against the shell of my ear. “Your body sings a song I have never been able to resist. Yet I am not so fortunate as godlike Odysseus that I can bind myself to a mast as he did to resist his siren. I have only my will, and where you are concerned, my will is entirely insufficient.”

I still have not even registered where I am; I look around, trying to not even allow myself to process your words. Not your home, not the cavernous penthouse at the top of your tower. This is somewhere new. Windows all around, a mammoth, gaping, totally empty space. Windows, and light. Floor-to-ceiling glass walls, showing Manhattan in all four directions. Behind me, an elevator shaft. The only feature of the entire room, which is the footprint of a skyscraper. Tens of thousands of square feet in every direction. Bare concrete underfoot.

“Did you hear me, Isabel?” You tap my cheekbone with the tip of the knife, gaining my attention.

“Yes, Caleb.” I step forward, pivot in place. “Or should I call you Jakob?” It is a test, to see how violently you react. It is a dangerous game, I think.

But you do not react. Perhaps you didn’t hear the last part. I do not know. You move up close to me, so the tips of my breasts crush against the front of your suit coat. You lean in, as if to kiss me. Brows furrowed, eyes tormented, but lucid. Instead of kissing me, you touch your forehead to mine. I don’t dare move, because you still have the knife, and you are reaching past me with it. Around to my back. I am not breathing, not moving. Don’t even blink as you breathe on my cheek, touch your ear to mine, your chin to my shoulder. Looking over my back, watching your movements as you slip the knife blade between my wrists, and... flick.

The plastic binding my hands together parts, and I am free.

The robe pools onto the floor.

You close the knife blade. Pace in caged-tiger circles around me. Pocket the weapon. Gazing at me. Your eyes, my God your eyes, they are haunted, blazing with pain and need. Your mask has slipped, Caleb. The emotion within you is a cauldron. No... a caldera, crumbling to reveal an active volcano beneath, ready to erupt.

Your chest rises and falls heavily, as if you have recently run a marathon. You are gazing at me as if I am the source of all life, and you are a dying monster, ravening in the shadows, hungering for the sweet morsel of life just beyond its reach.

I remain utterly motionless. Watching you pace in circles around me. Naked. Vulnerable. Terrified. Confused.

And then you move up behind me. Touch my spine. Trace each knob downward. Feather your palms, yes, lovingly over my bottom. Cup my hips. I do not move. I hate your touch. Hate it.But you are manic, unbalanced, and I fear you. So I must allow it, I think. I want to go home to Logan. I want to feel the baby in my belly grow.

As if reading my mind, you press your front to my spine, and your fingers dance around my sides, between my ribs and my arms. Your palms flatten against my belly. It has begun to bump, just a tiny little bit.

“Is it true?” You murmur this, ever so gently, in my ear.

“Yes.”

“How far?”