Page 28

Eve

The murmur of female voices greets me as Gabriel and I enter the Compound’s upmarket restaurant. This part of the compound feels medieval compared to the science building and Jacob’s futuristic laboratory.

The walls are old-fashioned big stone blocks with ivy growing up them, and even the windows are shaped into arches. I can imagine Rapunzel sitting in one, dangling her hair down. A prisoner in a pretty tower, just like me.

Inside, the old-fashioned theme continues with chunky wooden tables, muted lighting, and tapestries on the walls. A red brocade carpet. It’s a very male space, like something out of Game of Thrones , and not at all what I was expecting. The group of well-dressed women look out of place.

They fall silent as I enter, faces a mix of friendly smiles and curious, appraising looks. One woman mutters, “She’s so young,” with a disapproving shake of her head. “They ought to raise the age limit.”

Portia stands and gives my outfit an approving once over. Thank you, Sebastian. She’s wearing a classic two-piece suit. My knowledge of expensive designers is limited to Sex and the City reruns, but if I had to guess, I’d say Chanel.

The other women are all dressed up, though not all of them are prim and proper. Some look ready for a girls’ night, with flirty dresses and high heels. I suppose there are no nightclubs in the Compound, so this might be the only real chance they get to dress up.

“Hello, Eve!” Portia strides over, not at all slowed by her towering stilettos. She gives me a hug, followed by three air kisses. I try not to flinch.

“Nice to see you again, Portia.”

She pats my cheek. “And you, too. Do sit down. I’ve saved you a seat right beside me.”

Wonderful.

I glance at Gabriel, who surveys the scene with a look of vague panic, probably terrified he’ll be asked to stay. He needn’t worry, though. Portia waves a hand in his direction. “We’ll take care of her. Off you go.”

I have to fight to keep a straight face at the brusque dismissal—so much for Wards being polite and respectful. It doesn’t faze Gabriel, however. He ignores Portia, pulls me close, and kisses my forehead. “Be good.”

Without waiting for a response, he leaves. Whispers find their way to my ears.

“He’s hot. She’s lucky.”

“I bet she doesn’t feel that way. She’s only been here a few days.”

“Shit. She’s that new? I’m surprised he’s let her out. Harry kept me locked up for a month.”

“Yes, but you kept trying to stab him. She looks like a sweet thing. ”

The speakers quiet at a pointed look from Portia, and I join her at the table. The chair makes a loud, ear-blasting squeal as I edge it in, and I flinch at the sound. Portia gives my hand a pat, and I glance around at the group. A huge mix of ages, but mostly friendly faces. It’s reassuring, and I manage a smile. “Hello.”

There are a few murmured responses. Portia claps her hands. “Drinks and food, I think, before we get bogged down with introductions. Waiter?”

As if summoned by magic, two waiters appear pushing a silver cart loaded with food. They bustle around the table, piling food onto plates and filling glasses with mimosas. Once everyone starts to eat, the formal mood of the room softens, and groups start to chat amongst themselves, no longer so focused on me.

As we eat, Portia rattles off a string of quiet snippets of information.

“That’s Heather. She was a competitive gymnast in her teens. Next to her is Grace. Very smart woman. She and Dennis worked on a project that won a Nobel Prize a decade or so ago. Alison, she’s a talented artist…”

The names wash over me. Others chime in every so often, asking me about where I’m from and what I was doing before coming here. One thing stands out. No one mentions being captured. No one asks me how I feel about it.

A few people bring up Gabriel, commenting on his good looks or his recent groundbreaking discovery. Not one person seems to wonder if I’m happy about being his captive sex slave. It’s an odd feeling. In this room, the real world fades into the background like it never existed at all. There’s only the Compound and life inside it.

As time goes on, the drinks flow and women leave their seats, splitting off to chat in groups. Portia excuses herself to join a cluster of older ladies, and as soon as she leaves, another woman slides into her seat. Her mass of bouncy curls reminds me of Billie with a heart-wrenching lurch, though hers are blond.

She leans close, and by the look of her, she’s had several mimosas. Her lips curl up as she whispers, “Have you ever seen that old movie, The Stepford Wives ?”

I blink, thrown by the odd topic. At least it’s not more small talk, though. A relief. “I’m afraid I haven’t.”

She shrugs. “Most people haven’t. It’s from the sixties. Or maybe seventies. Old, anyway. It’s about this couple that moves to a town where everything seems perfect. Beautiful women, well-behaved kids. Every house picture perfect. But it’s creepy, too. There’s something not right about the women. They have no personalities, just perfect, bland housewives.”

She shoots a meaningful glance around the room. “But the main character, she has this friend who’s normal. Suspicious about the place too. But one day, when the woman goes to visit her friend, she’s changed. Dressed like the perfect housewife. Baking cookies with a big fucking smile on her face. Just like the rest of them.”

A harsh note creeps into her voice as she says this, and I don’t miss the look she shoots at another woman. Before I can ask, though, she carries on. “It’s like that here. We’re not supposed to mention that we’re captives, slaves. Talking about it is considered…” She waves her glass, and a few droplets splash over the side. “Rude.”

“Rude?” I can’t help glancing around to see if anyone is listening. This feels like a conversation we should be having privately, though it’s hard to place exactly why. Maybe I’m already being infected by exactly what she’s talking about.

“Fucking rude.” She sets her glass down with a thump. “It’s so…”

“Melanie.” Portia appears with ghostly stealth, and I jump when she speaks. Her voice is different, harsher. “May I borrow Eve? Everyone is dying to meet her.”

“Sure.” Melanie gives me an unsubtle eye roll. “If you feel like catching up, I go running every morning. 7:00 a.m., outside the refectory.”

She downs the rest of her drink, waves to the group, then leaves. Portia frowns at her receding back.

“I hope she didn’t upset you. I shouldn’t have invited her, but I hate to exclude anyone. Don’t listen to her nonsense, and I’d highly recommend keeping clear of her. Going down that path only leads to unhappiness.”

She lowers her voice and speaks in a less affected tone than usual. “I know it’s hard at first—we all went through it—but there’s nothing to be gained from making trouble. It’ll just cause problems for you and Gabriel. Everyone tells me he’s a lovely young man. It’s important you don’t let her put ideas in your head, especially so close to the ceremony. Do you understand?”

The ceremony. Again, that hint of doom if I don’t do what is expected of me. Just like I’m used to hearing from Gabriel. There’s a secret there. An unpleasant one. There’s no way Portia will tell me anything.

But Melanie might.

I tuck the thought away for consideration and focus back on Portia. “I understand. Thank you for introducing me to everyone.”

She smiles, and it feels genuine. “No problem at all. We need to look out for each other. If you need anything, you come straight to me.”

“I will. Thank you.”

** *

“A run? Really?” Gabriel eyes me skeptically as I tell him about the brunch, glossing over Melanie’s comments and instead telling him she seemed like a lot of fun. Someone I’d like to get to know.

We sit on a bench beside a pond, watching the ducks swimming around. An idyllic scene. I can’t get Melanie’s words out of my head, though. Perfect on the outside, rotten underneath.

Stepford wives.

I’ve heard the name before but never really knew what it related to. I want to find the movie online, but I won’t be able to do so without causing suspicion. I miss having a phone in my hand, all the information I could possibly want at my fingertips. I’d started to slide into a contentment of sorts, I realize. Melanie pulled me out of it.

“Yes. A run.” I glare, daring him to make a comment about my fitness levels.

After a long pause, he shrugs. “Okay, then. If it’ll make you happy.”

A twinge of guilt racks me at that. I don’t like lying to him. But why the heck not? He’s my captor. Am I turning into one of those women who fall for their kidnapper? Stockholm syndrome.

It doesn’t feel that way, but perhaps it never does. If I met him outside of this place, how would I feel about him? He intrigued me right from the start. But would I ever have let him touch me if he hadn’t taken my choice away?

My stomach does the twist that’s becoming familiar to me at that thought. But whatever he’s awakened in me, he still brought me to this place. So what if he’s trying his best to make it a comfortable prison? I have to hold on to my anger. If I need to lie to him, so be it.

Rationalizing doesn’t make the guilt disappear, but it lets me stash it away. I need to speak to Melanie about the ceremony, if nothing else, and find out what has everyone so jumpy.

***

The next morning, I’m regretting my life choices as I drag my tired body into activewear. Gabriel watches with interest as I struggle with the sports bra until I finally give up and ask him to help. It’s rolled itself into a tight band, squashing the top of my breasts.

He studies me for a moment. “Arms straight up. Don’t move.”

I do, but instead of fixing the stupid thing, he pinches both my nipples. I yelp and bat at his hands, which only makes him tighten his grip. “I said arms up.”

His deep, commanding tone. That, and the pressure in my nipples, turns my insides to jelly. The hot pulse, never far away now, starts deep down in my core. My clit cries out for attention as I raise my arms back up.

He twists my nipples, rolling them with torturous slowness. It hurts, but the pain feels good. I let out a small moan, and his hand whips down between my legs, grinding my clit through my leggings.

“Seeing you like this is giving me ideas for tonight.” He rubs me, and electric pleasure tangled with need thrums through my body. Shamelessly, I spread my legs apart. What is he turning me into ?

He draws a sharp breath at my blatant encouragement, rubs me harder for a few seconds, then stops.

Darn it!

He lets go of my nipple, leaving lingering pain that just teases me, and carefully straightens the sports bra. I try not to give him the satisfaction of looking annoyed, but he smirks anyway. “Problem?”

“No.” I respond without hesitation. He likes to make me ask for pleasure, but I don’t feel like giving in right now.

He steps back. “Good. Have fun on your run. We’ll continue this discussion later.”

Said with ominous finality. I turn over the possibilities as I make my way outside to meet Melanie.

She’s right where she said she would be. Again, I’m painfully reminded of Billie and her early morning runs. If I get to see her again, I’ll go running with her every day. Melanie smiles, raising a hand. “You came! I hoped you would.”

I return the grin. “I’m not much of a runner, but I wanted to chat more. I hope I won’t hold you up too much.”

She flicks a dismissive hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow. Come on.”

She sets off at a pace I’d call “medium,” but I do my best. We jog out into the park, along the little paths and picturesque ponds. A sudden thought strikes me, and my hand flies to my collar. “We have to stay in the main grounds. I can’t go outside.”

She frowns, drawing to a halt. “Why not?”

It takes me a minute to force myself to answer. I’m suddenly terribly ashamed, as if the answer makes me weak. I don’t know why. I point to the collar. “This is a tracker too. There’s an allowed range of movement.”

She shakes her head, all sympathy. “Jesus. That’s some fucked-up shit. ”

I grunt, not knowing what to say to that. It is. But I also don’t want to badmouth Gabriel, which is its own degree of messed up. The longer I’m with him, the more excuses I seem to want to find for his behavior. It’s hard to stay angry with him when there’s a growing part of me that can’t wait until we’re alone again.

Melanie looks around at the trees, then lowers her voice. “Never mind. We’re far enough out now anyway. We need to talk. I have a proposition for you.”