Fatal Strike (McClouds & Friends #10)(8)

“He had hairy ankles,” Lara told her. “I could tell, from the way his pants rode up. He was crossing his legs to hide his erection.”

“I said enough!” Anabel’s voice was getting shrill.

“He was looking at her, but he was thinking about you. How he enjoyed the time that he had you locked up in the basement for . . . how long was it? Years? So nice, to indulge his urges whenever he liked, without having to fly to southeast Asia to do it. He was fantasizing about buying a private pet again, but he’s a big man in the community. Local district attorney, right? Such a risk. Expensive, dangerous. But then again, so are tickets to Bangkok. So maybe it’s a wash.”

“Stop it!” Anabel shrieked. “Stop it!”

“Knowing that, I can almost feel sorry for you,” Lara said, touching her bloodied lip again. “Almost.”

Anabel’s foot slammed into her ribs. The following horrible interval was measured by blows. She curled up around her vital organs while Anabel kicked her. Ribs, thigh, buttock. Fireworks in the dark.

When it stopped, Anabel was panting, deep gulping rasps. “You were supposed to get an hour with the window, but no. Those privileges are for good little girls. Bad little girls stay in the dark.”

“Like you did?” Lara croaked.

The door slammed shut. The lights cut out. She wouldn’t get fed today, not after pissing Anabel off like that. Her belly cramped, nastily.

She wondered how long her body could hold out in these conditions. Calorie deficit, sleep deficit, light deprivation. Whatever collateral damage this drug might cause. How much longer did she have to take this? Weeks? Surely not more than that.

She curled up on the bed, in the fetal position, and her mind went straight to him, of course. To one of her visits before, when he was still amorous and ardent. In the last one, he’d been waiting for her, lounging bare chested in a big chair, feet up. The room surrounding him was foggy because her attention was always focused so completely on him, but it was sure to be beautiful. Everything in the Citadel was beautiful.

When he saw her, his eyes lit with a hot, hungry glow. He got up, approaching her with pantherish grace. Her breath stuck, and her thighs clenched, and her throat locked. She just stared, mute and dazzled, stupid with longing. Letting him press her against the wall.

He kissed her, his tongue thrusting and stroking. He handled her so skilfully with his big, warm hands. She shivered with delight, remembering how her body trusted his. Melting, boneless.

He’d fallen to his knees, lifting the white, filmy skirt she wore, the one that looked suspiciously like a bridal gown. But she was always without underwear when she visited the Citadel. Nothing to stop him from burying his face in her muff, venturing with his fingers and his tongue, to tease and probe. When he tasted her lube, he thrust his tongue voluptuously deeper, circling her clit, and ah, God. Delicious, protracted, knee wobbling, sobbing delight. And that was all just preparation, foreplay. When he actually got down to it . . . whoa.

When the drug wore off and she was dragged back into waking reality, she was quivering and wet between her legs. She wanted to stay forever. It was a brutal shock, to jolt back into her body, strapped to the gurney, with Anabel screaming. Where did you go? You just first dosed, you dumb cunt! Who taught you to block like that?

Maybe they would kill her, once they got frustrated enough.

She lay there in the dark, tears leaking slowly out into the stale wool blanket on her cot. She missed her Lord of the Citadel. Except that he was not hers. And he did not want her anymore.

Big mistake, to type onto that computer, but she was so lonely. Starved for companionship. Even if he was just a mental construct.

But hey. Never open up, never get rejected. It was a policy she’d employed for most of her life, so why wouldn’t it be valid here, too? Leave it to Lara Kirk to create an imaginary friend who rejected her.

She had to laugh, and instantly regretted it. It hurt her sore ribs. Crying in bed, like a girl who’d had a fight with her boyfriend.

Truth was, it didn’t matter if he wanted her or not. Let him be rude. Let him just try to keep her out. She’d be back the second they dosed her, like a guided missile. If he wanted her out, he’d have to beef up his security. She’d go to the Citadel this second, but she couldn’t make it on her own. She needed their f*cking drug to get airborne.

God, how she hated that. Hated herself for being too far gone even to crave freedom anymore. She didn’t know what she’d do with freedom if she had it. But a drug-fueled sexual fantasy? Hell, yeah. Sign her up for that.

Maybe she’d die in the Citadel, when her time came. That would be a better point of departure than the rat hole or the gurney.

She’d let go of hope long ago. All she wanted now was relief.

She was a psi-max whore.





3


The frosty dawn found Miles in a worse state than he’d been in since he hiked in weeks before, and the day that followed went straight downhill from there.

Last night’s episode had f*cked his fragile equilibrium all to hell. The shield was intact, but his sensory overload was worse than ever. Wind shrieked through the Forks. Mold, decomposing leaves, pine needles, humus, all combined into a heavy, yeasty blast of organic compounds that stunned him into immobility. He sat wrapped in his thermal bag for hours, hands clamped over his face, struggling not to retch.