The Story of Son(15)

“Michael, I’m going to get you out of here.” When there was no answer, she leapt off the bed with an urgency grounded in her fear of the future. “Did you hear me?”

She started to walk in the direction of the black corner.

“Stop,” he commanded.

“No.” She grabbed the candleholder that was flickering on the bedside table and held it in front of herself as she marched straight across the room.

“Come no closer—”

As the light penetrated the dark corner, she gasped. Four lengths of chain hung from the wall with shackles on the ends, two about five feet up from the bottom, two right at floor level.

“What is this?” she hissed. “Michael . . . what do they do to you here?”

“It is where I must go when my rooms are cleaned. Or when my visitors come and depart. I must lock myself in and I am released later after Fletcher makes me sleep.”

“He drugs you?” Although it wasn’t like she didn’t believe the butler was capable of that shit. “Have you ever tried to escape?”

“Enough. You will eat now.”

“To hell with food. Answer me.” Her sharp voice came from the desperation in her chest. She couldn’t bear the idea of him suffering. “Have you tried to get out?”

“It was long ago. And only once. Never again.”

“Why?”

He walked away from her, the chain on his ankle seething over the stone floor.

“Why, Michael?”

“I was punished.”

Oh, God. “How.”

“They tried to take something from me. In the end, I prevailed, but someone got hurt. So never more do I protest. Now, eat. I must come to you soon.” He sat down in front of his drawings, picked up a pencil, and got to work. As quiet as he was, she knew he’d shut her out until she did what he’d asked.

He might be shy and modest, but he was not a pushover. That was for sure.

The only reason she went back to the bed and started to eat was because her mind was scheming and it was a way to pass the time. As she thought about freeing him, and worried about what had been done to him, she looked over at the dark corner, then around the room.

“Please turn on all the lights.”

He did so immediately and the place was flooded with illumination.

Claire shifted her eyes back to the dark corner where the chains hung from the wall. She feared retribution for him. She really did. If she left, and they knew she was coming back . . .

She couldn’t leave him here. It was too dangerous if they’d already tried to hurt him once.

Back to plan A. She was taking him with her.

As she put down the fork, she knew what she had to do. Michael would have to play a small role; she would take care of everything else. But he was coming with her. There was no way she would risk leaving him here.

She was wiping her mouth when she realized there was only one plate.

“Was this for both of us?” she asked, suddenly horrified. She’d finished a good half of the quiche.

“No. Just for you.” He looked over his shoulder. “Please, don’t stop. I want you to be full.”

As she started in again with the food, he seemed to take a disproportionate happiness in her eating, practically glowing with satisfaction. And it was a strange, freeing joy to be encouraged like that. Accepted like that. So much of the dating scene in Manhattan was about staying sharp and keeping tight: being thin and in fashion while sitting across from a professional suit and tie. Keeping the conversation going through talk about Broadway plays and what was in the Times and who you knew. One-upping each other in a sophisticated way.

When Claire put the plate back on the tray, she was full. Satisfied. Relaxed in spite of the horrible situation. Sleep tugged at her like a child on a pant leg, wanting to embrace her.

She closed her eyes, and shortly thereafter all but one of the candles went out and she felt the bed moving.

Michael’s voice was in her ear. “I need to take from you.”

She offered her neck without reservation and urged him on top of her. With a groan, he sank his fangs into her throat and positioned himself as she’d taught him to—between her thighs, his erection pushing against her core. She shifted beneath him, loosened her robe, and he took to the invitation with greed. His hands traveled over her skin, working downward in strokes with his warm, male palm.

As he slipped his fingers between her legs, he nursed at her throat.

Her orgasms shattered her, the combination of the bite and the sexual power of him too much to bear and how glorious that was.

When he finally released her neck, he licked at her for some time and she wanted more. So did he. His mouth went to her breasts and she shamelessly pushed him lower, down the smooth skin of her stomach. She was delirious, blissed out, coasting on the heat between them.

She heard him gasp and knew he was looking at her core.

“You are delicate,” he whispered. “And you glisten.”

“Because of you.”

“Where would a man . . . go?”

She couldn’t believe he didn’t have a clue, but then how would he? The kind of books he read couldn’t have included female sexual anatomy.

She guided one of his fingers inside herself, arching as he penetrated her. “Here . . .” Her breath pumped harder. “Deep. In here.”