The Story of Son(19)

In some ways, although she hadn’t known it until Michael, she’d felt like a man in a woman’s body. Her attitude, her drive, her edge, all those warrior components of her personality, had never really fit the body she was in, and her interests had never been of the female variety, even when she was young.

But with Michael’s massive body on her, his sex pushed deep into her, his hard muscles straining, she gave way and, in doing so, came together within herself. She was strong and weak and powerful and submissive; she was all the yins and yangs, just as everyone was. And the warmth she felt for him was transformative, changing the way she saw things: those happy, mothering women with baby food on their blouses who she’d never understood? Those men who still got a dopey expression on their faces when they talked about their wives—even after having been married for fifty years? Those people who had so many children their houses were demilitarized zones—and yet who couldn’t wait for Christmas so they could spend time with their families?

Well, she got it now. Chaos and love went hand in hand and oh, the glorious grace of the world because of it.

The thought had her frowning. How would the outside treat him? How would he fare out of this prison? Where would he go during the day? What would he do?

Her penthouse apartment with all those windows was a no-go. She would have to buy them another place. A house. In Greenwich or somewhere close to the city. She would make him a bedroom in the cellar where he could stay.

Except . . . wasn’t that just another cell? Wasn’t she just trapping him in her own way? Because what she saw on the other side was him sequestered away, waiting for her to come to him. Didn’t he deserve to experience life? On his own? Perhaps even with his own kind?

How would he find them?

Michael stirred against her naked body. As he kissed her collarbone, he said, “I wish you . . .”

“What?”

“I wish you fed as I do. I would like to give you something of myself.”

“You have given me—”

“I shall treasure this night always.”

She frowned. “There are going to be others.”

“This was particularly special.”

Well, of course it was. It had been his first time, Claire thought with a heated face. “I think it was, too.”

That was when the final meal came. Breakfast.

Michael got up and brought the silver tray to her. As he set it down, the bedside candle flared, and in the soft light, she watched him run his fingertip over the silver fork’s ornate handle.

It was close to breakout time, she thought. And he knew it, too.

Claire stood, took his hand, and led him into the bathroom. After she turned the shower on, she spoke in a hush.

“Tell me the procedure. What happens when he comes for the women?”

Michael seemed confused, but then got with the program. “After the meal, I go to the corner and secure myself. He checks through the hole in the door. The woman is on the bed, just as she came. He rolls the cart in, moves her onto it, and then departs. Later, I am drugged. He releases the chains. And it is done.”

“What do the women look like?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Are they out of it? How aware are they? What’s their affect?”

“They are still. Their eyes are open, but they seem unaware of their surroundings.”

“So the food is drugged. That food is drugged.” Which was fine. She could pull off the out-of-it thing with no problem. “How do you know when he’s coming?”

“He arrives when I put the tray back out and secure myself.”

She took a deep breath. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to chain yourself up, but leave one of the wrist locks loose—”

“I cannot do that. There are sensors. I’m not sure how, but he knows. Last year one was loose because part of my sleeve got caught in it. He knew it and made me fix it before he came in.”

Damn it. She was going to have to do this on her own, then. Her advantage would be the fact that Fletcher had to come over and pick her up.

Claire waited a little bit longer then shut off the water. After she flapped the towel around in the darkness, she led Michael back out to the bedroom.

She took the silver fork off the tray and put it in the pocket of her robe—then thought better of it. If she were Fletcher, she would count the silverware to make sure none of it would be used as a weapon.

Claire glanced over to the drawing table. Bingo.

She picked up the tray and carried it into the bathroom where she shoveled most of the food into the toilet and flushed. Then she headed back over to Michael. On the way past his table, she took one of his sharpest pencils and put it in her robe’s pocket.

She stopped in front of him and held out the tray. “It’s time.”

His eyes lifted to hers and they shimmered for a reason other than their extraordinary color. Tears hovered at the base of his thick lashes.

She put the tray on the bedside table and wrapped her arms around him, but somehow he ended up holding her. “It’s going to be okay. I’m going to take care of you.”

As he looked down into her face, he whispered, “I love you.”

“Oh, God . . . I love you—”

“And I will miss you forever.”

One of his tears hit her cheek as she started to push free in a panic. But then he passed his hand before her face and all went blank.