A translucent skin of ice taunts the surface of shallow, mocking puddles as she walks, hands cupped around the pathetic remnants of her coffee from lunch. Dennis had been really nice to buy her a little warmth, a little caffeine to get her through the day. Now as she glances at the heavy grey clouds that hang over her head like so many foggy bowling balls, she prays that it won't rain. There are still five blocks that separate her from her apartment. As dingy and unwelcoming as it might be, it's still home, and it's still a lot drier than outside might be if water starts falling from the sky. She glances upward again and pinches her coat closed, quickening her steps a little. The sun hasn't set, and there's still a few minutes of good light left above the clouds. It filters through weakly and she wonders why she bothers to entertain such optimistic thoughts. The street lights are already blinking on, spawning shaky, dancing shadows on the sidewalk. Wind gusts overhead while the buildings shelter her from the bulk of the weather.

Taking a deep breath, she rounds the corner and plows into the wind like a ship breaking over the waves. Leaning into the gusts, the young woman catches herself wishing she'd worn her old sports jacket. Her boss doesn't like it very much. He says it's ratty and he doesn't want it behind the desk in his store, but right now she doesn't care how ratty it looks. It's warmer than the fuzzy grey thing she's wearing. Pausing in a bus stop to breathe for a moment, she tosses her thick braid over her shoulder and glances back the way she came. At the corner, a flicker of motion. A match? The cherry-red glow of a cigarette. She can't see the figure clearly, but she wonders why anyone would stop there instead of a few feet back and mostly out of the wind. The thought that the figure at the corner maybe even wanted her to see him (her?) is quickly pushed aside in favor of a more innocent belief. Obviously that person is simply trying to get a glimpse of the street ahead and light up before making their way down to the bus stop. She turns away again before she can be proved wrong and makes her way down the street, pushing against the wind with renewed purpose.

The triple-locking door of her apartment has never been more welcoming. She ducks inside, shooting the deadbolts home and thinking that there had been a time not long ago that she had thought two of those locks were superfluous. Someone who had lived in the apartment before her had obviously thought differently. The young woman is unwilling to think about the fear that had infected her the moment before when she had convinced herself, however briefly, that there had been footsteps following her. Closely. Quickly. With a shiver, she moves away from the door and returns to the safety of her mundane, ordinary routine.

“Hey Kristy!” Her best friend's voice takes on a mechanical, tinny quality as it passes through the phone's speakers. “Are you coming to the party tonight? It's Ryan's birthday, and he said he really wanted to see you there.” There's an unmistakable note of excitement in the mechanical voice and the girl heaves a resigned sigh. Why, she wonders, does Jessica insist on trying to set me up on a date with everything that moves? “My place, tonight, 7:00 sharp! Oh, and wear that cute little red dress, huh? I have some lipstick that would just-” She deletes the message before Jess can ramble for ten minutes about what she should wear. Shaking her head, Kristy opens the fridge to hunt for a snack while the next message plays. This one is from the bank, reminding her that she needs to come in to speak with someone about the overdraw fine she hasn't paid yet.

“Yeah yeah,” she mutters, “as soon as my boss coughs up last week's paycheck, I'll come in and talk to someone.” Opening a can of soda, the young woman cradles her cell phone between her cheek and shoulder, snagging a carrot to munch on before she shuts the fridge and retreats. Kristy's healthy snackfoods can be blamed on how cheap they are. For some reason, carrots, radishes, and potatoes are cheaper than chips and pizza. A tight budget can force a girl to become inventive in the kitchen. She steps over her laundry basket, full to bursting and begging to be folded and put away, as the third message starts.

“Hey there, Kristy.” This voice is unfamiliar, cool and masculine. Despite the usual metallic tone, Kristy shivers a little. “Jess wanted me to come pick you up tonight. Something about the bus not being 'classy enough.' I'll be there at quarter-'til or so. Look for the blue convertible.” Click. No name. No goodbye. Kristy feels a second shiver crawl down her spine. She clears her inbox, the computerized voice commanding her to choose her next action just before she hangs up. With a shake of her head, she bites off another chunk of carrot. It's worth thinking about, but tomorrow is supposed to be a long day, so perhaps it's not the best of ideas. Still, it's been so long since she's had any fun with her friends.

Kristy sighs, throwing herself down on the old, broken-in couch she picked up for free last summer. She needs time to consider the opportunity, but a glance at the clock informs her briskly that it's almost six o'clock already. The shop must have closed late today. It takes nearly half an hour, but in the end, she's decided. Kristy smiles at her reflection in the dark television screen, feeling triumphant. She allows herself to actually start to get excited about the party. Her first fun night in who-knows-how-long. In less than ten minutes, she is dressed and searching for her second shoe. Her little strappy black sandals go well with the cute blue dress (not to be confused with the cute red dress Jess wanted her to wear) but it seems that one of them has gone missing. A knock at her front door startles the young woman into bashing her head ungracefully against the bottom of her bed.

“Just a minute!” Kristy feels a stab of irritation as she yells. Pushing her head and shoulders back under her bed and grasping about in the dust and crumbs, she feels a chill creep into her mind again. What if it's that man, the one that called to offer her a ride? Really, it could hardly be considered an offer. He hadn't asked at all. He'd just said to “look for the blue convertible.” Kristy's fingers close around a thin, leathery object with straps attached as a door closes very close at hand. Wiggling her shoulders, she squirms out from under the bed with difficulty, a sandal clutched victoriously between dusty fingers.

“I got it!” Goodness gracious, she thinks with a sigh, I'm talking to myself. Mom would whallop me if she could hear me now.

“Good. Does that mean we can go now?” A voice above and behind her. Deep. Masculine. Smooth. A frightened squeak escapes Kristy's mouth as she twists, nearly falling over. Who? How? Black. Black shoes. Black pants. Her head tips back, her eyes still traveling upward. Black shirt. Black hair. Blue eyes. Very, very blue eyes. Impossibly blue. A smile that seems a little off, but not off enough to put up flags, let alone red ones.

“Who-?” Kristy can feel her shoulders are tense and hurting slightly as she pushes herself back against the bed, her voice squeaking immaturely in her constricted throat.

“Didn't mean to scare you. The door was unlocked.” The man jerks a thumb back over his shoulder. His words are filled with satisfied laughter. “The name's Stephen. Jess sent me to give you a ride. Buses aren't 'classy,' remember?” Kristy's mind flashes back to her walk home. The figure. The footsteps. Locking the door. She had most certainly, most definitely locked the door. Then again, she thinks, vague memories floating to the surface of her mind, she had checked her mail. It was just outside the door. The longer she looks into those brilliant eyes, the more convinced she becomes. Yes, she must have simply left the door unlocked after checking the mail. How silly. Her shoulders refuse to relax.

“You could have knocked or something.” A snarky defense is better than none at all. The young woman starts to dust herself off, hoping to collect the ragged remains of her self-confidence.

“I did.” He is clearly amused. Kristy remembers with an embarrassingly deep blush, that knock that had startled her so badly before. Terrific. What a great start.

“Maybe I shouldn't go.” Misery is creeping in now, but as soon as she says it, his large hand closes around her wrist, pulling her to her feet. It's surprisingly gentle, that hand. And warm. A bit hot, even.

“Come on, Kristy, it'll be fun. Besides, they're waiting for you.” Stephen's voice is smooth and persuasive. Very nice to listen to. Like Antonio Banderez. Or Sean Connary. Only without the accents. She finds herself sitting on the corner of her bed while he does up the straps on her sandals and brushes the dust off her shoulders. How could she have been frightened? He's obviously a very nice man. One of Jess's friends. She can trust Jess. Most of the time. No, she corrects herself, all of the time. Just not with everything. She can trust her with friends. Or as a source of friends? Kristy lets the thought go as Stephen drapes her nice black jacket over her shoulders. She feels classy. Jess was right. The bus is way too... too commonplace. She giggles slightly and Stephen smiles. The front door opens and before she knows it she's out in the cold again. Tights would have been a good idea. Closing the jacket against the chill wind, she watches the rain fall on the other side of the eaves. It was a good thing she wasn't walking to the bus stop. The thought intrudes, almost unwelcome. Yes, she thinks with irritation, it is a good thing. So good and so obvious that there's no need to put it into words, even silent ones.

“My car is down near the corner.” His voice is abrupt and a little rough. Is he getting annoyed? Stephen's arm steers her down the stairs, and his feet are moving quickly now. It's a little hard to keep up with him, but Kristy excuses it as being due to the fact that he has long legs.

“Are we late?” She feels compelled to ask, fear beginning to seep back into her mind. This guy is still a stranger.

“Yes.” His tone is a little less smooth now. Jess never said anything about sending anyone to get her. But he seems trustworthy enough. Except for the whole “breaking and entering” thing. Though the door had been unlocked. Did that mean that it was okay? But what kind of a guy just waltzes into someone else's apartment without being invited? Kristy starts to pull away, unease and fear mounting.

“I- I think I'll just take the bus. Jess won't mind if I'm a little late.” His hands are big. Big and strong. Kristy feels her heart begin to beat harder and faster as she realizes that he's not letting go. The blue convertible is right ahead of them. Headlights flash. A electronic chirp pierces the air. Stephen has the door open before she can think further than trying to loosen his grip on her wrist.

“You're coming with me.” The man's voice has lost all its charm. It's deep now, harsh and almost gravely, like a dog's voice. Kristy gets the impression that it's not a suggestion any more. Opening her mouth, she intends to scream, but is pushed roughly into the passenger's seat instead. The glove box pops open, seemingly of its own volition, and Stephen reaches in, grabbing something and putting it in his mouth. Before she can really register what it is, he's jerking it away, spitting something out. The something hits her arm and she catches a glimpse of it as she fills her lungs for a second attempt at a scream. It's a plastic cap of some sort, long and thin. A cap for what? The inane thought crosses her mind fleetingly, and a moment later the question is answered with a sharp pain to her leg. Kristy screams. I've been stabbed, she thinks, panic closing in, I've been stabbed and this madman is going to kill me and no one will ever know. Heck, no one will care. The scream dies in her throat, which feels like its swelling shut. Her lungs burn and her vision starts going fuzzy. Her limbs turn to lead as she blinks up at Stephen, wondering how such a nice guy could do this to her.

“Sleep well,” he chuckles, releasing her limp arms. “I'll wake you up when we get home.”

End of Chapter 1

 The fog twists insubstantial fingers about her body, chilling her. Fog? Or is it cloud? She feels like she's floating. The floating sensation intensifies as she feels upward movement, then downward. Like one of those special wind tunnels that skydivers practice in. Up and down and up and down. But sharper. More like waves on the ocean. She frowns slightly. She's never been on the ocean before. Never even been in a canoe. How in the world is she supposed to know what it feels like? More sensations filtering through, like sound through a good, thick pillow, or water through a handful of sand. Warmth on one side. Not just warmth- wetness, too. Cold wetness hits her face in small drops. Warm on one side, cold on the other. Rain? The warmth isn't just on one side, it's also under her legs and around her shoulders. A second source of heat manifests down in her stomach and Kristy indulges herself in a faint moan. The world doesn't feel right. Nothing feels right.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” The voice that speaks in her ear is deep and rumbly, vibrating a little through her shoulder. She begins to realize that the warmth on one side is a body, and the warmth under her shoulders and legs are actually arms that are holding her, and the warmth in her stomach was just her own self wanting to be sick. Her mind is trying to pull itself five different directions, fuzzing and muddling along dark paths that don't make any sense. Turning her head slightly and trying to piece the world together the way it's supposed to go, the girl opens her eyes. A door. It's dark green, and very close. Things shift, tilting a little as the man holding her reaches for the handle. Big hand. Warm hand. Hot, almost. Memories, still fuzzy, a little skewed, still frightening, rush to the surface. Stephen. The car. The locks on the door. Jess's party.

“No.” She tenses. Kristy's fear spikes when she realizes that she's too weak to free herself, and he's not letting go. A hand on her wrist. The cap. Stabbed. The pain.

“No? No what?” The door closes behind them and Stephen adjusts his grip on her, tipping his head to look down into her face. She stares up at him, noticing his satisfied smile and sparkling blue eyes. So very blue. Unbelievably blue. Kristy's mind goes blank. No what indeed? What was she fighting against?

“Don't know.” Kristy tries to look away, but finds herself incapable. So blue. Very, very blue. Like looking into little sparks of pure lightning. Or the center of a very hot flame. His hands almost burn into her side and leg. Why is he so hot? Is he sick?

“You don't need to be fighting me now. I'm just bringing you home.” Smooth, warm, charming, his voice soothes away her fears and she starts to relax. He's right, of course. This house is much nicer than her dingy little apartment. Why in the world would she be frightened? This will be a nice place to stay. Relaxing against his firm chest, Kristy actually lets herself smile. The floating sensation fades as he sets her down on what she thinks might be a couch. She's not looking at the moment, being more than a little preoccupied with considering how happy she'll be in her new home. “Stay here. I need to get your things out of the car.” The arms release her and Stephen moves away. As the air dispels the warmth at her side, Kristy finds herself alone. Dread sets in and she pulls herself into a semi-upright position. There is most certainly something wrong. She shudders and hugs herself, glancing around at the spacious living room. How could she have just thought that all was right with the world? Being kidnapped was not a good thing. The walls are a light, eggshell color and the carpet is dark brown, giving the whole room the feeling of being solid and grounded, yet immense. The furniture is elegant and dark, contrasting against the huge windows along the wall. It's bright outside, despite the gentle patter of rain on the glass. When had that happened? When they left her apartment, it had been almost sundown. How long had they been driving? When would Jess realize that something was wrong? Would her boss call the cops? Would anyone care that she was gone? Shunning the dangerous feeling of isolation and self-pity, she sits up properly. Strength is slowly returning to her limbs. Kristy props herself up against the pillows, wishing she could feel a little less like being sick.

“What are you doing, little bird?” Stephen pushes the door closed behind himself, a duffel bag in one hand. Why is it that some people can sneak through doors like that without giving themselves away? Kristy shakes her head, diverting her gaze quickly to inspect and interestingly-shaped chair set against the opposite wall.

“I'm not doing anything. What did you expect me to be doing?” She doesn't mean to, but a defensive note creeps into her voice. Why is he so suspicious? On the other hand, why is she so suspicious? He hasn't done anything wrong, per say. He comes a little closer, smiling. Kristy realizes suddenly that she's looking into his eyes again. When in the world did that happen?

“I don't know. That's why I asked, silly goose.” He's clearly trying to cozy up to her. Pet names. Smiling. Soft voice. The girl doesn't like this and most certainly doesn't trust it, thrusting away all the thoughts that have anything at all to do with Stephen being kind, nice, handsome, or otherwise positive in any way. He's deceived her, kidnapped her, and been, in short, incredibly rude; there's no reason to trust him. With this thought firmly in mind, Kristy scowls at him and forces herself to look away, only to find again that she can't. Those eyes (so blue!) are like magnets for her, drawing her in.

“Don't you 'silly goose' me, mister!” She musters her courage enough to say the words defiantly, and immediately wishes that she weren't quite so brave. There's a dangerous look in his eyes, a kind of threatening spark in that incredible blue that makes her much less certain of what she's trying to accomplish. He drops the duffel and advances slowly.

“I'm sorry, my lady.” His tone takes on a silky quality and there's no mistaking his intent as he towers over the couch. Kristy is petrified. “I must have done something to upset you. Let me show you to your quarters. I'm sure I can make it up to you.” If only she could move! The girl finds herself fixed to the spot, as if someone were weighing down her arms and legs with sandbags. She can feel strength returning, flooding back into her body, feel it in the pounding of her heart, but it doesn't translate to movement. The moment passes, it's too late. Stephen scoops her up, carrying her like a broken doll. There is a brief moment, as he moves across the room, when his eyes flicker away from hers. Freedom descends on her, nearly crushing any thoughts of escape with its abruptness. Kristy starts to tremble, trying to force her arms to work. There was something definitely wrong. The phrase “mind control” crosses her thoughts, only to be roughly dismissed. Impossible. Ridiculous. But those eyes. He's not looking at her now, but concentrating on getting down the hall. She realizes suddenly that this house is considerably bigger than she'd thought. The hallway goes back and back, doors on either side. Now she sees a staircase, now another hallway as they pass open doorways and closed doors. Her reactions kick in at last as he turns down another hallway and she starts to struggle. To her horror, she finds that Stephen has no problem whatsoever in holding her, even when she kicks and flails and writhes with all her might.

“I'd settle down if I were you,” he growls into her ear. The girl chokes on a shriek. There's an animal quality to his tone that ignites a panic in her, almost instinctive, deep and irresistible. She freezes against her will, trembling badly.

I'm going to die, she thinks, I'm going to die and he's going to EAT me and I know I'll never escape. I'm so dead- he'll do something HORRIBLE and then I'll DIE.... The thoughts run in tiny circles in her head, chasing themselves into corners and scrambling her brain in the process. Stephen seems to grow tired of her fear and pauses long enough to meet her gaze. Blue. So very blue. Summer sky folded into tiny circles, shards of sapphire, the depths of a clear mountain lake hidden in his eyes. That blue fills her mind, leaves no room for the anger, the fear, or the confusion. That blue consumes her thoughts, eats up her fear. Pulls in time, swallows it whole.

The world seems to shift subtly. When she comes back to herself, she realizes that Stephen isn't with her. She is alone in a dimly lit room, having been set, she assumes, on a large and comfortable bed by her now absent kidnapper. Kristy tries to sit up, feeling her arms shake weakly. In fact, now that she's paying attention, she notices that all of her is shaking, not just her arms; as though she were just coming down from a drug high. She's only barely upright when she sinks back, her head swimming uncertainly. Why? The self-pitying question rebounds through her mind, and almost immediately she feels repulsion. No matter what might happen, self-pity is never an acceptable response. There is no chance to dwell on this, as the door squeaks open to admit Stephen, who is smiling. That smile isn't particularly unpleasant, but she shivers anyway, shrinking back into the pillows.

“Are you hungry, pretty one?” His eyes rake over her body. The young woman tries to shield herself from his gaze. She looks away from him, unable to bear the expression on his face. If anyone is hungry, it's him, and she doesn't think it's for food.

“No.” She doesn't think about it too much. She doesn't want to think about it. Thinking might distract her from dealing with Stephen.

“No?” There's a smirk in his voice now. Kristy glances at him, feeling a stab of fear as the horror that swamped her earlier starts to rise again. He's not done. Advancing into the room and closing the door behind him, the man lets out a soft laugh that sounds almost... almost attractive. “Not hungry for food? Perhaps we can just get down to business, then.” Panic. Fear, panic, something BAD is going to happen! She begins to tremble violently and pushes herself away from him as hard and fast as she can. When the edge of the bed introduces her rather abruptly to the floor, there are too many fears in her mind to feel properly humiliated. Stephen lets out a another laugh as he comes closer, and Kristy's cheeks burn red. He's still getting closer, and images flash through the young woman's mind of her own mangled body after Stephen has finished with it. Beaten, starved, raped, dead in a ditch or dumpster or river somewhere so far from home that no one ever thinks to link her disappearance with this unidentifiable body.

“Go away,” she whispers, closing her eyes. She won't give him the pleasure of seeing her cry. He's laughing again, and she can tell he knows she's scared. “Go away. Leave me alone.” The pounding of her heart drowns out the sounds of the world, but the world doesn't like being ignored. As Stephen's hand lands on her knee, her heart jumps into her throat and she lets out a sort of strangled squeak, trying to withdraw and finding a singularly uncooperative wall that will not under any circumstances allow her to pass out of the man's reach. He grips her leg tightly, pulling her back toward himself. Laughing as she struggles, Stephen pulls her leg, pinning her to the floor as he shifts to loom over her. Her fighting quickly ceases to be amusing, however.

“Hold still,” he growls, kneeling on her legs and reaching to catch her arms. She doesn't stop struggling. She writhes under him, sobbing raggedly. Tears drip in various directions as she throws her head this way and that, jerking her shoulders crazily in an effort to regain the freedom to move. Stephen's growl snaps and deepens considerably. “I said hold still!” He barks into her face, his expression contorting and clenching itself into something dangerous. Kristy obediently freezes, staring into his eyes. She can almost fool herself into thinking they're much darker than she remembers. Still blue, but no longer summer-sky blue. Blue like the back of an open closet at night. Blue like the bottom of a deep hole, buried in its own shadow. He's smiling again now. Is he bipolar? Is he crazy? Probably. What other kind of guy decides to kidnap random a girl out of her own apartment?

“Lemme go,” she whispers, but this time she remains motionless. He laughs, holding her arms over her head, against the wall, the bones of her wrists hitting each other so she nearly expects them to click. His grin is very close now, and his eyes (so very blue) sparkling as they look down at her. She feels him pressed up close against her, his unmistakable and terrifying manhood there- she can smell it, feel it, see it in his eyes. “You can't,” her words are a desperate plea now. “You can't do this.”

“Oh?” Satisfaction is far too evident in his voice. “I can't?” It is this moment, as she is trapped under a strange man on the floor of this bedroom in a strange house, far from where she is supposed to be, that Kristy sees the truth in his expression. He can do whatever he wants to. And there's nothing she can do about it.

End Chapter 2

Warm food is a band-aid for the soul; that's what her mom used to say. Kristy stares down at the food in front of her, her stomach churning uncomfortably. Stephen watches her, seemingly uninterested in his own plate. There's a servant in the corner. At least, she thinks he's a servant. The boy can't be any older than sixteen or so, and looks nervous enough to pee his pants. He keeps glancing from the floor to Stephen to her and back through the cycle again. Stephen shifts in his chair and Kristy's attention snaps back to him. Her body still aches, hate and fear warring inside her just as her stomach and heart seem to be wrestling, taking up too much room, her lungs getting in the way.

“Why don't you eat something, Kristy?” The sound of her name on his tongue makes her shiver, and she looks away.

“I'm not hungry,” she mumbles. This is a lie. She's starving, but her stomach is upset. She doesn't want to eat. For some reason, saying “I'm not hungry” seems less threatening than “I don't want to.” Or at least, she thinks miserably, I won't be punished for not being hungry. It is a curious thought, though she doesn't have time to consider it now. She hasn't been “punished” per se, but there is no doubt in her mind that Stephen is the kind of guy that wouldn't hesitate to dish it out if he thought it was necessary. How much does it take to be considered necessary? Probably not much.

“Eat anyway.” It's a command. Kristy finds that the fork is in her hand, though she doesn't remember picking it up. “It's rude to snub your host like that.” The young woman bows her head, her messy ponytail slipping a few strands over her shoulder. Does she dare? Is she brave enough? The silence stretches uncomfortably, like a sore muscle. Kristy sets her fork down, her fingers trembling.

“No thank you.” Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I don't feel well.” Almost immediately, she feels the energy in the air intensify. There is no lightning or thunder, no eerie background music, the lights don't suddenly turn off; in fact, nothing seems to change at all, but Kristy refuses to look at Stephen, positive that she is going to die. She hears his chair being pushed back from the table, perhaps a little harder than normal. Then again, what is normal with guy like him? Her desperate attempt to distract herself ends as he stomps toward her. The table is long and oval-shaped. It only takes him a second or two to reach her. He grabs a handful of her hair and forces her face down toward the plate.

“You will eat the food you're given or not eat at all.” Stephen's hot breath plays across her neck as he releases her. She can't look at him. There is no will or courage in the world strong enough to make her turn her head, not even to glance at him. Fear holds her tightly, binding her arms, shackling her mind, blurring her vision.

“I... I'm not hungry,” she whispers. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she's wondering what sort of crazy drug he gave her yesterday and what it did to her common sense.

“You won't get another chance,” he growls, the tip of his nose brushing against her ear. The back of her chair squeaks faintly. He's leaning on it. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see the corded muscles of his arm. There isn't a single doubt in her mind that the man could snap the chair in half if he wanted to. Heck- he could break her in half. Kristy slowly brings herself around to shaking her head. She can't speak. She can barely breathe. Abruptly, the world turns on its head. The young woman hits the floor almost before it dawns on her that anything has changed. Stephen stands over her, kicks the chair, sends it tumbling over her. One of the wooden legs catches her in the back as it flies past and Kristy yelps, curling in on herself.

He's angry with me. I'm gonna die, and he's gonna EAT ME and no one will care and my funeral will be lonely and pathetic- The thoughts speed through her head, bullets fired from a dark and nonsensical corner of her mind. Kristy closes her eyes and does her best to protect her face from whatever might be coming. Over her head , Stephen lets out a deep, rumbling growl. Before that moment, she hadn't thought anyone could make a sound like that, but she supposes that Stephen's big enough that he can make whatever kind of noise he likes. She's somewhat surprised when the man doesn't hit her. He doesn't kick her either. Or speak. Just growls. Cautiously, Kristy opens one eye, peeking up at him. He's standing rigidly over her, seemingly poised to strike, but unmoving. She's confused. Why isn't he doing anything?

Abruptly, Stephen's hands jerk upward. The young woman immediately pulls her head back under her arms and tenses, waiting for him to do something painful. Her eyelids twitch and tremble, squeezing together so tightly it's a wonder her eyes don't rupture. Something hits the floor hard near her head and Kristy whimpers. She can hear Stephen stomping hither and yon, still growling and grumbling. Opening her eyes a bit, she peers through her lashes across the floor. She can see his feet on the other side of the table. To her left, another chair. Did he throw it at her? Is his aim that bad? Kristy nearly has a heart-attack when something hits the table hard, making the dishes rattle and jump.

“Geri! Geri, get in here!” Stephen bellows the order and frankly (to Kristy's mind) he sounds like one of the males from Planet of the Apes. Too strong. Too big. Kristy lifts her head slightly as hurried footsteps enter the room, and sees the calves of what appears to be a middle-aged woman. From her mincing step, she's a servant too.

“Yes, my lord?”

“Get rid of this slop.” Stephen pounds the table again for emphasis. “I don't want to see or smell it again.”

“Yes, my lord.” Kristy watches the feet cross and the knees bend- is this woman curtsying? What, was kidnapping not enough? Must they have taken her back in time also? But no, there are light-switches on the walls. Her mind wanders too far. Kristy is caught off-guard when a large, hot hand closes around her upper arm and hauls her to her feet, its grip threatening to deaden her fingers. She finds herself looking directly into Stephen's eyes; piercing, pure, clean, beautiful blue. Such blue she's never seen! Like some rare flower on a mist-swathed plateau untouched by the taint of human “civilization.” Kristy stares into his eyes, enraptured. How could she have possibly been scared? He would never hurt her. Stephen is a gentleman, though perhaps a bit rash at times- no, not rash, really. Just a little excitable. Lots of energy. Needs a walk. Yes.

“Would you like-” she starts to ask, but he cuts her off.

“No.” Already, he's pulling her back toward the hall. He walks quickly, forcing the girl to jog to keep up with him. Just like last time, he looks away as they move from point A to their unknown point B, and Kristy is momentarily free from his gaze. She's beginning to realize that there's power in those eyes. An observer might laugh and say that the pattern is obvious, but when it's your mind being messed with, it doesn't seem nearly so suspicious. They walk quickly, Stephen's long strides making it hard for Kristy to keep up. Cautiously, she tries to pull her wrist from his grip, but he's holding on tight. Tighter, when he realizes she wants to get away.

“Don't try me,” he growls, and Kristy's heart does a swan-dive into her stomach. He's still upset. Well, that should have been obvious, but those eyes make it hard to hold on to details like that. Stephen pushes a door open and they find themselves at the head of a long staircase. As he reaches along with wall with a deft hand to flip the light-switch, Kristy pushes her hair out of her eyes. Downstairs? A basement, maybe? For the umpteenth time in two days (had it really only been two days?) the girl feels a stab of fear.

He's going to kill me, I know it. They start down the stairs, the ancient yellow light bulb flickering slightly as it warms up. He's kidnapped me and had his way with me. Now he's taking me into the basement to hang me on a hook and cut me into little pieces so they'll never be able to identify my body. As ridiculous as the thought is, that Stephen would take the time cut her up (why would he? The man has no patience at all!) Kristy can't suppress the feeling of impending doom. Each step downward in the echoing, concrete stairwell solidifies the mounting feeling of claustrophobia. Her fingers are starting to tingle in that uncomfortable way that tells her the blood-flow to that area isn't as good as it could be. She tugs again at his hand, swallowing frightened tears and whimpering quietly.

“Woman, if you don't shut up, I'll tear out your vocal cords.” Stephen's low, irritated growl is more than enough to scare her into submission. Hollow threats, he makes not. Kristy chokes on her own shallow breathing, and can't suppress a squeak of dismay when she feels herself being suddenly thrust away. Down the stairs, the girl doesn't exactly fall but runs, the terror and adrenaline telling her in no uncertain terms that if her feet should slow even a bit, she will surely break her neck. Without warning, the staircase ends and her downward momentum slams Kristy into the floor. Her knees buckle, but there is no room for her to fall. Her hands hit the door first, rough wood driving splinters into her palms. Next, her head receives a brief but forceful introduction to the solid door, breaking the skin above her temple. Already blinded by pain, Kristy's hind-end finds the concrete and she tries to scream and wheezes instead, collapsing backwards, only to hit her head on the stair. Stephen stifles the shrieking gasp before it can gain any volume, grasping her throat with one large hand and hoisting her back to her feet.

“Look at the door,” he barks, angrier than ever. Kristy obeys instantly, despite the spots and stars dancing before her eyes. “What do you see, woman?” Fear. Fear and pain and fear. Kristy isn't sure what answer he wants to hear, but she'd convinced she won't be able to give it. She's also convinced that the staircase is slowly spinning, so her perception of the truth might not be the best right now.

“I-I see a door,” she whispers, shuddering. “It's m-made of wood. Old wood. A-and the paint is coming off.” When he speaks again, she can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Take a closer look. That's not paint.” He switches hands so he can support her weight by the back of her neck and pushes her closer. At first, Kristy thinks that the light is playing tricks on her, or maybe her eyes. But Stephen's laughter leaves no room for denial. There are splashes of rusty brown on the door's simple face, a color that looks appallingly like dried blood. Well, except for that spot near the middle- there's fresh blood there. It takes her a moment to remember that it's hers. The girl wants to be sick, but the thought of throwing up on Stephen's shoes isn't a pleasant one- it ends in death via foot to the face.

“Yes, Kristy,” he hisses in her ear, “and you're going to be next.” On the other hand, maybe dying with a shoe imbedded in her brain wouldn't be so bad. It would be quicker than the meat-hook theory, at least. There is a moment, as Stephen works at the corroded doorknob, when Kristy is sure that she might have been able to get away. As the door creaks open, she comes to the conclusion that he would have caught her and thrown her back down the stairs again anyway.

The girl is shoved through the doorway, and her captor follows. It strikes her once again how very strong he is, and how easily he might break her. For just a handful of heartbeats, she's free. He's not holding her, and not close enough to grab her if she bolts. The thought is tempting, but the thick darkness of the room makes her hesitate. Where could she run to? Is there another door? How big is this room anyway? Where are the walls? Kristy stumbles blindly forward, not sure what else to do and very unwilling to stay in one place. The door slams shut and the room is utterly black now. She can hear Stephen behind her, growling again. It sounds less angry. More like... more like something she's heard before. There's no time to think about it. Something hits her shoulder, Stephen's hand, maybe, and sends her body spinning to the floor. Her head hits something hard and something hard hits her hand. It takes too long to put the two together. There's blood on her hand now.

Kristy whimpers. It's all she can manage any more. Her throat hurts. Receives a reminder of why it hurts when Stephen's hand closes around it, pulling her into a sitting position. She can feel his hot breath on her face. The urges to run and fight and escape have been scared into hiding. Now she just sits, letting him hold her however he likes, struggling to breathe.

“Give me a good reason.” Stephen's deep-throated snarl makes the words sound guttural and foreign. It takes her a moment to answer, to gather enough breath to form the words in a whisper. The tears are falling silently now, at least.

“You're better than this.” All Kristy can think of is blue. Summer-sky blue, so clean and pure, condensed into two handsome eyes. Those eyes can't belong to someone so evil. Stephen has to be like the Beast from her favorite Disney princess movie. He just has some temper problems. It isn't his fault. Perhaps these thoughts are the product of self-preservation and lack of oxygen, but it works. The breath on her face stops for a moment. The hand at her throat relaxes its grip. A moment later, the reprieve ends, or maybe it begins, because she's thrown aside. As she hits the ground once more, Kristy can hear him prowling away, growling incomprehensibly to himself.

Please please please don't kill me. That's definitely self-preservation talking. Kristy gropes around in the warm darkness, crawling weakly in what she hopes is a relatively straight line. If she can find a corner and wedge herself into it- then what? Wait for Stephen to come back ad decide to kill her anyway? And why is it so warm down here? The girl's head finds the wall first and, sobbing with the effort to breath and yet not cry, she sits down and presses her back against the wall. It's made of concrete. There seem to be chunks missing, like someone lost his temper and started bashing it with a crowbar. Knowing Stephen, that may have been exactly what happened. Of course, knowing Stephen, whispers a terrified voice in her head, he might have ripped the concrete apart with his bare hands.

“What do you know?” Stephen's demand came, harsh and angry, from somewhere in the darkness. “What could you possibly know? Better than this. Says who?”

“Says me.” Kristy has no idea why she's talking to this madman. But talking to him and staying alive a bit longer seems preferable to staying silent and dying in this oppressive blackness. “You don't have to lower yourself to this. There are better things you could do with me. Besides...” Besides what? She loses track of what she had thought she was going to say, and concentrates on breathing.

“Besides what?” Stephen's voice seems a little less rough, but maybe that's just the pounding headache she's developing over her left temple. She can feel warm blood sliding in a thick drop across her skin, and wipes it away.

“Besides...” Kristy grasps for the words, but her mind is spinning and pounding and she's not sure whether she's going to be sick or not. “You can't be that bad.” Her voice cracks as she forces the words out. “You can't.” The spinning is getting worse. The floor feels like it's vibrating and tilting sickeningly under her and she tries to hold on. She doesn't want to fall over the edge into whatever bottomless pit is waiting for her in the darkness. She doesn't even know if there is an edge, but does it matter?

“Why not? Why can't I?” His voice is definitely smoother now.

“I don't know,” Kristy sobs. “I don't know. Please... I don't want to die.” She's practically incoherent with pain. The world tries to turn inside-out and gets stuck halfway. Stephen is picking her up again. Kristy swallows desperately, but can't stop herself from getting sick all over the front of his shirt. If he reacts to it, she isn't paying any attention. She thinks she hears him say something about tasting bad, but it's all too fuzzy to tell. She is aware that he's carrying her back out of the room, up the stairs and toward the bed where he had her last night. Right now, she doesn't care what happened on that bed. A bed is a bed, and it, hopefully, wouldn't pitch and toss like a ship in a storm.

End Chapter 3